Here are the momma cows that you'll meet at the bovine playground.
The Helicopter Mother is the sort that won’t leave. Ever. You’ve seen her–that mom at the soccer games that the ref has to keep chasing off the field. She wears fanny packs and has a tote bag full of band-aids, kleenex and medical supplies a triage nurse would envy. Also a change of clothes, in case things get wild. She does Junior’s homework, plans all his extra-curriculars, and stays home whenever she hires a babysitter to supervise the babysitter supervising her child. In bovine form, this mother will hardly get out of Junior’s face long enough to let him nurse, much less let him walk somewhere. She’s mastered the art of bellering hysterically and never taking her eyes off of you or her calf while walking backwards. It’s hard to tag her calf because she won’t leave enough space between Junior’s head and her own for you to get a tag in edgewise. She’s annoying, but you deal with her because she’s a good mother, mostly–besides her child never being able to socialize properly due to her overbearing hovering. Rooster's mother is this way.
99% sure this is the farthest she will ever be from Rooster, whether he likes it or not.
The “You’re On Your Own” Mother is the sort who–by laziness or design–lets her child learn for himself and just watches when he does something stupid. Every now and then, she’ll say (or moo) some instructions or advice, like “A little to the left, Ashley,” or “Watch out for that hole, Rutherford,” or “Don’t fall of the edge of the bridge, Harriet, I won’t come in to get you,” but she usually just stays involved in whatever activity she was involved in when Junior went for his adventure, which is usually eating. This mom’s alright–while she expresses the interest of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka halfheartedly warning ole Augustus Gloop about the pipes in the chocolate river, she’ll usually intervene before little Cletus does something really dumb, and it makes it easy to tag her calf.
"Stop. Don't. Come back."
The Satellite Mother is a mother we all know. She’s seems rather uninvolved and distant, perhaps even neglectful at times. Her children are impeccably groomed and always have the best lunches. She attends all of her childrens’ recitals, concerts and games, but in a mysterious, back-of-the-room sort of way, and lets the other mothers be front and center. Until, of course, little Timothy is unfairly tackled or little Prunella is pushed during the ballet recital, and then her presence becomes immediately obvious and the offender wonders where in the world she was but vows never to mess with her kid again. In cow form, this mother will never be near her calf, as far as you can tell, but you know they must have some sort of interaction because the calf is fat and healthy. But, she somehow knows where it is at.all.times, and will come racing at a dead run if you get anywhere near the little pipsqueak, bellering and carrying on, making you jump back with your hands up (“I swear I was just checking on him!”) and get the heck out of there.
These Satellite Moms have half an eye on their kid and an eye and a half on the grass in front of them.
The Overbearing Mother is similar to a Helicopter Mother, but not quite as protective and well-meaning as, well, overbearing. A Helicopter type will usually let Junior walk in the direction he chooses (as long as he can navigate around her ever-present hovering) and lets him pick his own place to nap in the straw (as long as it IS on the straw–no freezing down for this calf!), this mother does not. She chooses when Junior walks, where he walks, how fast it takes him to get there, when he sleeps, where he sleeps, which side he stands on to nurse and what sort of bull he’ll be when he grows up–and will continually make her demands known by hollering at him until her complies. She’s not opposed to moderate head-nudging to get her point across. In human form, this is the sort of mother that people give the nickname “The General” or “The Tank” or “Sir.” She makes the decisions, and by God you’d better just do it or get out of her way.
We also have our share of the Abusive and Neglectful. In these cases, we act like Bovine Social Services and place the calf up for adoption. This is where grafting comes in. Unfortunately, in some cases (most on a commercial ranch where the calf crop is more important than genetic potential), jail or rehab is not available for such gals, especially if they are repeat offenders. Their sentence is often Arby’s via the sale barn. It may seem cruel, but if a cow is a calf-killer, or fails to successfully raise a calf, she is not productive and becomes a money pit, which is not a viable option for any sort of business. Also, they're a pain to deal with.
The Mother Hen momma is one of my favorites. You know this mother–she’s had multiple children of her own, or she's a super-cool first-timer, and nothing fazes her. She’s generally a little older, and more experienced in the trials and tribulations of raising children, or grew up with lots of younger siblings, but loves each and every one of them all the same. She’s seen it all! The You’re-On-Your-Owns and Satellites and neglectful mothers often leave their calves under her careful supervision, while they take some “me” time and chew their cud gazing a mountain view, or have girlchat over a meal of particularly delicious hay with their book club.
The "daycare" set up in the willow bushes of the pairs pasture. They love it there!
The “I Have No Idea What I’m Doing But We’re Going To Make This Work Darnit” mother is often a young or first-time mother who said pish-posh to all those parenting handbooks and advice from experienced mothers–and now regrets it. Not that she’ll ever tell! She’s generally bewildered by the whole idea of motherhood and the living being bursting forth from her loins. This sort of mother usually has the best intentions, but needs a little extra coaching to help her learn the ropes.
The “Oh Another One” Mother has had so many children that she can’t keep track of them, nor does she care. Like the Mother Hen, she’s experienced and has seen it all. She, however, is not as interested in the fuzzy little bundles of joy she always seems to be carting around. She loves them, sure, but is not as affectionate as she might be. She raises ’em, weans ’em and says hello to a couple of child-free months before it all starts again. She’s often like a Satellite who’s fallen out of orbit–she always knows where her calf is, and will never truly leave him, but Junior usually has the responsibility to go find her when he’s hungry–she won’t come a-wassailin’.
The Confused Mother is the one we see most in the heifer pen. This mother will often be in the middle of calving herself, and will decide that the calf that was most recently born near her must be hers, despite the tiny bovine toes hanging out of her hoo-ha. She'll even start licking off another calf! I don't like this mother because DOLORES YOU HAVE ONE JOB AND THAT'S TO RAISE YOUR OWN, BIOLOGICAL CALF. Not someone else's. We often have to pull her calf because she's convinced she already had one (nice try, mom), and then she'll spend the rest of the spring running around any time you get near any calf, not just her own. Which is somewhere, she's sure of it, but she's just not quite sure where. Enter Mother Hen to save the day, and teach this mom to calm the heck down already.
Bert pulled this calf just after this picture because another cow had calved, and this cow was convinced that the other calf belonged to her and was causing a fuss and quit trying to have her own calf. Confused, indeed!
The Headhunter. This mom goes to Arby's even faster than the mothers of our other social work cases. As soon as the calf comes out of this lady, she hates you, hates her calf, hates that water bucket, hates that gate, hates that barn, hates all dirt and life and creation. She'll actually try to kill you and/or maul her calf to death, and has given me many a bottle calf (last year's Henry was the product of such a mother). I've never met a human mother like this in real life, because I've never been to the State Penitentiary. In bovine form, we take her to the sale barn as fast as we can figure out how to get her into the trailer without loss of life, limb, or gate. She's not a morning person, and has the worst case of the Mondays you've ever seen. Bye, Felicia.
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