Like most intelligent professional women, I always imagined that, if I chose to have progeny, I could outsource most of the child-raising to experienced professionals, keeping my distance from the child until she outgrew her need for hugs and breast milk. Imagine my surprise when I took little Avery home and my first words to the baby nurse were not, “Wake me when it’s time for preschool” but, “DON’T YOU TOUCH MY BABY.” Before I knew what had happened, I metamorphosed into an engorged, sopping mass of cloying maternal affection. I built a nest underneath the deck with my old tax returns, and there I lived with my precious baby, feeding and weeping, feeding and weeping. Finally the exorcist my office hired came for me. Now I realize that breastfeeding put me  under the spell of “hormones,” which is really just another word for Satan. Thank you, formula!

-Rouenna Dietrich, age 35, Greenwich CT