On the night I was born, my Dad told the hospital staff that he took better care of his cows than they were taking care of my mother. At least that’s the story she once told me.
On the evening of January 10, 1962, my Dad drove my mother to the hospital. He made sure she was situated in the maternity ward, as much as a husband was allowed to at the time. Then, being that he was a dairy farmer and had cows to milk, he went home to the farm. Several hours later, after the milking was completed, he headed back to town and the hospital to see my mother and meet their new baby, Child Number 4 in the family.
However, when he got back to the maternity ward, he found my mother in about the same state as he’d left her, though a bit blearier. She thought he was her doctor and told him it was about time he came to see her. My Dad was not pleased that my mother had been fending for herself and proceeded to tell whoever he could find. He did get the health care professionals to see to her needs, and at 11:06 p.m. I was born.
I don’t remember when exactly my mother told me this story, nor do I remember why. Maybe I’d asked her about my birth. Maybe she wanted to make me feel special. Or maybe she just wanted to help me better understand my Dad. I do know there were times when, as a child, I wondered whether the cows were more important to him than anything or anyone else.
Most likely Mom wanted me to know that Dad didn’t play favorites. He had room in his heart for his cows, his wife, and his kids — and not necessarily in that order. Fifty-six years ago cows were important, but Dad made sure everyone knew that his wife and soon-to-be-born child mattered, too.
A good dairy farmer cares about his cows. A good husband cares about his wife. A good father cares about his children. My Dad was all three.