I don’t know if Charles Dickens had ever been lambing, but he’s definitely hit the nail on the head here. I don’t think you’d find a sheep farmer that could say lambing is ever the best of times, or ever the worst of times. Extreme fluctuations between the two might be a more fitting analysis.
So if it isn’t the best of times, why do we look forward to it so much? With the days slowly (really bloody slowly) sliding by as this uni term approaches its end, I’m not going a day without thinking about the next month of being elbow deep in a ewes nether regions. Lambing for me is as exciting as it is nerve wrecking. Of course when you’re doing something you’re passionate about, you’re emotionally invested in the outcome. I don’t think there’s a single person who’s lambed who hasn’t had a favourite ewe, a favourite pet lamb, that one animal they really want to see do well. Because as much as the anti-farming lot would argue this fact, I do not think you can be any kind of livestock farmer without compassion and emotional investment in your animals. So when the next crop of your animals is being born, you’re excited to see what’s going to emerge. You’ve looked after the mother, fed them, vaccinated them, seen them grow, invested time and money in them, and now you get to see what they can produce for you. Think about that and tell me that isn’t sort of amazing.
I’m excited to spend every day in the countryside I know and absolutely love. In the fields, working until I’m exhausted. There’s something about coming home and setting like a rock when you sit down for too long that is almost addictive. Through the aching muscles, sore shoulders and arms, tired legs and dry hands, it’s satisfying to know you’ve pushed your body physically and mentally that day. At lambing you get to see the immediate rewards of that hard work, and I think that’s maybe why *most* farmers would tell you how much they look forward to lambing time.
Lambing can also be the worst of times. That feeling of exhaustion at the end of the day doesn’t go away overnight. Especially when you’re waking up worrying about that ewe you left with her small lamb, you can hear the rain lashing against the windows and you’re anxious about what will be in the field when you go out the next morning. Not to mention the vast majority of farmers that physically get out of their bed, don their waterproofs, and go out to check their stock at 2am. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. Being physically and emotionally exhausted for that length of time drives you crazy. Mistakes happen. You’ll lose a lamb that you know needed checking if you’d just had the time and energy to make the effort. You blame yourself, you blame your colleagues, you blame your dog, you blame the weather and the short hours of sunlight and the lack of sugar in your tea. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t sobbed angrily at a particularly stupid ewe who wouldn’t follow her lamb onto the trailer. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never rested my head on the soft, greasy wool of a ewes side after finally catching her in the driving rain and wind, silently gathering the strength to put my hand in, and praying I find two front legs and a head. I can’t quantify the amount of internal dialogue I’ve had inside my head, arguing with myself over whether I’ve got the strength to pull this lamb out of a particularly tight ewe (yes, that is a thing!).
But there it is, the hard work and the determination and the never-ending cups of tea pay off. Because suddenly lambing stops as quickly as it started, and you don’t know what to do with yourself apart from look at your ewes and lambs, watch them graze and grow and jump around like, well, spring lambs. And you can be safe in the knowledge you worked damned hard to have this moment watching your stock flourish. And then it’s on to the next job, because we all know farming never stops for long!