The Helicopter Parent

Well, I apparently I am a farmer-person of calves.  Because that is what I live for at this time.  I am not meant to live this life, and I doubt I am very skilled at it, but it is what I have been called upon to do for such a time as this.

We got home from the vet on Monday, and Tiny Tim seemed to be doing so much better.

But then Thursday happened.

I went out to feed him his morning bottle, because this is my new calling in life.  Now, this calf is a bit needy when it comes to the bottle.  You would think he would be all ready for it and excited and eager.  But no.  I have to pull him up to his feet and pry his mouth open.  Sometimes, I even have to hold his tongue in place and squeeze his mouth up and down to get him going.

Did you read what I just wrote?  I, yes, I, Taylor Maliblahblah, regularly hold a calf’s tongue in place.  Send help.

Well, on Thursday, he just would not eat.  I tried several times between 6am and 11am.  I was leaving the house at 11 and would not return until 9pm.  I was getting a bit panicky because I knew I had to feed him two bottles a day, and his morning bottle just wasn’t happening.

So, I tube fed him.

Never in my life has a more stressful event occurred.  My first tube feeding attempt was with Sweet Pea as my helper.  For some reason, it wasn’t really working out and Sweet Pea was over the whole situation about 10 seconds into it.  She is 15 and full of sass and sighs.  We got a bit of milk into him, but then something didn’t seem right, so I decided to stop.

Me:  Ohmygoodness, I hope I didn’t put the milk down the wrong pipe!

Sweet Pea (annoyed):  Mom.  If you put it in the wrong pipe, we would be watching him choke to death right now.

She had a valid point, but I was still worried.

This is my new calling in life:  worrying about a calf.  It consumes me.

I went back out again with Daisy Mae.  Daisy Mae is 14, can be sassy, but never sighs.  Oh, I am sure she wants to sigh and roll her eyes, but she contains herself.  This is why she is now my new right-hand-man when it comes to tube feeding my baby.

Daisy Mae and I got the job done.  We tube fed that poor calf all 2 quarts of his bottle.  He did not choke.  He did not die.  He did nothing.

And then we went to town.

When we came home, I could not get him to drink his second bottle.  I did not want to try tube feeding again, so I just went to bed.

Friday morning, I went out, expecting the worst.  He was still alive, but I started watching him a bit and decided that maybe the little splints David made his legs were bothering him.  The calf was born with his front feet “knuckling” under.  Apparently, it is very common.  So, I took the splints off and helped him stand up.  And then he ate!  I mean, he chugged that bottle down.

Now, when I come in to feed him, he stands up when he sees me and he starts drinking his bottle without me even having to help his weird-o tongue stay in place.

I am a total goob now.  I love this calf.  I am pretty sure he loves me.  I took out a bucket of soapy water out and scrubbed dried poop off of his tail.

Nobody told me I had to.  I did it out of love.

You see what I mean?  I am weird.  I think I should change my name to Ethel.

This morning after his feeding, he followed me out of his little pen.  And I have had to be worried all day about how he is doing in the big pasture area with the two horses, Matilda-his mama cow who rejected him, and his twin brother who probably thinks he is better than my Tiny Tim because he was accepted by his mother.  I keep going and checking on him, because apparently I am a helicopter parent, and he is doing well and still alive and no one has beaten him up yet.

Me to David:  Let’s just keep him forever!  We won’t take away his manly parts and he can be a happy bull and live with us for many years!

David:  Nope.  That’s gross.  He can’t breed his mother.

Me: I know that! (Lies! We all know I know nothing!) But let’s get rid of Matilda then. She is a meanie-pants mom anyways.

David: Nope. He had weird feet when he was born. We don’t want him to be a bull.

*sigh*

David is just a silly boy who doesn’t get life.

Here’s a picture of my cutie-calf yesterday on his two week birthday.

Alright.  Happy Sunday!

Love, Ethel.