Cow Patties

Twenty-four miles northwest of Des Moines, Iowa really doesn't sound like it would be too far away from civilization, I thought as I plugged in the White Fence Dairy Farm's address. Our mom's group was meeting at 10:00 and we thought we'd take the mini-van for a spin on some gravel roads and pet a cow or two. Hey, what else did we have planned?

I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol'  fun in the manure.

We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.

After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.

"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.

"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.

"Cows. Country. Iowa."

"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.

Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.

Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).

ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.

"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"

Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.

Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.

We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore,  flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.

The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.

Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.

Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.

We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.

On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.

Sometimes.