The Story of the Slapping Cow… Moo

Thin hair, quiet, timid, mousy hair—that was how my 7-year-old self would describe me. The ugly duckling with a kind heart and a bloody temper. I was the girl who observed, the one who stretched her small eyes wide, watching the world unfold around me. Observing kept me safe. It allowed me to understand the next move, the next word. My family taught me what not to do, what not to say, how not to behave. But deep inside, my tiny heart wanted nothing more than to shine, to be seen. I wanted to be on stage. But... I was too shy.

Sitting on the left feeding the goats!

In kindergarten, we decided to put on a play—the story of Jesus’s Nativity scene. My parents, wanting a good education for me, sent me to a private school called Excelsior. It was far from our home. We didn’t have a car, so my mom arranged for me to ride with a neighbor, Aunt Leoni, who loved her son Neil dearly. We spent a lot of time together, though I was often too rough for Neil. We’d climb onto his roof, lay down, and stare at the clouds as they changed shapes. But all I ever really wanted was to be noticed.

The big day arrived. The air was fresh and crisp. My skin tingled with anticipation as parents, all dressed in traditional Afrikaans fashion, began filing in the hall. The ladies in their elegant dresses, the men in smart pants, all ready to watch their little stars shine. The dads, I could tell, were summoning patience—no braai, no brandewyn—just the sacrifice of sitting through their child’s play.

Backstage, I could hear the rumbling voices of the men, deep and booming, mixing with the sweet, melodic tones of the women. There I was, in my hot and itchy cow costume, waiting for my moment to sit on the stage with all the other animals.  I was supposed to be one of the animals in the Nativity scene, but in my heart, I really wanted to be Mary. I tried to accept my fate, but my gaze often drifted toward her—the blessed Mary, glowing and graceful.

Beside me stood a sturdy boy—the teacher had called him a "sturdy steed"—who was playing the role of the horse. We didn’t talk much, but I caught his nervous eyes and gave him a bit of space. I knew he wasn’t quite sure what to do either.

I took a deep breath and focused on the red curtain, about to rise and reveal the reality of my cow role. It was inevitable. My mom had drilled into me that I needed to smile, to do my best. I sighed inwardly, rolled my eyes—subtle, of course—and smiled. The curtain lifted, the music began, and the parents’ faces lit up. Applause erupted as they locked eyes with their little pride and joys.

I had one job: sit next to the manger, be a cow, and create the scene. I could not do that, I was bored. My hands needed something to do. I started touching my costume, and that’s when I discovered something—four heavy, pink udders sewn into the fabric. I peeked at the sturdy horse next to me. He had nothing hanging from his costume. No udders for him to play with.

As Mary and Joseph slowly made their way down the aisle, I entertained myself by flipping my udders up and down, to the rhythm of the music. The crowd chuckled, but I didn’t understand why. I just needed something to do. My face clearly, said, “I am done with this” and my hands flop flopped the pink udders.  Little did I know, my udder-flipping had become the focus of the performance.

Then it happened. The sturdy horse, who seemed so nervous, reached over and grabbed my udders. He began lifting the udders up and down. He even lifted the higher to watch the udder fall down.

I froze. He was touching my udder. No. This was not okay. I stopped all udder flipping and my eyes froze. But what should I do? In that moment of confusion and anger, I did the most logical thing I could think of—I slapped his hand. Hard.

Brisk with vigor I yanked my head towards the horse and blurted out“Don’t do that,” in my stern, loud Afrikaans voice.

The horse yanked his hand back, wide-eyed, and stared ahead, completely shocked. The crowd burst into laughter. It was a booming, uncontrollable laughter, like waves crashing against the shore. My face turned bright red. “Oh no,” I thought, “I’m in trouble.”

The cow experience imprinted a love for cows in my soul.

After the play, people were asking who the girl was who slapped the horse. My mom, trying to avoid the awkwardness, dodged the questions and hurried to find me. I am that girl who slapped the horse’s hand.

But in that moment, I learned something important. The slapping cow can be the center of attention. She can stand on her own two feet. It’s all about perspective. And, for the record, don’t touch my udders—I’ll set you straight.

That lesson stayed with me-I will not tolerate nonsense- shaping the way I walked through life—firm, with a touch of sass.

Cheers,
The Slapping Cow…