Lip gloss and breast milk.

It's a little rough sometimes, being a woman in the Army.

Now I say 'army' and not 'military'.  Each branch is very different.  In the Army, the regulations are pretty stiff concerning girlie things.  In the Airforce, not so stiff.  In the Marines, a woman just doesn't join if she's planning on maintaining any semblance of femininity.  In the Navy, well nobody knows because nobody really cares much about the Navy.  Sorry Sea-ladies but it's bound to be that way when you spend 15 months on a ship in the middle of a nowhere ocean.

Thus, back to the Army.  Let me start small and work my way up.  Makeup.  Love it, can't live without it, right? Wrong.  Army Regulation 670-1 states that a woman's makeup should be 'natural in appearance' and not 'faddish'.  Yes, some old general's aid pulled out the word 'faddish' from the shallow depths of his slight imagination.  So what is natural in appearance?  Well, if your a white woman it is wise to stay away from anything that's not well... white.  A proper female soldier should lean towards the flower pedal pinks, the neutral/naked shades, the all out why the hell am I even wearing this translucent shades.  If your a black woman, you find yourself on the opposite end of the same boring waste of money scale.  Look for burnt siennas, twilights, neutrals for the woman of color... Perhaps you, my darker skinned sister in arms, can pull off a tone of mauve in that nail polish.  But! Do save that for a Friday when nobody more important than you gives a damn about regulations anymore.

How about the Air force then?  Glad you asked.  If there was ever a missed advertising opportunity for Revlon it is 'A day in the life of an Airman... (Airwoman?)'  Oh dear, I can see how an advertising campaign could get confusing.  Never the less, these fly girls have it all.  I come rolling in to my graveyard shift at the local military emergency room; dusty uniform, field stained boots, hair pasted back, makeup... forget the makeup, ready to save lives in proper Army regulation.  Also breezing in 5 minutes late, are 'The Girls'.  The Fab Jets have landed.  The uniforms are tailored... to fit today's fly girl's curves.  The make up is enormous, for lack of a better adjective.  I'm being sincere here; it's Enormous.  These ladies are rocking shades better suited for a photo shoot on an Australian beech.  And earings.  Here is the sorest point of contention between Army women and Air Force women.  Air Force are allowed studs.  Damn them.  Damn them all to hell.  But moving along.  Not only do they wear their studs with pride, they wear really flashy studs.  Giant ice age rocks that say, "Look what I get to do!"  Patients at this local emergency room feel better just knowing that these Rite Aid queens are swooping in to their bedsides.  Hell, they look good, they smell great, and yes they tend to know there shit.  Damn them.

And the Marine's?  The only makeup a woman should be wearing in the Marines is the kind designed to make her look more like a man, ie: camouflage.  I'm almost sure that's stated in their regulations somewhere.  Blend Lady Devil Dogs, blend if you know whats best for you.  Again,  the Navy?  Nobody really knows... nobody really cares. Oh Hoy!

Naturally, this tirade brings me to breastfeeding.  Nine months of Army prenatal care drove the idea of breastfeeding in to my very heart like a giant stake of guilt.  Sergeant you WILL breastfeed or you WILL find Child Services at your door with a clipboard of official looking paper.  Truth be told, I knew I wanted to breastfeed from the beginning.  I didn't really need the militant 'encouragement' but perhaps other moms did so be it.

Now what Mother Army says she want's you to do and what she expects you to do are not always the same thing. When I returned to work, from  my lengthy 6 week hurry up and bond with your baby already Leave, I naturally looked up the Army regulation for breastfeeding.  If I work 12 hours a day and must pump at least every three hours a day, how does all that work with mission and battle tempo?  How does an E5 responsible for the happenings and whereabouts of 4 brand new soldiers and a few ambulances loaded with pricey equipment duck out to a dark alley somewhere every three hours?    After much Googling and phone calling it became clear that the Army does not have a regulation for breastfeeding.  Not even a little one, not even an amendment to an amendment of maybe an old regulation.  Nothing.  What the Army does have is one civilian nurse at one clinic who handed me a crispy, clean, updated Air Force breastfeeding regulation.  This civilian nurse happens to be retired Air Force- still perfect makeup,  very big studs.

Lets rehash:  Army- no breastfeeding policy.  Figure it out on your own.  When you find it's near to impossible go to the PX on your off time and pick up some formula (it's on sale).
Air Force- Here is exactly how you go about pumping and breastfeeding during the duty day.  Here are the list of missions we wont send you on so that you can continue breastfeeding.  Good luck and god speed.
Marines- What??  You birthed a child?  But we didn't issue you that child!
Navy- Theres a baby on board??

Needless to say, my baby was only breastfed for 2 months:  6 weeks of maternity leave and 2 weeks of juggling giant leaky boobs, a breast pump, all night guard duty, and 4 spunky little medic soldiers.

It is indeed a little rough sometimes being a woman in the Army.  I wear a lot of neutral lip gloss, we all do.  It tends to be the amount of lip gloss that makes you think, "If I throw her against that wall, will she stick?"  Or, "Did she just get done eating a big leg of fried chicken?  Is there even a KFC around here?"
Why do we do it?  Because we can damn it.  Some differences between the branches are frivolous and good comic relief.  Other difference dictate the health and welfare of female personnel and their children. There is nothing comedic about that.

Therefore, my question is this:  How is it that some general, and his trusty aid, find the time to specifically outline the color and type of makeup I wear but not find the time to outline a breastfeeding policy for me and my baby?  Go Air Force.

Mom in a Box

Ladies... do you remember where you were the last time you had this thought, "I'll just hole up for a few months, do my own thing, and repair this broken heart..."?  Well I remember, it was indeed 2000 and something and I was feeling the pain, oh the pain!  I just couldn't get a grip on all the hurt inflicted upon me by... well me.  Really now, how many boyfriends was this now that I had dumped?  The tragedy of it! How would I ever survive this (self induced) torture?  Vodka!  Vodka and good night times, thats how.

It was during the last one of those trying trials in my life that I felt it justified to go ahead and sleep with the first blue eyed boy I ran across.  To give myself a little credit, he had to have more than just blue eyes... blonde hair and a healthy body fat percentage was preferable to my delicate sensitivities.  Indeed, I found him.  And indeed, I jumped right in to a military issued bunk bed with him. Yes, the bottom bunk.

It is 15 months later and I'm drifting around my 'army housing' bungalow picking up the last of my blue-eyed baby girl's toys, burp clothes, and other various little girl survival tools. There is even one last load of hers in the dryer to fold and for the life of me I can't open that dryer door.  I've been sitting here for three days waiting for the laundry folding fairy to show up and take care of this agonizing task for me.

So this is the real heartbreak; the kind I might have read about somewhere.  All these years I swore I was slowly dwindling of sheer agony.  Would I ever get it right?  Would I ever make the right 'man choice'?  Yet,  in all those years I never felt the genuine heartbreak of a this is the best for you but not for me kind of decision.  Selflessness hurts a hell of a lot more than selfishness...who knew??

Three days ago, I sent my girl off to stay with Oma, Opa, and her Tante Emma.  They have a big beautiful house, amazing dogs, a salt water pool oasis in the backyard, and all the time and adoration in the world for their first granddaughter.  It is the best decision considering the upheaval and flux I'm experiencing with work and mission here in Germany. 12 hours a day with even the best of babysitters is too much for a 6 month old.  But man, San Antonio is 5,385 miles away from where I sit... avoiding eye contact with my dryer.

Now I am Mommy in the Box.  You know... the little box your image pops up in when video chatting on google mail. I do suspect that Baby Eila is wondering where the phone is; the one that should be towards her right side bolted to the booth wall. I keep telling her to pick it up before she starts gurgling her morning greetings at me.  She keeps looking at me as a possible target for her prunes and oatmeal delicacy.  In essence, I feel like a criminal and Eila feels like her mom was eaten by the computer monster.

On the other hand.... this is not a 12 month deployment.  This is two months of wrapping up loose ends and setting up a new home for Eila and me in San Antonio.  This is two months of packing, running (or a variation of), playing sergeant, and most importantly ignoring dryers and misplaced teething rings. This is being thankful that I have an amazing and able family to lean on.

Full disclosure: I often feel like an empty little ghost floating around this apartment.  But when I can catch myself in those moments it is not so difficult to pull myself back down to a hard and cold surface.  I can't aim for the soft and warm fluff of my bed or the couch because that's where all my self delusion lies in wait.  Hard and cold... it keeps me awake, it keeps me on an edge, it continually reminds me that these big girl choices are painful and at the same time they are me at my best.