Ten years ago I called myself a farmer. I rose at dawn with my co-farmer husband, drove to our farm thirty-five minutes away and put in a twelve, sometimes fourteen hour day. We didn’t take days off, have long lunches or even many breaks. It was our first year farming and we weren’t going to fail for lack of trying.
However, I had never been a full time farmer before and I’d never been pregnant before either. I didn’t know which was making me more tired, but I guess it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to stop being either one, for awhile anyway. Back then I was really more committed to my husband and to the farm than I was to the little baby growing inside me (and boy was that about to change). Being mostly a visual person, I was more effected by the sight of my dirty, tired, overworked husband and our spindly, weedy, bug infested crops. Luckily the baby needed mostly the inside of my body while I could still use the outside.