My milk had burst onto the scene with a vengeance, and…

““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. “How are you doing today?” he’d ask. I’d resent that I had to expand the energy to answer. “Want me to hold the baby while you get up and get dressed?” he’d offer. I’d crumble that he didn’t like my robe. “Hey, Mama--wanna take the baby for a drive?” Not no, but hell no. We’ll die if we leave our cocoon. The rays from the sun will fry us and turn us to ashes. And I’d have to put on normal clothes. Forget it. I’d kicked into survival mode in the most literal sense of the word--not only was laundry out of the question, but so was dinner, casual conversation, or any social interaction at all. I had become a shell of a person--no more human than the stainless steel milk machines in dairy farms in Wisconsin, and half as interesting. Any identity I’d previously had as a wife, daughter, friend, or productive member of the human race had melted away the second my ducts filled with milk. My mom dropped by to help once or twice, but I couldn’t emotionally process her presence. I hid in my room with the door shut as she did the dishes and washed laundry without help or input from me. Marlboro Man’s mom came to help, too, but I couldn’t be myself around her and holed up in my room. I didn’t even care enough to pray for help. Not that it would have helped; stainless steel milk machines have no soul.””

— Ree Drummond