Dadgummed placenta. It was supposed to stick around and take care of my growing baby for a full forty weeks. That was the deal we’d made. I’d hired it to do one simple job and it turned out, it just wasn’t the placenta I thought it was.
Of course, I wasn’t yet aware my placenta was a lame-o the night I went into labor. I was only 35 weeks pregnant—had five yet to go—and had been trying to ignore the unusual hardness of my belly all that day. I had things to do, for Pete’s sake, and besides, I just wasn’t one to go into premature labor. All of my obstetrical and gynecological existence had always been the very definition of "uneventful" and I wasn’t geared to believe this time would be any different.
By ten o’clock that night, though, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. The watermelon in my midsection had become unrelentingly bunched up—a strange feeling I hadn’t experienced before. I downplayed it to Marlboro Man, who was in bed and scheduled to leave for the state-wide ranch rodeo very early the next morning. "I’m just gonna run to the hospital for a little bit," I said. "I’m sure it’s nothing and I’ll be back before you have to leave."
"Are you smoking alfalfa hay?" he asked me. "You’re not driving yourself to the hospital." But our other three kids were asleep upstairs and the thought of waking them up, dressing them, and driving over an hour to the hospital with their cranky bottoms was so much worse than the prospect of my giving birth naked and alone in my vehicle in the middle of nowhere. So we compromised. I arranged to pick up our twenty-year-old babysitter, Brandi, on the way through our small town twenty minutes away, then Brandi would drive me halfway to the next town over, where my physician dad would pick me up and take me on to the hospital. Brandi would then drive my car back out to the ranch and stay there with the kids in case Marlboro Man needed to head to the hospital later in the night. Which he wouldn’t, of course, because I was sure it was nothing. Plus, he had to leave for the rodeo the next morning. Plus, I just don’t go into premature labor. It simply isn’t done.
The relay team approach worked like a charm, and once I was at the hospital they told me I was, in fact, in labor. This was not what I had planned. I wasn’t ready to have four children yet. I would be in five weeks, but most certainly not now. Plus, the laundry wasn’t done. And my freezer was a mess. And I hadn’t cleaned out my panty drawer in ages. It wasn’t the right time. The doctors agreed: because of the uncomfortable distance from the safe 38-week mark, they decided to try to stop the labor with medication. Still, I called Marlboro Man and said, "Aww, it’s no biggie. They’ll probably get it stopped here in a little bit and I’ll be home before you have to leave." My denial was thick and palpable.
In the meantime, poor Brandi hit a deer on her drive out to our house. She puttered into our driveway, hood all askew and headlights smashed, and moped into the house, tail between her legs, to share the bad news with Marlboro Man. He laughed at her and told her he was glad she was okay, but that she now had to be our babysitter for the next eleven years to pay for the repairs. Brandi started crying.
Back at the hospital, the doctor informed me the attempts to stop my labor had been unsuccessful, but they had one more Big Gun to break out—something about magnesium sulfate or some such thing. "Okay," I said. "But, um, do you think I might be out of here in an hour?" The doctor looked at me as he would any other deeply troubled soul.
I surrendered and called Marlboro Man. "Well," I said, "They’re saying they can’t stop my labor, but I don’t think they know what they’re talking about. I still think you can go ahead and leave for your trip."
"I’m coming to the hospital. Now." was Marlboro Man’s reply. He hung up and I shivered. He’d canceled his trip. It was real now.
The nurse administered The Big Gun—magnesium sulfate—about five minutes before Marlboro Man arrived. "Now, this will probably make you throw up," she said. Oh, please, no. Please, please, no. And I said it, too. "Oh, please, please, no. Please, please, no. Do we have to do this? Please, please, no." The nurse apparently didn’t realize she was dealing with the #1 Loather of Vomiting on the face of the planet. "Seriously," I asserted. "I’ll just go ahead and have the baby—I’m sure it’ll be okay." The nurse looked at me as she would any other deeply troubled soul. And she started the drip.
And then, at the exact time Marlboro Man—my love, my man, the realization of all my romantic and lustful fantasies—walked into the room, the drugs took hold. And without any time to ask for a bedpan, a plastic bag, or even an empty trash barrel, I projectile-vomited across the room. Think Linda Blair, then multiply that by eighty. And that’s what Marlboro Man saw when he walked into my hospital room. And I’ll bet he’d never felt more in love with me than he did right at that moment.
The vomiting served a purpose, though. The sheer force caused my water to break, which revealed (so sorry, men, though I’ve probably already lost you) a copious amount of bright red blood. I’d developed Placenta Abruptio, a serious condition that’s pretty dangerous for the baby and mother. In layman’s terms, my placenta had not only quit its job, it was trying to flee the scene altogether. If I have my way, it’ll never work in this town again.
I had an emergency c-section fifteen minutes later and our baby boy was born. Marlboro Man was present during the procedure, though I ordered him not to look at anything having to do with my abdomen. Afterwards, the baby was in trouble and had to be transferred to an NICU unit an hour away. Marlboro Man alternated between taking care of our three kids at home and staying with our baby boy in the NICU while I recovered in the other hospital. When I recovered, I headed to the NICU and stayed in the adjacent convent until he was released. But that’s another story for another time.
Two weeks later, we were all back together at home again. And all was well.
In hindsight, the worst part of the whole ordeal was not the uncomfortable nature of the tight contractions the night I went into labor. It wasn’t overcoming the denial that my normally-cooperative body had decided to be difficult this time. It wasn’t the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to clean the house or that Marlboro Man had to cancel his trip or even that I projectile-vomited across the room in front of great host of witnesses.
No. The worst part was when I finally returned home with the baby. Everything had turned out fine, and Marlboro Man and I were so glad to be back together after having spent over two weeks apart. We curled up on the bed, our new little dude snuggled between us, and began to reflect on the rocky events of the previous couple of weeks. "I can’t believe I had a Cesarean," I said. "That was so weird, wasn’t it?"
"Yeah, but I’m glad you’re both okay…and guess what?" Marlboro Man said, sweetly.
"What?" I asked.
"I saw your guts."
Excuse me. I have to go now.
Ree Drummond is the founder of The Pioneer Woman and a lover of butter, basset hounds and life on the ranch! Ree started her blog in 2006, and now millions visit ThePioneerWoman.com every month for her trusted recipes and fun family stories. Here’s what she has been up to since it all began:
New York Times Bestselling Author
Ree has written two memoirs (Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, and Frontier Follies) plus nine bestselling cookbooks:
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Recipes from an Accidental Country Girl (2009)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food from My Frontier (2012)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: A Year of Holidays (2013)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Dinnertime (2015)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Come and Get It! (2017)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: The New Frontier (2019)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Super Easy (2021)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Dinner’s Ready! (2023)
The Pioneer Woman Cooks: The Essential Recipes (2025)
Food Network Host
Since 2011, Ree has been sharing simple, family-friendly recipes—and the occasional kitchen prank!—on her award-winning show The Pioneer Woman, filmed right on Drummond Ranch. Ree is also a regular judge on Food Network competitions, including Christmas Cookie Challenge.
Founder, The Pioneer Woman Collection
Ree has been creating and selling kitchen and home products at Walmart since 2015 and she’s involved in designing every piece and pattern. The line now includes best-selling appliances (you have to see the floral blender!), plus hundreds of pieces of cookware, tableware, and more. Ree doesn’t like to play favorites but the Agatha print has a special place in her heart.
Restaurant and Hotel Owner
Together with her husband Ladd, Ree has opened several bustling businesses in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, including The Pioneer Woman Mercantile—a bakery, restaurant, and general store that draws visitors from across the country (many come for the biscuits alone!), P-Town Pizza, Charlie’s Ice Cream Shop, and The Boarding House, a charming hotel with eight different rooms decorated by Ree and Ladd.
Media Personality
Ree appears regularly on national TV shows like Today, Good Morning America and more—all while managing to keep flour off her shirt.
Wife, Mom and…Grandma!
Ree’s kids (daughters Alex and Paige and sons Bryce and Todd) are all grown up, and as of December 2024, Ree is the proud grandma of the cutest baby ever, Sofia Scott, born to Alex and her husband Mauricio. Ree still cooks for Ladd (and the kids when they’re home), and she also looks after a few mischievous ranch dogs.
