In the cold, bitter days of February the small miracles would arrive – about a dozen piglets per sow. On the evenings when the expectant moms were in labour, I was allowed to stay up late in the barn with mom and dad. I was under strict instructions to be quiet as a mouse and to move very slowly so as not to disturb the sows.

Crunching through the snow, wrapped up with just eyes and nose peeking out, I’d open the barn door into the warm, softly-lit interior where many heat lamps cast a rosy glow. Walking into that old wooden, two-story barn with my breath held and all senses heightened to full awareness was like stepping into another world. All the sounds seemed distant and muted – the sows grunting rhythmically, tiny new piglets squeaking and squealing, soft music playing from an old dusty radio perched on a straw bale. The air was warm and inviting like a humid summer evening so the layers of hats and scarves were soon discarded. We had seats made of straw bales in each pen where we could sit and read or talk quietly, waiting for the next baby. I watched and learned to quickly clean out the newest baby’s mouth to make sure he could breathe easily, clean and dry the soft pink hide, cut the umbilical cord and encourage the piglet to try to drink from its mom.

The skin of the newborn piglets was velvety smooth – a beautiful pastel pink with fine white hair. They had such beautiful long white eye lashes and a short curly tail. Their delicate ears framed their narrow faces. With their comical flat, turned-up noses they couldn’t be called beautiful, but they were adorable.

The babies were so hungry, blindly trying to find their mother’s milk. Some piglets would latch onto the bottom row of teats and drink laying down, while others struggled to hang onto the top row. They were constantly walking over each other, knocking each other off balance, squirming around to find a better spot. Sometimes the sow would shift her weight around to make herself more comfortable then all the piglets would have to start over. I delighted in constantly helping them find a new “dinner box” as my mom called them until they were all satisfied and ready to sleep under the heat lamps.

My dad would stay out in the barn most of the night to make sure everything was alright but I eventually had to trundle off to bed through the crunching snow with mom. My dreams those nights wouldn’t be visions of dancing sugar plums – they would be filled with wiggling, soft pink, newborn piglets.

Image Attribution: “New born piglets – geograph.org.uk – 1629479” by cynthia hudson. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.