Farm Romance

Farming pigs gave me an unexpected means of explaining the facts of life to my children.

Kit with Rosie and Bella, the first two sows on our farm

When you’re four and seven years old, the prospect of pregnant pigs giving birth practically in your back garden is far more exciting than anything Play School has to offer. When we unexpectedly became pig farmers some years ago, our children’s young imaginations ran riot, and this resulted in question-and-answer sessions which severely tested my ability to think on the run. In the car on the way to school and childcare one day, we had not yet reached the end of our road when Kit opened the conversation.

‘Mummy? Will the piglets be borned?’

I wasn’t quite sure what he was asking, but sensed he would elaborate if encouraged. ‘Yes darling, the piglets will be born.’

‘Now, Mummy?’

‘Well no, darling, first they have to grow inside Rosie and Bella’s tummies. And then they will be born.’ I was hoping that explained it for him.

Daisy chipped in at this point. She was due to accompany Oliver to Mount Roland to pick the girls up. ‘And we have to drive slowly on the way back, or the piglets will just die,’ she said. It seemed an alarming pragmatism for one so young.

‘That’s right, we have to be careful and not shake them up.’ A journey of any sort during a sow’s pregnancy had the associated risk of miscarriage, if the sow became distressed. Given that ours knew the trailer and our farm, we hoped any distress would be kept to a minimum.

‘Mummy?’ It was Kit again.

‘Yes?’

‘Will the piglets pop out them mummy’s tummy?’

‘Yes, they will.’ It seemed best to be frank, even if this explanation fudged the anatomical detail a bit.

‘Like I popped out?’

‘Yes darling, like you popped out of my tummy.’ I chuckled a little at the memory, my own labours safely years behind me.

‘Was it a big massive pop, Mummy?’

‘Well it certainly made my eyes water.’

‘Like diss massive, Mummy?’ I glanced briefly into the rear view mirror, and could just see Kit holding his arms wide, as if demonstrating the size of a fish catch.

‘That looks about right.’

‘Mummy?’ It was Daisy this time. I made some inner adjustment to allow for three years more life experience, and wondered what line of questioning she would take.

‘Yes?’

‘Will Jessie’s tummy be big?’ This was a slight change of tack. Jessie was not a Wessex Saddleback sow, but a cousin in England who was also pregnant, although as far as we knew she hadn’t been sent away to be serviced.

Giving Kevin the boar a scratch

‘Yes, Jessie’s tummy will get big.’ I was beginning to sense that they had both identified gaps in their knowledge, and would be ruthless in filling them.

‘Is it big now?’

‘No, it’s not very big yet.’

‘How big is it?’

‘It’s just a bit bigger than normal at the moment,’ I said. How far along was Jessie was in her pregnancy, I wondered, and did accuracy matter in this conversation?

‘Mummy?’ continued Daisy, as if to catch my attention again, in case I’d drifted off since we’d last spoken, five seconds earlier.

‘Yes?’

‘Babies grow in a man’s tummy as well.’ This was stated as fact.

‘No, darling. Babies don’t grow in a man’s tummy. A man has a different job.’ I knew the minute I said the words that it was a mistake to bring this up.

‘What is dat job, Mummy?’ A whole other anatomical area for discussion opened up before us. I launched in.

‘A man has a little seed inside him and that’s what the baby grows from.’

There was a pause.

‘Mummy?’

I braced myself. ‘Yes?’

‘Where is the little seed, Mummy?’

There was a sense of inevitability about this conversation, I reflected. I had set myself up as being the parent most likely to explain things. I had only myself to blame now.

‘It’s in his willy,’ I said, abandoning all hope. Stifled sniggering came from the back of the car.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes?’

‘How a baby get in a mummy’s tummy?’

I’d have to see this through to the end now. There was no escape. ‘A man puts it in there with his willy,’ I said.

‘How, Mummy?’

I took a deep breath. ‘A man puts his willy inside the mummy.’ I left the specifics out in the hope that it wouldn’t be noticed. Daisy knew the anatomy but I wasn’t sure she could handle the configurations.

There was a brief silence, like the one that falls when troops are reloading in battle.

‘Mummy?’

‘What?’

‘What happens if the baby grows in the man’s tummy?’ For god’s sake, I thought, where did they get such ideas from? It was clear that I’d have to explain every tiny detail or they’d get it horrifically wrong.

‘That can’t happen,’ I said. ‘A baby can’t grow in a man’s tummy. He hasn’t got the equipment.’

‘What if it just did by accident?’

Like in Alien, I thought?

Pig and piglets on the farm

‘It can’t, because the man’s little seed has to go into the mummy’s tummy and meet up with an egg that the mummy has inside her, and together they make a baby. And that can only happen inside the mummy’s tummy.’ Please god, I thought, let that give them enough to think about in order for us to make it to the school gates.

There was silence. Relieved, I thought perhaps that had clarified things, hopefully without scarring them psychologically.

‘Mummy?’

I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. ‘Yes?’

‘What we doing tomorrow?’

This is an excerpt from Saddleback Wife: Slow Food in Tasmania, the book which charts our time spent as free-range artisan pig farmers. Who knew that could happen. If you’d like to read more, you’ll find it on Amazon - the perfect Christmas present for the food lovers in your life - complete with recipes! We now have proper jobs but look back on our days as artisan farmers with fondness and pride.