Help! I married a farmer. Yes, the farmer wanted a wife and I was ‘It’.For a city girl, and a girly-girl, it’s been a helluva transition.
Help! I married a farmer.
Farming is tough but being married to the farm is tough too.
Valentine’s Day comes in the middle of lambing season.
Christmas is at the height of the feeding/mucking out season usually with the arrival of the first few calves.
We have virtually no days off.
My birthday often coincides with trips to the bog or the annual silage making.
Family outings are trips to the Mart, the Bog and other farms.
Our rare holidays include visiting stock or crops in other counties/countries and talking about the stock and crops in other counties/countries.
I am constantly vying for some of the attention that is lavished on passing tractors. (Massey not John Deere, in case you are wondering).
Help! I married a farmer.
Farming is our life and that means we have no life (outside of farming). I have learned to cope with more muck, mud and obscure unidentifiable animal stains than Mr Muscle himself. Honestly that fella that sells the Cillit bang would cry at the state of our floors on wet days. My machine washing is now sorted by the level of dirt encrusted on the garment and not by the original colour or fabric of the clothes. The laundry smells bad enough, but a quick kiss on my hunky farmer’s neck reveals a whiff of eau de silage, that would knock a donkey out. Tis a good job I love him.
I swopped my stilettos for wellies (pink festival wellies, but still. Wellies!).
We are late for every family event since the day of our marriage.
Cows break out, calves decide to be born and foxes prowl the chickens, just as we are cleaned up and ready for off.
We have missed more wedding ceremonies and dinner parties than we can count. To add to these woes, I am alone a lot. Long hours in the field for him means that I am eating alone, while his meal congeals in the range awaiting his arrival. I do all the errands alone.
When I am passing couples in the supermarket arguing over which beans to buy, it makes me smile. No farm could afford the luxury of two people taking the time to shop. I usually do that alone.
Help! I married a farmer. My house is never clean. There is hay in my car and calf supplement in my handbag. The fridge is full of animal injections. He and I are like a couple of zombies during lambing and calving season. Sleep deprivation has us walking into doors and walls with tiredness and getting grumpy with each other over small things. Once, after a particularly bad night with the animals, he presented me with a hand printed mug ‘I am sorry for the things I said in the calving shed’. Now that’s romance, Irish farmer style!
But, it’s not all bad. You learn to adapt. Your priorities change. Living in the middle of nature is beautiful. The sun coming up over the fields is a special moment. It will be a good place to raise children. If you are willing to grab a grape and muck out the sheds alongside him, you can spend time with your man.
Change is good they say. Nowadays I appreciate that the only hippy chic on the farm is that one weird looking Rhode Island Red with the funny eye that lays speckled eggs. He cleans up good too. One minute he is covered in dirt and the next he is looking like a calendar model. But, for some reason - I find him sexiest when he's got his boots on. It’s not a glamorous life but it’s a good life.
Help!
I am a fully fledged farmer’s wife,
Get yourself some fancy wellies and join him mucking out the sheds, if you want some together time
