The Pioneer Woman

by Ree Drummond

  “Hey, Mama,” Marlboro Man said, smiling.

  I smiled back, unable to take my eyes off the sight in front of me. Those Hallmark commercials weren’t kidding. A man holding a newborn baby was a beautiful thing to behold. My stomach growled, then gurgled.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m really hungry.” And just like that, out of the blue, it hit me. I glanced around the room frantically, knowing I was seconds away from losing it. Fortunately, I found a clean trash can parked right beside my bed and grabbed it just in time to absolutely fill it with projectile vomit. It was chartreuse and abundant, and splattered the lily white trash bag like a Pollock canvas. I snorted and sniffed and coughed. I felt like a demon.

  I could hear Marlboro Man getting up. “You okay?” he said, clearly not knowing what the heck he was supposed to be doing. I grabbed a wad of Kleenexes and wiped the corners of my mouth. As mortified as I was, my stomach felt a hundred times better.

  A nurse entered the room just after I set down the trash can. “How you doing?” she asked with a sweet smile. Little did she know the fun she’d just missed.

  “Uh…I,” I began.

  “She just threw up,” Marlboro Man, still holding the baby, reported. I got a whiff of the vomit and hoped Marlboro Man wasn’t smelling it, too.

  “Oh, you did?” the nurturing nurse said, looking around at the unmistakable evidence.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think it was just all the medication. I feel better now.” I hiccupped loudly and rested my head back on the pillow.

  The nurse did some cleaning up and whisked away the trash can as I lay there staring at the ceiling. I felt better physically, but it shocked me just how far I’d fallen. Months earlier, I couldn’t even bear the thought of sweating in front of Marlboro Man. Now I’d hurled a bright greenish yellow liquid all over the room as he held our peacefully sleeping baby. I could see the last of my dignity swirl down a big, nasty drain on the floor.

  Before I could change the subject and begin talking to Marlboro Man about the weather, the chipper nurse returned to the room and sat down on the end of my bed with a clipboard.

  “I need to check your vitals, hon,” she explained. It had been several hours since I’d given birth. I guess this was the routine.

  She felt my pulse, palpated my legs, asked if I had pain anywhere, and lightly pressed on my abdomen, the whole while making sure I wasn’t showing signs of a blockage or a blood clot, a fever or a hemorrhage. I stared dreamily at Marlboro Man, who gave me a wink or two. I hoped he would, in time, be able to see past the vomit.

  The nurse then began a battery of questions.

  “So, no pain?”

  “Nope. I feel fine now.”

  “No chills?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you been able to pass gas in the past few hours?”

  *Insert awkward ten-second pause*

  I couldn’t have heard her right. “What?” I asked, staring at her.

  “Have you been able to pass gas lately?”

  *Another awkward pause*

  What kind of question is this? “Wait…,” I asked. “What?”

  “Sweetie, have you been able to pass gas today?”

  I stared at her blankly. “I don’t…”

  “…Pass gas? You? Today?” She was unrelenting. I continued my blank, desperate stare, completely incapable of registering her question.

  Throughout the entire course of my pregnancy, I’d gone to great lengths to maintain a certain level of glamour and vanity. Even during labor, I’d attempted to remain the ever-fresh and vibrant new wife, going so far as to reapply tinted lip balm before the epidural so I wouldn’t look pale. I’d also restrained myself during the pushing stage, afraid I’d lose control of my bowels, which would have been the kiss of death upon my pride and my marriage; I would have had to just divorce my husband and start fresh with someone else.

  I had never once so much as passed gas in front of Marlboro Man. As far as he was concerned, my body lacked this function altogether.

  So why was I being forced to answer these questions now? I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “I’m sorry…,” I stammered. “I don’t understand the question….”

  The nurse began again, seemingly unconcerned with my lack of comprehension skills. “Have you…”

  Marlboro Man, lovingly holding our baby and patiently listening all this time from across the room, couldn’t take it anymore. “Honey! She wants to know if you’ve been able to fart today!”

  The nurse giggled. “Okay, well maybe that’s a little more clear.”

  I pulled the covers over my head.

  I was not having this discussion.

  LATE THAT evening, I begged Marlboro Man to go back to the ranch to sleep. We’d had visits from my dad, our grandmothers, my best friend, Becky, and Mike. My mom had even peeked her head in once she’d determined the coast was clear, and I’d been poked and prodded and checked by nurses all day long. I felt tired and gross, not having been given permission to shower yet, and I didn’t want him to sleep on a hard cot in the room. Plus, I couldn’t risk being asked about my bodily functions in his presence again. “Go home and get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

  He didn’t put up much of a fight. He was exhausted; I could tell. I was exhausted, too—but I was supposed to be. I needed Marlboro Man to stay strong.

  “Good night, Mama,” he said, kissing my head. I loved this new “Mama” thing. He kissed our baby on the cheek. She grunted and twisted. I moved my face to hers and inhaled. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me babies smelled so good?

  After Marlboro Man left, the room was beautifully quiet. I nestled more deeply into the surprisingly comfortable hospital bed and cradled the baby like a football, unbuttoning my peach pajama top and hooking her on for the tenth time in the past several hours. She’d struggled on the previous tries, but this time—almost in an effort to comfort me now that Marlboro Man had left—she opened her tiny mouth and latched on. I closed my eyes, laid my head back on the pillow, and savored my first moments alone with my child.

  Seconds later, the door to my room opened and my brother-in-law, Tim, walked in. He’d just finished working a huge load of cattle. Marlboro Man would have been, too, if I hadn’t gone into labor the night before.

  “Hey!” Tim said enthusiastically. “How’s it going?”

  I yanked the bedsheet far enough north to cover the baby’s head and my exposed breast; as much as I loved my new brother-in-law, I just couldn’t see myself being that open with him. He caught on immediately.

  “Oops—did I come at a bad time?” Tim asked, a deer caught in the headlights.

  “You just missed your brother,” I said. The baby’s lips fell off my nipple and she rooted around and tried to find it again. I tried to act like nothing was happening under the covers.

  “No kidding?” Tim asked, looking nervously around the room. “Oh, I should have called first.”

  “Come on in,” I said, sitting up in the bed as tall as I could. The epidural had definitely worn off. My bottom was beginning to throb.

  “How’s the baby?” he asked, wanting to look but unsure if he should look in her direction.

  “She’s great,” I answered, pulling the little one out from under the covers. I prayed I could get my nipple quickly tucked away without incident.

  Tim smiled as he regarded his new niece. “She’s so cute,” he said tenderly. “Can I hold her?” He reached out his arms like a child wanting to hold a puppy.

  “Sure,” I said, handing her over, my bottom stinging by now. All I could think about was getting in the shower and spraying it with the nozzle I’d noticed earlier in the day when the nurse escorted me to the bathroom. I’d started obsessing over it, in fact. The nozzle was all I could think about.

  Tim seemed as surprised at the baby’s gender as his brother had been. “I was shocked when I heard!” he said, looking at me with a smile. I laughed, imagining what Mar
lboro Man’s dad might be thinking. That the first grandchild in such a male-dominated ranching family turned out to be a girl was becoming more humorous to me each minute. This was going to be an adventure.

  As Tim held the baby, I rested my head back on the pillow; I was too tired to hold it together much longer.

  “How’s she eating?” Tim asked. A funny question. He seemed genuinely interested.

  “Pretty good,” I said, squirming a little bit at the subject matter. “I think she’ll catch on after a while.”

  Catch on? Latch on? I was so confused.

  “You’re feeding her your own milk, right?” Tim asked awkwardly.

  Feeding her your own milk?

  Oh dear.

  “Um, yes…,” I answered. “I’m br…I’m breast-feeding.” Tim, could you please go now?

  Then he let me have it. “You know, you need to be careful not to get a sour bag.”

  I sat there, staring blankly ahead. Little did I know it was but one of the many times my brother-in-law would draw a parallel between me and livestock.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  TOMBSTONE

  TWO DAYS later, on a stifling hot midsummer afternoon, Marlboro Man packed my hospital bags into his pickup, buckled our seven-pounder into her comparatively huge car seat, and helped me into the backseat for our drive back home to the ranch. I should have been so happy—I had the guy and the baby and she was healthy and the sun was shining—but it didn’t feel right to me, the whole leaving-the-hospital thing. I wasn’t ready at all. I’d just gotten used to the beeping of the monitors and the coziness of the warm, secure hospital room. I’d grown accustomed to the nurses checking on me every couple of hours…and candy stripers bringing me warm meals of stew, mashed potatoes, and green beans. At the hospital, I knew what to expect. In two short days, I’d mastered it. I had no idea what would be waiting for me at home.

  When Marlboro Man pulled away from the hospital, it hit me: instantly, I felt desperate and alone. Pressing my face against the window, I acted like I was asleep…and quietly sobbed the whole way home. I wanted my mom, but I’d pushed her away to the point where she was keeping her distance out of respect for my wishes. If only she were at the other end of this hour-long drive, everything would be okay.

  We got home to find twenty cows in our yard. “Dammit,” Marlboro Man muttered under his breath, as if this was the last thing he needed right then. That made me cry harder, and I could no longer shield Marlboro Man from the sounds of my wailing. As he got out of the car, he looked back at me and said, “What’s wrong?” He moved toward me, more than likely concerned at the unexpected sight of my swollen, red, puffy face. “What happened?”

  “I want to go back to the hospital!” I cried. A cow dropped a fresh green load on my daylilies.

  “What’s wrong?” Marlboro Man asked again. “Seriously…are you in pain?”

  That only served to make me feel foolish, as if I would have no good excuse to lose it unless I was hemorrhaging out of my ears. I sobbed even harder, and the baby began to wriggle. “I just don’t feel right,” I cried again. “I feel…I don’t know how to do anything!”

  Marlboro Man wrapped me in his arms, completely clueless as to what to do. “Let’s go inside,” he said, rubbing my back. “It’s hot out here.” He unbuckled the baby’s car seat and pulled her out of the car, and the three of us walked past the cows and toward the house. My echinacea blooms were all missing their petals. Stupid rabbits, I thought. I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands if they go near my flowers again. Then I started crying harder that I’d even had such a thought.

  We walked into our house, which was spotless and smelled of Clorox and lemon. A vase of fresh flowers sat on our dining table in the breakfast nook. Not a thing was out of place. I took a deep breath and exhaled…and suddenly everything felt better. The baby was fussing now—she’d been in the car seat since we’d left the hospital over an hour earlier—so I pulled her out, lay down on the bed with her, and started nursing. Almost immediately, the two of us fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, it was almost dark. I hoped it was early the next morning, which would have meant we’d slept all night long…but, in fact, only an hour had passed since we’d dozed off.

  After I woke up, splashed cold water on my face, and drank nearly a gallon of orange juice, our first evening home turned out to be dreamy: Marlboro Man and I ate pieces of a casserole his mom had left in our fridge earlier in the day. For dessert we feasted on a homemade angel food cake his grandmother, Edna Mae, had brought by. Edna Mae’s angel food cakes were light…fluffy…perfect. She’d gone the extra mile with this one and coated it with a creamy white seven-minute frosting, then chilled the iced cake to perfection. I gobbled down three pieces without even knowing I’d taken a bite. It was lifeblood for my postpartum body.

  After dinner Marlboro man and I sat on the sofa in our dimly lit house and marveled at the new little life before us. Her sweet little grunts…her impossibly tiny ears…how peacefully she slept, wrinkled and warm, in front of us. We unwrapped her from her tight swaddle, then wrapped her again. Then we unwrapped her and changed her diaper, then wrapped her again. Then we put her in the crib for the night, patted her sweet belly, and went to bed ourselves, where we fell dead asleep in each other’s arms, blissful that the hard part was behind us. A full night’s sleep was all I needed, I reckoned, before I felt like myself again. The sun would come out tomorrow…I was sure of it.

  We were sleeping soundly when I heard the baby crying twenty minutes later. I shot out of bed and went to her room. She must be hungry, I thought, and fed her in the glider rocking chair before putting her in her crib and going back to bed myself. Forty-five minutes after my head hit the pillow, I was awakened again to the sound of crying. Looking at the clock, I was sure I was having a bad dream. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled to her room again and repeated the feeding ritual. Hmmm, I thought as I tried to keep from nodding off in the chair. This is strange. She must have some sort of problem, I imagined—maybe that cowlick or colic I’d heard about in a movie somewhere? Goiter or gouter or gout? Strange diagnoses pummeled my sleep-deprived brain. Before the sun came up, I’d gotten up six more times, each time thinking it had to be the last, and if it wasn’t, it might actually kill me.

  I woke up the next morning, the blinding sun shining in my eyes. Marlboro Man was walking in our room, holding our baby girl, who was crying hysterically in his arms.

  “I tried to let you sleep,” he said. “But she’s not having it.” He looked helpless, like a man completely out of options.

  My eyes would hardly open. “Here.” I reached out, motioning Marlboro Man to place the little suckling in the warm spot on the bed beside me. Eyes still closed, I went into autopilot mode, unbuttoning my pajama top and moving my breast toward her face, not caring one bit that Marlboro Man was standing there watching me. The baby found what she wanted and went to town.

  Marlboro Man sat on the bed and played with my hair. “You didn’t get much sleep,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, completely unaware that what had happened the night before had been completely normal…and was going to happen again every night for the next month at least. “She must not have been feeling great.”

  “I’ve got to go meet a truck,” Marlboro Man said. “But I’ll be back around eleven.”

  I waved good-bye without even looking up. I couldn’t take my eyes off my baby. As she lay there and sucked, I began to feel strange. My entire chest felt tight and warm to the touch, and my breasts, I noticed, were larger than I ever remembered them being—even in the last days of my pregnancy. Once the baby fell asleep again, I made my way to the shower. It was the only thing that could possibly pump some life into my sleep-deprived body. I let the warm water fall on my face and sting my eyes, hoping to somehow wash away the utter exhaustion that had taken over. Slowly, three minutes in, I began to feel better…just in time to notice that the tight, uncomfortable feeling in my chest had returned with a vengeance.
I glanced down to find, to my horror, that my breasts had become spigots, both shooting milk eight inches in front of my body.

  And they showed absolutely no signs of stopping. They sprayed and sprayed.

  If I, the daughter of a physician, had been prepared for the medical side of pregnancy and childbirth, I was completely dumbfounded by this development. Nothing could have prepared me for the horror.

  That night, Marlboro Man invited Tim over to our house. I hid in my bedroom the entire time, clutching towels to my bosom and trying desperately to get my now-fussy, squirming baby to relieve the building pressure in my breasts…while at the same time avoiding any kind of interaction with Marlboro Man and Tim. I was way too busy trying to assimilate what was happening with my body and my mind—not to mention my life—to hold any kind of coherent conversation.

  They were invaders, anyway—those men in my living room. Invaders who didn’t belong in my nest with my new baby bird. They were dodo birds…maybe grackles. I’d peck them if they got too close. Why were they in my nest, anyway?

  Later that night, just as I was dozing off, I heard cries and yells from the other room as Marlboro Man and Tim watched Mike Tyson bite off Evander Holyfield’s ear on live TV. The baby, who’d finally, at long last, gone to sleep moments earlier, woke up and began to cry again.

  It was official: I was in hell.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  TEARS WON’T WATER STEERS

  MY MILK had burst onto the scene with a vengeance, and eating became the baby’s new vocation. The next two weeks of her life marked the end of my life as I knew it; I was up all night, a hag all day, and Marlboro Man was completely on his own. I wanted nothing to do with anyone on earth, my husband included.