You know what they make pork out of, right?

A couple of days ago, my extremely cute, almost 8 year old yellow blonde neighbour came over to visit with his mummy.  I could tell that Cute Stuff had been crying; his beautiful eyes were watery and puffy.  I knew he'd been having a rough week.  He's a sensitive and emotional little guy, and sometimes life is a little hard to take... and when you're a little boy, from what I've observed, your first reaction is to scream and kick something.  

His mum and I ducked into my kitchen while the kids checked out Bucky's newest obstacle course beside the deck.   Apparently, Cute Stuff had freaked out at supper.  They were enjoying their barbequed ribs when the kid suddenly made the connection between RIBS and REAL LIVE PIGS. His face quivered while he asked if the pigs have to die before we eat the ribs.  Well, yes.  But they let them die of old age first, right?  Um, no.  

BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR! 

Pigs are so nice!

He let loose with an indignant rage that only an almost 8 year old can work up.  I felt soooo sorry for his mother as she told me the story.

My kids are pretty barbaric about the whole meat thing.  They've grown up listening to my gruesome stories about growing up on a pig farm.  I'm the kind of cruel parent who never really candy coated some of the harsh realities of life.  I mean, in many ways, my two kids have been so carefully sheltered and protected.  They hardly watch any TV and I don't want them to watch a lot of violent movies.  But, when it comes to the basics of life, they know what's going on.

They know that all those sweet little piglets that I played with in the barn quickly grew up into bigger, ruder pigs that got put in a truck and sold at the stockyards.  And then they became tasty pork after a visit to the slaughterhouse.

Cruel?  Well, yes.  It's cruel to shove a mammal into a chute and kill it. It's cruel for a child to have to discover that their bacon used to have pretty long white eyelashes and little pointy split hooves.  Life can be cruel.  And ham is tasty, and I have these sharp teeth in the corners of my mouth and I want meat.  

I had a Meat Moment when I was a kid.  If I remember correctly, we'd just hauled a load of weaner pigs (haha, I spelled it like "weaned from its mother" but it could just as well be spelled "weiner pigs) to the stockyards in our pickup truck.



 This would have been back in the days when seatbelts were optional and one of us girls had to sit on Mom's lap because the old truck only sat three, hip to hip.  We had the wooden racks on the truck box and backed it up the chute.  It was probably a load of those awesome Hampshire cross pigs that we raised.  They were black and white... well, black and pink, really... and as babies they were irresistible.  

Soon after that day we had ham for supper.  When you raise pigs you eat a lot of pork. Especially when it costs the same to raise the little buggers as the price you get for them.  I suddenly lost my appetite. "Mom?  Is it okay if I don't eat the ham tonight?"  

She was okay with that. She didn't push the issue or give me any long talks.  Wise lady, my mom.

I told Zedlie that she could let her boy know that his friend Heidi, who grew up on a pig farm, once had a moment of non-pork eating.  

... and got over it.

Meanwhile, my delightful children were outside telling Cute Stuff that yeah, piglets are awesome, but they grow up to be big rude pigs, 



that have babies and roll over and suffocate them to death, ignoring their squealing,



so they're really not so cute and nice after all, so hey, why cry over pigs getting turned into meat, man.  It's just the way it is.

Yeah.  So apparently Bucky and Tribble really were listening to all my stories all these years.  

Problem is, looking at all these pig pictures kind of made me miss my old life, despite all my claims that I sure don't miss having a barn full of pigs, and I admit now that I kind of want to raise piglets again.  At least until they're four months old.  Then I'll start getting hungry...

I hope Cute Stuff isn't permanently traumatized.