Hammie

I thought I’d take a moment to record and share the amazing birth story of our little Hammie. He was 2021’s greatest gift and biggest struggle all in one!

We were expecting 4 cria the year he was born. I had it ‘planned’ for all 4 to be born within a few days of each other.

First was Bernie, a bouncing boy who was born to Birdie on June 12th.

The morning of June 18, I went out to check on the 3 remaining mamas-to-be. As I approached, I saw Hoosier doing the chase-her-tail maneuver, which is common for first time moms when the baby begins to come out.

At first look, I could see something was off. The cria had begun to come, but the sac hadn’t broken.

I didn’t even know that was possible.

Mike gently ruptured it and then everything seemed to progress normally. His feet and face were out first, like they’re supposed to be.

Generally speaking, seasoned and first-time dams (moms) often unpack (deliver) all on their own. The first several born on this farm happened when no one was around.

Honestly, that’s the way I prefer it — not even witnessing it!

Because the one thing I’ve learned many times over is — experience is essential in knowing when to step in and when to step away.

It’s such a fine line. And it’s totally possible to think you’re helping, but actually not be.

General rule of thumb, every push should make progress. It doesn’t have to be a lot, but it has to be something.

So after Hoosier made a couple fruitless pushes, we stepped in and discovered the placenta was also trying to come out.

The placenta is supposed to be last, usually passing an hour after birth. Definitely not at the same time.

And mind you, there’s not a whole lot of room in the birth canal to begin with, especially for a first timer.

We could see the baby struggling to breathe with the uterus contracting on it and the placenta. So we had to make a split second decision — get that baby out.

On a contraction, Mike attempted to push the placenta back to make space for the baby to exit. But instead, the placenta ruptured.

My heart sank, I knew the clock was ticking fast — one or both of them would be going septic very quickly now.

On her next contraction, probably only her third push all together, we gently delivered him.

In this first picture of him, you could see the blood on his neck from where the placenta ruptured.

My heart began to lighten as I saw him begin to do all the things a newborn cria does.

And about 10 minutes later, my heart sank once again — he just wasn’t attempting to sit up. Oh yes, sepsis was setting in.

Luckily I was able to get the vet out within just a couple hours of his birth.

With the morning beginning to warm, another triple digit day was on the way, I sort of felt hope slipping away.

But the vet got some karo syrup into his belly, and that perked him right up. As well as a few ounces of coveted colostrum from Hoosier, who…by this point was beyond confused at what had just happened.

The vet got antibiotics into both of them, and then she was real honest with me.

“This little cria has a very long road. Get as much as you can into him the next 8 hours.”

I looked down at the little guy - he had glistening white fleece. But he was so still, not in constant motion like a normal cria would be at this stage.

As the heat began to set in, Hoosier was completely freaked out and refusing to let the little guy near her.

While this was so heartbreaking to watch, the vet explained to me — this was a normal reaction to an abnormal birth. The speed at which he was born did not allow her body to produce the natural hormones associated with birth. Like the cortisol during contraction and pushing, and the oxytocin shortly after delivery — the things that signal to her that she just had a baby.

In other words — the chemical reactions that naturally occur to let Hoosier know — this thing that just came out of you — well he’s yours and you need to care for him.

Learning all this — the more physiological things about birth that I didn’t know because of my ignorance and inexperience — the guilt set in as the temperatures rose.

“We pulled him too fast” my heart screamed at my head.

“But if we hadn’t pulled him, he would’ve definitely died” my mind replied.

The reality of farming is a constant battle with life and death.

You make hard choices in the moment, and hope that you chose wisely - then you get to gettin. After all, there’s no point in arguing with reality, that’s a losing battle and a waste of precious time & energy.

Besides, there was little time to fret about the shoulda-couldas. It was all about keeping him alive, in 105 degree day that lie ahead.

I looked at him as he laid nearly motionless in the corner of the stall, while Hoosier tried desperately to get as far away as possible. That was pretty deflating to see.

She definitely had no interest in this guy, and I tried hard to remember that this was a normal reaction to an abnormal birth. But damn, if it didn’t feel like a losing battle from the start.

I tried to milk her, but she refused. Her large, tender body collapsing on me every time I tried.

I strained my neck, knocked my knees, got pinched by a gate and pinned in the corner of the stall. Hoosier wasn’t having it.

In the corner, he clung to life, laying flat as a board, I had to keep propping him up. It was a sad, sad scene.

I never even cried so hard in the sweltering heat like this…not even in Iraq.

But between a 2-year-expired pail of powdered alpaca colostrum, a bottle of karo syrup and syringes of water, every hour I’d check on this yet-to-be-named boy...and he seemed to be holding on.

He had a good suckle, but a real noodly neck - he just didn’t have the energy to hold up his head real well that first day. So I had to keep it upright and angled so he wouldn’t choke.

The blazing sun kept on, I’d cry the whole way out to the barn expecting to find him dead. And then a rush of happy tears when I’d see he was in a different spot than I last left him.

“He must’ve gotten up on his own!” I’d think to myself, as Hoosier would be in the opposite corner begging to get away from this ‘weird little thing’.

And this would continue every hour, on the hour. This scrappy little guy, he taught me to take life by the hour. And that’s just what we did.

We had a rhythm — water, colostrum, karo, cry, and try not to get too hopeful.

He made it through that first night, with me “sleeping” in the barn.

Day 2, it was 107 degrees at noon. The hammering, nail gun pops and the drone of a wood saw thumped on all day as farmhouse renovations continued.

Farming teaches you that life really does go on, even if someone else’s is hanging in the balance.

By Day 3, he’d toddle around with Bernie, running even, and I’d go back into the house hopeful after every check.

And then come out and find him sprawled out flat all by himself in the blazing sun.

My first thought was always…he’s dead, ain’t he?

And he’d always perk right up to prove me wrong!

I’d get him to take a bottle in the shade. I was feeding raw goats milk at this point and he would chug 125ml of it every hour. I knew for certain a normal cria couldn’t get that much volume from his mom.

It was a rollercoaster of hope and fear, every hour.

By Day 4, I’d holler — “Where’s my flat baby?!” with a pitchy voice, and he’d pop his wobbly little head up, then scramble to get his legs up underneath himself. He started to come to me for the bottle, always covered in dirt and debris, always alone.

Scrappy little thing. Tough as nails. A real fighter.

The morning of Day 5, with a real scorcher on the way, I was walking the pasture just after sunrise and came upon a major surprise.

Riff Raff had to have given birth. It was a girl, she was already up, dried and walking when I found her at 5:30!

As I watched Riff pass the placenta, I thought — maybe I could graft the little boy onto her? Alpacas rarely have twins, and are known to not allow babies who aren’t there’s to nurse. But the hourly feedings and overnight duties were wearing on me.

So I wasn’t about to waste a minute second guessing the very strange idea I had.

A fresh placenta, packed with all kinds of nourishing goodness…and smells.

So I ran for the unnamed boy, who was still a puddle of silken locks and bobbly legs, smaller than the girl that was just born.

I brought him in under my shirt so Riff Raff wouldn’t see. With my back to her I plopped him down, grabbed that placenta bare handed and got to work.

The placenta was intact, rubbery smooth and filled with goodness. And it was perfectly heavy. I coated its bloody gel all over him — trying to get him all smelled him up like Riff. My hope was maybe she’ll still be in that oxytocin-high that she’ll think this baby came out with the placenta!

Once I had him good and slathered, all be it a bit gory looking, I scooped him up and sat him by the newborn girl — who, by the way, was standing and walking so perfectly upright — a glowing testament on how his birth should’ve gone.

I swiftly moved out of the way as Riff came over with concern.

She took two big deep whiffs of him from his tail clear up to his nose, and he tilted his head right on cue, perfectly as if to nurse…There was a pause.

She smelled him again, looked over as I crouched behind a shelter, and then looked back at the little guy before she spit a big loogie right in his face.

I slumped down, still clutching the placenta as it gave way, spilling down my front side.

Well shit.

Somewhere between all the placenta juice, the flies, my snotty tears, the rising sun, and this little floppy baby looking up at me, I said to him, to myself and to the Universe…

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m going to figure it out.

I hadn’t given him a name yet, because…you know. But I knew that had to change.

As I got up and watched as he followed me perfectly as if I was his dam…

I suppose I was at this point!

I got to thinking about his roots and mine…

His mom, Hoosier, had her own interesting birth story as well. We named her Hoosier as an homage to my home state of Indiana, but also because it was also a bit of “who is your daddy”. That’s a whole other story though…

With that in mind, I landed on the name Hammie - short from Hammond, the city I grew up in back in Indiana.

Hammond is a place where you need a few street smarts to get by. Where grit was ingrained, and being scrappy was a must. And where your friends mom’s basically became yours as well.

And I’m so glad I chose that, because what eventually happened was a reminder of growing up on the block and making lifelong friends, and second and third moms…

By Day 7, Hammie had become best buds with Bernie — he was the first one & only other playmate available. And as it turns out, a really solid friend, too. He was gentle with Hammie and curious, too. He’d come along for bottle feedings to offer support!

As draining as it was to be bottle feeding, it was also so very adorable.

By July, I was wondering how long this bottle feeding would go on. Hammie had begun to graze at his 2-week mark, so I was able to reduce my hourly feedings to a few times a day, and once in the middle of the night.

And all the while it was still so darn hot out.

The herd spend most days hanging in the shade because it was just to damn hot to be out grazing in the sun.

As the afternoon sun finally tucked behind the barn, they’d eventually graze in the shade it gave. And the girls were so ravenous, having not eaten much during the hot day, they were chowing down big time.

Scrappy little Hammie seemed to take notice that mamas weren’t paying attention while they were stuffing their faces. So when his buddy Bernie went for a drink from Mama Birdie, she was just too hungry to even check if the one nursing was hers…so Hammie slid in behind him and poked around.

It took a few tries, but Hammie found the jackpot! Birdie had to have felt a second set of lips on her, she swung her head around, and since Bernie was first up, she smelled him and not Hammie, so she didn’t fuss. Birdie kept on grazing and those two boys kept on nursing!

It was a sight! I’m telling you, alpacas don’t usually ever let another baby nurse from them.

So many happy tears!

I kept up with my hourly checks because…who knows…that could’ve been a fluke.

A few times, Hammie would come up to me with green spit all over his face and side. Ha! He must’ve gotten caught.

But that little bugger learned quick. He knew he had to be at her caboose or at least behind Bernie so he could drink undiscovered. Bernie didn’t seem to mind sharing either. It definitely helped that Birdie had enough to milk a calf!

It was still ungodly hot out and I worried that he might not be getting enough to keep him nourished and hydrated. So I still offered him bottles, and he usually took a few swigs.

He’d eventually wean himself down to just one evening bottle, which ultimately became my favorite part of the day…

Homestead Happy Hour!

It was somewhere around Day 31 when I came out for happy hour and hollered for Hammie. He looked up at me and instead of bounding over like he had been, he looked away and went onto grazing.

And just like that, Hammie was good to go! He, Bernie and Birdie are quite the trio.

Birdie still skranks at him from time to time, but I almost always see them bedded down together!

Hammie’s whole presence here on the homestead is yet another reminder of the beauty and the struggle in farming. And I’m so excited to watch him grow alongside this farm!