There are moments in life where I am reminded that I am a dairy farmer. Moments like driving the family car on the wrong side of the road, hurtling toward oncoming traffic with a screaming wife and kids as I was checking out a neighboring corn field.

It was a cold, dark, blustery day where everything had gone wrong on the farm. The manure pump went down, the milker didn’t show up for work, fresh cow problems, just your run-of-the-mill bad day.

There are moments where all parent feel they have failed as parents. There was that time my 8-year-old asked if she could put ketchup on a perfectly prepared prime rib that came right from the Traeger Grill. 

There is seemingly an inordinate number of dairy farm families that have a lot of girls, and we are no exception. My wife and I have been blessed with three beautiful daughters.

We walk down through the entrance in Carhartt work pants, Georgia Romeo shoes and a Semex hat. It has everyone confused.