I'm warning you now, this post is going to be raw and filled with every emotion you can possibly imagine. I will not get my feelings hurt if you choose to skip this one entirely. There will be some foul language, too. Just so you know.
I sit here, switching back and forth between laughing and wanting to cry, two shades away from full blown crazy. The Coach is tiptoeing around me like I'm a tripwire for a trap of epic proportions. It's partly because my breasts are engorged and throbbing while I'm waiting for my womanhood to dry up, never to be used again... Crying and laughing, my heart aching. It can't be just because I decided to stop nursing, can it?
No. There has to be more.
I did not nurse any of the other kids. The biggest reason was the military. I feel like I'm sort of using the military as a crutch when I use it as my excuse, because there have been a lot of women that successfully pumped their way through that first year and even beyond with no problems. I was not one of those women. Because I was "never" one of "those" women. And I digress for a bit...
I've only spoken briefly about my military career in one post entitled Memorial Day and Another Digression. If you haven't read it, you should. A lot of the next few paragraphs will make zero sense to you unless you have. You can probably tell by that post that there are some raw edges involved with my career, and I'm not ashamed of that.
When I entered the Navy, women were NOT welcome. We were treated like crap, ostracized, bullied, called bitches and/or whores, and had a difficult time advancing. It was a mans world and it was miserably hard to get ahead. In spite of all of that, and because I am my Father's Daughter, I conformed to my surroundings quite well and I managed to turn a very crappy and even hostile environment into a highly successful career.
But what defines a "successful career"?
From the very first day I checked onboard my first command I was reminded that I was inferior and not wanted. From that first 72 hours I sat alone, scared and stewing over my surroundings and my fate, I vowed to be different. I vowed to kick all of those chauvinistic and pig headed men square in the nuts by working my ass off and promoting as quickly as possible. Because I wanted to be successful.
But what defines "successful"?
I put away my nail polish, pulled up my big girl panties, and turned into "one of the guys". It didn't take me long to figure out that in order to fit in, I had to truly fit in. I quickly put my "Molly Mormon wannabe" identity in my rack (Navy term for bed) and learned about sports and other things that the guys found interesting in order to fit into their environment better. I learned to say curse words that would make my Vietnam Veteran Father blush. I smoked every time one of them handed me a smoke and said "let's go to the smoke pit". I took it as a sign of acceptance. And acceptance made my life easier. Some of my female companions onboard the ship literally slept their way out of work assignments and tough tasks. I was not going to be one of those women, and those of us that weren't stuck together. In order to get the same recognition as the boys, we worked twice as hard. We took harder jobs, and we allowed them to treat us like crap to keep from rocking the boat. To prove we were tough. And tough we became.
There is a rite of passage that involves crossing the equator. It's a day of trials and tribulations that involve eating vomit out of a toilet, rubbing your face in the fattest man onboard the ships belly to retrieve whatever prize is in his bellybutton, having hot sauce poured into your eyes, dressing in drag and being beaten mercilessly with a shalalie (piece of fire hose). Sound fun? It was not. But it was another way to gain acceptance. For months leading up to that initiation, I was scared to death. And the men couldn't wait to tear into us girls that day. My fears proved to be true. Of course I went through it, and of course I hardened myself to it. I did not cry, I did not waver. And it was hell. I was beaten so badly that I couldn't urinate for days because I was swollen from being beaten with a shalalie for hours on end. This was in 1990.
Here is a quote taken from the wiki below:
"Efforts to curtail the line-crossing ceremony did not begin until the 1980's, when several reports of blatant hazing began to circulate regarding the line-crossing ceremony, and at least one death was attributed to abuse while crossing the line."
After that first two years, I was a completely different person. I was hard. I was mean. It was not pretty. I tolerated nobody's bullcrap, and I slayed anyone trying to pull me back down the two rungs of the ladder I clawed my way up. I learned what it took to be successful, and I did those things, no matter what the cost. It turns out the cost was more dear than I realized.
OK, now back to finding the definition of successful.
I was promoted in record time. I earned qualifications that no other woman on a particular platform had earned. I was the "first female to (fill in the blank)" plenty of times. While other women were taking "time out" to nurse their babies and slowly lose the baby weight, I was already back in uniform and back to work. I wasn't about to be labeled a "typical woman" on the job.
I was gone often to schools, or I was at sea. I missed Shandi's first words, I missed her walking. I missed so much. But I was determined to be successful.
There's that word again.
I was measuring my success in the number of rungs I climbed up the Navy ladder of advancement. When I became eligible for promotion to Chief Petty Officer, I knew exactly who my competition was, and I did what I needed to do to make sure I was always a step ahead of them. That was success, right? But what about the Kindergardener at home that needed help with her homework when I was working late, trying to be the "best"? She was bounced around on weekends while I was working, and took it all like a champ. If you ask her now, she has no recollection of any of that. She grew up proud of me and knew how hard I worked so I could put food on our table. She grew up strong. She grew up with some of the same attributes that she saw me wear on my sleeve while she was little.
Joe and I purposely elected to wait to have any more children until after we were well established in our careers, and after I was promoted to Chief Petty Officer. After I had Justice I drove myself so hard that I ended up with full-blown post-partum depression that took over a year to recover from and nearly cost me my marriage. I nearly collapsed. Depression I couldn't be treated for because I wasn't one of "those" kinds of women. Those were the "dark days" that I've referred to in a few other posts. Thank God for my strong husband or I'm not even sure I'd be here today. But I was ranked #1 out of 80 Chief's that year on my evaluations.
How successful I was...
I was already an E8 when I got pregnant with Jack, but even then... I panicked. I worked in an office full of men, and we worked long and hard hours. We briefed Admirals at 6 AM and 6 PM. We scrambled putting together media briefs, recruiting briefs, and nobody was expected to skip out to go pick up a sick child. That's what the guys wives were for, right? I managed it all, somehow.
Ok, now I'm successful, right? And tired. REALLY TIRED. And a little bit angry.
I realize that I measured my success in ways that weren't nearly as important as the little people growing right under my nose. I realized it too late with Shandi. Dependents of military families like the one Shandi was raised in had it tough. They got into more trouble, didn't do as well in school, and had loads of emotional issues from the family environment. These statistics weren't evident until after Shandi was older, and it was too late. She did well in school and never got in trouble, but I can't help but wonder how much her childhood has indeed impacted her quality of life.
When I had Jackson, I had to take three months off of work. HAD TO. We earn 30 days of vacation time per year, and it had been SO LONG since I had taken any vacation, I was in what was called a "use or lose" situation. If I didn't take the vacation, they were going to take it away from me. And it looked poorly upon your Commanding Officer if he worked you into the dirt and you lost a bunch of leave. So I took it, and it just so happened to be during the summer when Justice was out of school. I got the entire summer off.
And it changed my life. I was able to "un-brainwash" myself during that three months. I went to the park with the boys, cooked them breakfast, shopped, worked in the yard, and spent some quality time with my family. And did I mention that it was life-changing? Once the summer was over I was dreading going back to work. I wanted nothing to do with it. I remember hyperventilating and having a full blown panic attack when it was time for bed that night. And then, The Coach threw a game changer on the table.
He asked me to retire. I was so confused. RETIRE? WHAT? He wanted me to think about it, and to think about just staying home to raise the kids. The doctor had recently diagnosed me with stress-induced hypertension and also told me I was a "walking heart attack" and The Coach was worried about me. Before I had taken that summer off, I wouldn't have ever even considered it. I wouldn't have thought being a stay-at-home-Mom was "enough" for me. My life changed during that summer, and the option of being home with my family every day was pure bliss.
And what in the hell does any of this have to do with breastfeeding? Everything, unfortunately.
I never nursed any of my other babies because everything else was too important. I was not willing to take the time away from my climb up the ladder to pump every three hours, or to drive to the daycare 20 minutes away to nurse my baby. Sure, the law REQUIRED my bosses to allow that... but I guarantee you it would have negatively impacted my performance evaluations. Without a shadow of a doubt. I was too driven to allow it to happen. So I sacrificed it.
Imagine then, being surprised at age 42 with a little baby and the opportunity to breastfeed. I nearly didn't do it out of fear. I had no idea what I was doing, and at my age I was scared to ask. I was also ashamed to admit to the nurses that I'd never done it before.
And when I finally did it, it was the most awesome experience of my entire life. I realized with a huge pang of guilt that I had robbed myself of the most intense bonding experience available with my sweet babies. I had a very hard time dealing with this guilt, I couldn't shake it. And then, when we were on a roll and I was in pure bliss mode, my sweet little baby decided he wasn't going to nurse anymore. What started out to be the best thing ever quickly went downhill. He didn't nurse well, and as a result my milk supply was less than he needed to thrive. I started to supplement with a bottle, and he decided he liked that better. But he was fickle. Some days he'd nurse all day long and even just want to stay at my breast after eating for comfort. Those were wonderful days. But the very next day he'd refuse the breast for two or three straight days. Fickle and difficult baby! And it started to make me miserable. I cried. I lamented about how if I was on the pioneer trail "back in the day" that my baby would DIE because I was a huge failure of a woman. All of my accomplishments in the Navy, all of my
SUCCESS
and I couldn't even keep my kid alive if formula didn't exist.
How's that for perspective?
I have exhausted all efforts to nurse this little fickle boy. I have followed all the recommendations, and I have even taken medication to boost my milk supply. I've pumped, double pumped, pumped every two hours, three hours, four hours, hand-expressed, taken a supplement that makes me smell like pancakes, and mostly, I've questioned my success at being a Mother. I've lamented to The Coach about my misery and my failure at being a Mother, and he quite simply says
"That's the stupidest thing I think I've ever heard you say."
"Just stop nursing him. It's not the end of the world. I'd like to have your boobs back for myself anyway."
Well. All righty then.
So I've decided to stop, and I think I've tortured myself long enough about it. I am fortunate enough to have a close friend that has had the same problems nursing her babies as I have, and it's provided me an immense sense of relief and comfort to know that I'm not alone. If you are one of those women that nurses well and is awesome at it, I envy you. You have no idea how lucky and blessed you are. Don't take that SUCCESS for granted.
But I do have to be careful to make sure I don't relapse into the old me. I have been known to take on too many things, especially with church. Once I realize what I'm doing, I pull back. Some people may not think I'm pulling my weight, and that's unfortunate. I've pulled my weight a long time, and I'm tired. My priorities lie with my family. I am no longer willing to shuttle my kid off to a sitter to participate in ANY activity that doesn't include them. I don't plan activities without them. I know you understand why. I've already lived that life, I don't want to live it again.
Is Jack wearing underwear? SUCCESS!
Is dinner on the table and tasty for at least 4 out of 5 people? SUCCESS!
Is the laundry basket empty? SUCCESS!
I know I may sound completely bat-shit crazy to some of you, and I probably am.
That's the price of my success.
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