by Ree Drummond
“I can’t,” I said, sounding wimpy. “I’m…I’m pregnant.” I was pulling out all the stops.
“Yep, I know,” he said, his gentle rub turning back into a poke again.
I writhed and wriggled and squealed, then finally relented, getting dressed and heading out the door with my strapping cowboy.
We drove a couple of miles to a pasture near his parents’ house and met up with the other early risers. I rode along with one of the older cowboys in the feed truck while the rest of the crew followed the herd on horseback, all the while enjoying the perfect view of Marlboro Man out the passenger-side window. I watched as he darted and weaved in the herd, shifting his body weight and posture to nonverbally communicate to his loyal horse, Blue, how far to move from the left or to the right. I breathed in slowly, feeling a sudden burst of inexplicable pride. There was something about watching my husband—the man I was crazy in love with—riding his horse across the tallgrass prairie. It was more than the physical appeal, more than the sexiness of his chaps-cloaked body in the saddle. It was seeing him do something he loved, something he was so good at doing.
I took a hundred photos in my mind. I never wanted to forget it as long as I lived.
Back in the pens, once the herd was gathered, the men gingerly and methodically guided the calves into a separate gated area. The cows mooed and their babies bawled once they realized the extent of the physical distance between them, and my bottom lip began to tremble in sympathy. Before that moment, I had no hands-on experience of the tug of motherhood and the tangible connection between the hearts of a mother and child, whether it be bovine, equine, or human. And while I knew that what I was witnessing was a rite of passage, a normal part of agriculture, I realized for the first time that this enormous thing that would be happening in a few short months—this motherhood thing—was serious business.
It took a morning among cows for me to understand.
I GREW STRONGER and more stable, and by Christmastime, I was wonder woman. Completely over any semblance of morning sickness, I felt like I could do anything. I bought a Christmas tree for our house, decorating it with crocheted snowflakes given to me years earlier, ironically, by my ex J’s sweet mother. my jeans, which had been pretty tight by Thanksgiving weekend, could no longer be buttoned. Desperate for a solution, I’d rigged a Goody ponytail holder through the buttonhole and stretched it across the button. It worked like a charm. I figured I’d just keep adding more ponytail holder extensions as my belly grew larger and larger. I decided I could probably get away with just wearing my regular clothes if I minded my p’s and q’s and didn’t gain too much weight.
After the crazy fall we’d had, Marlboro Man and I chose to spend Christmas Eve alone. I didn’t want to subject myself to my parental turf wars, and Marlboro Man just wanted to stay home and relax, watch movies, and enjoy life on one of the few days of the year that markets and cattle can be put on the back burner. I played a Johnny Mathis CD and made dinner for us: steaks, foil-wrapped baked potatoes, and salad with Hidden Valley Ranch dressing. I poured Dr Pepper in wine goblets and lit two tapered candles on our small farm table in our tiny kitchen.
“It’s so weird that it’s Christmas Eve,” I said, clinking my glass to his. It was the first time I’d spent the occasion apart from my parents.
“I know,” he said. “I was just thinking that.” We both dug into our steaks. I wished I’d made myself two. The meat was tender and flavorful, and perfectly medium-rare. I felt like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, when she barely seared a steak in the middle of the afternoon and devoured it like a wolf. Except I didn’t have a pixie cut. And I wasn’t harboring Satan’s spawn.
“Hey,” I began, looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so pathetic since, like, the day we got married.”
He smiled and took a swig of Dr Pepper. “You haven’t been pathetic,” he said. He was a terrible liar.
“I haven’t?” I asked, incredulous, savoring the scrumptious red meat.
“No,” he answered, taking another bite of steak and looking me squarely in the eye. “You haven’t.”
I was feeling argumentative. “Have you forgotten about my inner ear disturbance, which caused me to vomit all across Australia?”
He paused, then countered, “Have you forgotten about the car I rented us?”
I laughed, then struck back. “Have you forgotten about the poisonous lobster I ordered us?”
Then he pulled out all the stops. “Have you forgotten all the money we lost?”
I refused to be thwarted.
“Have you forgotten that I found out I was pregnant after we got back from our honeymoon and I called my parents to tell them and I didn’t get a chance because my mom left my dad and I went on to have a nervous breakdown and had morning sickness for six weeks and now my jeans don’t fit?” I was the clear winner here.
“Have you forgotten that I got you pregnant?” he said, grinning.
I smiled and took the last bite of my steak.
Marlboro Man looked down at my plate. “Want some of mine?” he asked. He’d only eaten half of his.
“Sure,” I said, ravenously and unabashedly sticking my fork into a big chunk of his rib eye. I was so grateful for so many things: Marlboro Man, his outward displays of love, the new life we shared together, the child growing inside my body. But at that moment, at that meal, I was so grateful to be a carnivore again.
I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life—the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago.
Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before.
“What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded.
Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise.
“You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.”
“I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.”
I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was.
I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine—so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy.
“Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.”
“I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said.
I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together.
“Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift.
Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packi
ng for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore.
“Are you crying?” he asked.
“No,” I said, my lip quivering.
“Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to.
“I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.”
We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears—a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia—would disappear completely.
Chapter Twenty-nine
TERROR AT THE GOLDEN ARCHES
THE FIRST winter on the ranch was long and bitter cold, and I quickly discovered that on a working cattle ranch, heavy snow and ice does not mean cuddling close to a warm fire, wrapping in fuzzy blankets, and sipping hot chocolate. On the contrary. The more the ice and snow fell, the more grueling Marlboro Man’s daily work became. The cattle on the ranch, I realized quickly, were completely dependent upon us for their survival; if they weren’t provided with daily feed and hay, I learned, they’d have no source of food, no source of warmth, and wouldn’t last three days before succumbing to the cold. Water was another concern; several days of below-freezing weather meant the ponds across the ranch were topped with an eight-inch crown of solid ice—too thick for the animals to break through themselves in order to drink. So Marlboro Man made his way around the ranch, stopping at each pond and using a heavy ax to break holes along the edge of the water so the livestock would remain adequately hydrated.
I went feeding with him a lot. I had no reason not to; our tiny house was so easy to keep clean and neat, there was nothing else to be done after 8:00 A.M. Our television satellite was iced over and inoperable, anyway, and if I stretched out on the couch and tried to read a book, my gestating body would just fall asleep. So when my new husband awoke just after daylight and began layering on his winter gear, I’d stretch, yawn, then roll out of bed and do the same.
My cold-weather gear left a lot to be desired: black maternity leggings under boot-cut maternity jeans, and a couple of Marlboro Man’s white T-shirts under an extra-large ASU sweatshirt. I was so happy to have something warm to wear that I didn’t even care that I was wearing the letters of my Pac-10 rival. Add Marlboro Man’s old lumberjack cap and mud boots that were four sizes too big and I was on my way to being a complete beauty queen. I seriously didn’t know how Marlboro Man would be able to keep his hands off of me. If I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the feed truck, I’d shiver violently.
But really, when it came right down to it, I didn’t care. No matter what I looked like, it just didn’t feel right sending Marlboro Man into the cold, lonely world day after day. Even though I was new at marriage, I still sensed that somehow—whether because of biology or societal conditioning or religious mandate or the position of the moon—it was I who was to be the cushion between Marlboro Man and the cruel, hard world. That it was I who’d needed to dust off his shoulders every day. And though he didn’t say it, I could tell that he felt better when I was bouncing along, chubby and carrying his child, in his feed truck next to him.
Occasionally I’d hop out of the pickup and open gates. Other times he’d hop out and open them. Sometimes I’d drive while he threw hay off the back of the vehicles. Sometimes I’d get stuck and he’d say shit. Sometimes we’d just sit in silence, shivering as the vehicle doors opened and closed. Other times we’d engage in serious conversation or stop and make out in the snow.
All the while, our gestating baby rested in the warmth of my body, blissfully unaware of all the work that awaited him on this ranch where his dad had grown up. As I accompanied Marlboro Man on those long, frigid mornings of work, I wondered if our child would ever know the fun of sledding on a golf course hill…or any hill, for that matter. I’d lived on the ranch for five months and didn’t remember ever hearing about anyone sledding…or playing golf…or participating in any recreational activities at all. I was just beginning to wrap my mind around the way daily life unfolded here: wake up early, get your work done, eat, relax, and go to bed. Repeat daily. There wasn’t a calendar of events or dinner dates with friends in town or really much room for recreation—because that just meant double the work when you got back to work. It was hard for me not to wonder when any of these people ever went out and had a good time, or built a snowman.
Or slept past 5:00 A.M.
ON THE cusp of spring, the ice began to melt, the frigid cold passed, and my belly continued to expand. Calves began dropping to the ground, and the smell of burning grass filled the countryside.
As my girth increased, so did my vanity level, no doubt because I felt the need to overcompensate for the dreaded Frumpy-Barefoot-Pregnant stereotype that had somehow taken root in my mind. I spent more time primping, scrubbing, and polishing, all in an attempt to look sexy and vibrant at home. I tried with all my might to keep control of my weight gain, pushing away the Cheetos and sweets and walking a mile or two every evening. I needed to lighten up and embrace the miracle of the life growing inside of me. But whatever—I still wanted to look hot. And so I did what I had to do to survive.
For the few days preceding my monthly OB checkup, I was especially vigilant. I was keeping a pregnancy weight journal, and for my emotional well-being I grew to crave the nurse’s ooohs and aaahs over my staying within the recommended weight range at each appointment. I needed to see my meticulous, weight-conscious doctor nod in approval as he reviewed the number. It was like lifeblood being pumped into my veins, and satisfied my ever-shallow ambition to be the Hot Pregnant Wife of the Century. And frankly, it gave me a goal to strive for until the following month’s appointment.
Plus, it meant that immediately following my monthly checkups, I got to splurge at McDonald’s. I’d always schedule my doctor visits right at 9:00 A.M. and wouldn’t allow myself to eat breakfast beforehand, lest the mere volume of the food skew the weigh-in result. So by the time I made the hour-long drive to the doctor’s office in my hometown and endured the thirty-minute appointment, I was ravenous. Violently hungry. McDonald’s was the only thing that could satisfy.
The second I exited the medical building, I’d sprint from the door to my car, breaking speed records to get to the Golden Arches because I knew that there, heaven awaited. It was there that I’d get to indulge in my Monthly Feast: two breakfast burritos, a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, hash browns, and—perfect for my growing baby—a large Dr Pepper. And I couldn’t even wait till I exited the parking lot. Seconds after I’d pull away from the drive-thru, I’d rip into the first burrito and finish it off before even making it to the highway. I had one purpose and one purpose only: I must ingest this breakfast burrito immediately or I will die of hunger. So I’d insert the burrito as far into my mouth as it would go and bite off about half of it, then chew and swallow as quickly as I could so I could feel the immediate rush of satisfaction that comes from a gestating body finally getting the calories it deserves.
It was hunger like none I’d ever experienced.
This continued till Easter, when a good family friend invited my sister, Betsy, and me to attend a shower in honor of their daughter, who was getting married that summer. It was the first time I’d made an official appearance in my hometown since the wedding, and I made sure I was dressed and made up to the hilt. I’d likely be seeing many people from my premarriage life that I hadn’t seen in a while, and I wanted everyone to see that I was happy and fulfilled and positively thriving in my new life as a rancher’s pregnant wife.
When I arrived, I immediately saw the mother of an ex-boyfriend, the kind of ex-boyfriend that would make you want to look as good as possible if you ran into his mother at a shower when you were several months pregnant. She saw me, smiled politely, and made her way across the room to visit with me. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and caught up on what we’d both been doing. As we talked, I fantasiz
ed about her reporting to her son, my ex, the next day. Oh, you should have seen Ree. She was positively glowing! You should have seen how wonderful she looked! Don’t you wish you had married her?
Deep into our small talk, I made mention of how long it had been since she and I had seen each other. “Well…I did see you recently,” she replied. “But I don’t think you saw me.”
I couldn’t imagine. “Oh really?” I asked. “Where?” I hardly ever came to my hometown.
“Well,” she continued. “I saw you pulling out of McDonald’s on Highway Seventy-five one morning a few weeks ago. I waved to you…but you didn’t see me.”
My insides suddenly shriveled, imagining myself violently shoving breakfast burritos into my mouth. “McDonald’s? Really?” I said, trying my best to play dumb.
“Yes,” my ex’s mother replied, smiling. “You looked a little…hungry!”
“Hmmm,” I said. “I don’t think that was me.”
I skulked away to the bathroom, vowing to eat granola for the rest of my pregnancy.
Chapter Thirty
THE PLAINSWOMAN
SPRING FLEW by and summer quickly arrived; my belly grew right alongside the daylilies, zinnias, and tomatoes Marlboro Man’s mom had helped me plant in a small garden outside the house. For Marlboro Man, the coming of the baby proved to be an effective diversion from the aftermath of the previous fall’s market woes. More and more, it looked like Marlboro Man might have to sell some of his land in order to keep the rest of the ranch afloat. As someone who didn’t grow up on a ranch, I failed to feel the gravity of the situation. You have a problem, you have an asset, you sell the asset, you solve the problem. But for Marlboro Man, it could never be that simple or sterile. For a ranching family, putting together a ranch takes time—sometimes years, even generations of patiently waiting for this pasture or that to become available. For a rancher, the words of Pa in Gone With the Wind ring beautifully and painfully true: Land is the only thing worth working for…worth fighting for, worth dying for. Because it’s the only thing that lasts…. The thought of parting with a part of the family’s ranch was a painful prospect; Marlboro Man felt the sting daily. To me it seemed like an easy fix; to Marlboro Man, it was a personal failure. There was nothing I could do to make it better except to be there to catch him in my arms every night, which I willingly and eagerly did. I was a soft, lumpy pillow. With heartburn and swollen ankles.
