This Side of Invisible

When I was pregnant with my first, I read several books, like What To Expect when You're Expecting , and the like.  I'd been babysitting since I was 10 and had taken care of countless infants.  I thought I'd had most things figured out.  Of course, like most new mothers, I was wrong in this assumption. There was a time, shortly after my son was born, where every evening when my husband came home from work, I would hand him the baby, and promptly lock myself in the bathroom, where I'd wallow in a hot bath, crying myself dry.  I'd lay there weeping in the tub, leaking from my eyes and my swollen breast as my  baby boy cried out in the hall and my husband asked through the too-thin door how long I'd be and if I could come out soon as the baby was hungry... again. That kid nursed every hour on the hour, for at least 40 minutes. Every day. For nearly a month. And I wondered how it was that my life had come to this: I was nothing more than a dairy cow.  Plump. C