Her womb was warm and slippery against my searching hand. The lamb’s head was lolling in the outside world, eyes closed, little tongue out. One little hoof out. That was the problem. When sheep give birth you see the little nose and two little hooves bunched together coming out of the vagina, like a tiny diver readying themselves for the high board into the pool of life. Yes, that is dramatic because yes, birth is dramatic and magical and harrowing.
At least this one was. The first ewe of the season to give birth and she was obviously having problems getting the little one out. We’d been watching her for hours after the bag of water that emerged first lay on the barn floor. We watched her lay down and rise, contractions pushing through her for hours, a lamb nose finally emerging then receding. The tides of birthing exhausting her. We gave her space, peered at her vagina through binoculars, saw only that one little hoof pressed under the nose and knew we had to help.
That is how I found myself gooped up with antiseptic lubricant, elbow deep in ewe’s vagina. It’s awfully roomy in there, actually. I couldn’t help thinking of my own birthing stories, 68 hours and 20ish hours for my two girls, the pain and exhaustion, looking up at my midwife as I panted and howled on the rug in my living room and begged, Please help me!
I slipped my way down the stuck lamb’s body, found the other leg bent backwards, not the way it should be at all. I thought of my girls again, both born with arms above the heads, in my case not ideal, in my case not like diving out of the vagina but like pushing against the walls, refusing to leave. I get it- it’s a tough world. But my girls eventually made their ways out and I was going to do my best to save this little stuck lamb. After a failed first attempt with the mama lying down, a couple of friends helped hold her up while I pulled at the little leg, afraid of breaking something inside, mama or baby, but knowing that one or both or all (two more babes inside after the stuck one) could die if we didn’t get them out. So, I laced my finger into the crook of his leg and pulled, both hands now helping the body, the mama lowing and panting.
Come on mama, I chanted as the nose, eyes, ears emerged, as the legs and body and tail emerged. A puddle of lamb on the floor, blood and mucous and membranes, the mother slowly turning to see what the hell just happened. I don’t remember if she tended to him right away, this lamb that was in fact alive and breathing, all I remember is my friend saying, we need to get the other one out because this mama is too tired to push.
So we pulled.
Two more slimy little lambs that the mama licked clean, nudged their little bodies up to standing, little mouths instinctually finding the engorged udders.
Days later we ended up bottle feeding that first little lamb. Triplets are often hard to care for by a single ewe and that one was not getting enough, almost died from lack of nourishment and attention. We intubated him, gave him antibiotics, nursed him back to health as he lay swaddled on our kitchen floor. The girls gave him stuffed animals and made a card for comfort. Much to our surprise, he made it through, but we needed to keep him from his mother so that he didn’t mistake her for one who would care for him as he starved.
I attempt not to compare myself to sheep- to the mothers that cannot handle more than one lamb, to the mothers we’ve had to cull that had birthing problems and no maternal instinct, leaving their lamb’s wet, shivering bodies lying in the hay.
Mothering is hard. Birthing, for me, was hard, even for the second one (which everyone said would be a breeze). All that talk about letting your instinctual animal body take over, that this is what female bodies are meant for and can naturally do, well, sometimes shit goes sideways- with humans and animals.
For weeks during lambing season I found myself staring at ewe vulvas trying to answer my kids’ questions as best I could. My five-year-old wanted to know more about the mechanics: What does the placenta do and what is the watery bag? Why does the mama not take care of a lamb? Why is one sick? Why does one die?
At night my two-year-old wanted stories about bloody sheep vaginas, placentas on the barn floor, and blood-covered babies.
And I am grateful for the questions and my challenge to answer.
I am grateful for the connection to life and death, the processes, the cycles.
I am grateful that our bottle baby Milky let me help him out into the this big, tough, beautiful world.
I am grateful to be a mama even though some days I want to push my way back in to a warm and quiet watery womb, be held, in the dark.