I've been spending hours (if not days) reading about Marine Corps Recruit Training. I've been reading lists of things for recruits to take, lists of things for recruits not to take. I've been reading testimonials of people who believed it was not as bad as it had been made out to be and testimonials of those who've declared it to be multiple times harder than it was made out to be.
I've watched videos that have made me laugh, cringe, shrug and laugh some more. I've asked for advice from Marines and even have a former female Drill Instructor in my address book who has been an invaluable source of information. I've read thousands of pages of advice on how to "survive" Boot Camp and frankly speaking, I'm tired of it.
I'm beginning to see what I have known all along. Boot Camp will be like childbirth. No matter how much you read about it, talk about, listen to stories about it, take classes to prepare for it, in the end, you'll never know exactly what it's like and what you are in for until you are doing it yourself.
As a mother, I know that like each delivery is unique, I can speculate that each recruit's experiences and challenges will be unique to them. One person may find the swimming portion to be a breeze while someone else nearly drowns. Another recruit may score Expert on the rifle range the first day while another UNQs (UN-Qualified) and needs more instruction.
There have been so many questions: What do I bring? What did you forget that you wish you'd have brought? Should I cut my hair or is it better to have long hair? What was the hardest part? What was the easiest part? What kind of mind games do the Drill Instructor's play? Can I bring my dog? (Okay, I haven't really heard that one, but close enough.)
I believe what it boils down to is the essentials of survival. Those essentials can be buried under too much emphasis being placed on the trivial tid bids of comfort or preference. I imagine that once you are there, staring at a seemingly insane woman (or in the male's case, man) who has the uncanny ability to intimidate grass, whether or not you remember to bring an extra sports bra will be the least of your worries.
So, what are the essentials of Marine Corps Recruit Training?
How the heck should I know!? I haven't been there yet. But I have my theories.
Being the survival geek that I am, while going through a self-defense class we talked about the basic needs of a human being (the essentials, if you will).
Ask someone what they need in their life and you will get things like, "My husband," "My children," "My wife," or "My mother." Their ideas of needs have been skewed by their preferences. Certainly, if you are in love with your spouse you would prefer to have your spouse around but you will not drop dead the moment they vanish from your sight.
We are also so often glib about our own survival. We say things like, "If I ever peed my pants in public I would just die." The truth, of course, is that death would not occur. One would be severely embarrassed but he or she would survive. Having a true perspective on "need" vs "want" and grasping an accurate sense of what is ultimately needed for survival can go a long way to show you what you can and cannot endure.
So what is it that we, as humans, need to survive?
We need air. We need water. We need food. We need sleep. We need to maintain an average body temperature of 98 degrees. And (arguably) we need hope.
That's it.
What does that mean for getting through Boot Camp?
Will there be air to breathe? Yes.
Will there be water to drink? Yes.
Will there be food to eat? Yes.
Will I be allowed to sleep? Yes.
Will it be possible to maintain an average body temperature of 98 degrees? Yes.
Is there hope of completion? Always.
Therefore, survival is guaranteed.
All of the humiliation of the Drill Instructors, all of the loneliness and missing of families. They are all mental things that have little to do with physical survival. Even difficulties with the physical such as running or swimming are not essential to survival provided you are meeting the requirements for basic survival. Barring any medical problem that should have been addressed before leaving for recruit training the body will adapt to the new demands placed upon it and will be able to get over the challenges placed before it. Learning to separate and focus on those things that are needed at the time, I believe, will go a long way to ensure completion of any trial, be it Boot Camp or being lost in the woods.
When I'm getting yelled at or sent to the quarterdeck for the fifth time in a day, will I be tired? Yes. Will I be humiliated? Yes. Will I survive? Given the criteria for survival? Yes.
Boot Camp doesn't scare me. I certainly hope I don't screw anything up and I would like to hope it will be easier than I'm anticipating. But I refuse to sweat the small stuff.
I'll keep my mouth shut. Sound off loudly when required. Do what I'm told when I'm told and give everything I've got at everything I do.
If my hair gets in the way I'll cut it off. If I brought too much or too little I'll toss what I don't need and learn to do without. When I start missing my husband and my son I'll focus on my primary needs and remember the hope of seeing them again.
I'll survive.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Coo-Coo Clock
Once upon a time, in a land far away, my parents purchased a coo-coo clock. In their travels as missionaries to Eastern Europe they often came home with souvenirs carved of wood, weaved of cloth or trinkets painted. On this particular trip they purchased a coo-coo clock. Ornately carved and beautifully lacquered they were anxious and careful about bringing their priced possession home.
Once it made its trans-Atlantic journey and was set upon their living room wall, however, they were frustrated to find the clock failed to continue to tick. If started it may have worked for a day or two, possibly even three, but eventually we would wake to find the clock had ceased to tell time and the pendulum would hang, lifeless.
Unable to simply take it back to its maker, my parents invested some money in taking their clock to an American clock-smith who assured them that the clock was in fine working order and ran smoothly on his shop wall. He recommended they ensure to hang it level and dismissed them.
They rehung their coo-coo and gave a hopeful push to the pendulum only to find the clock dead again just days later.
It seemed the clock was doomed to be no more than a wall ornament and so they resigned it to such, never again attempting to revive it.
Time wore on and other than getting dutifully dusted, the clock served no more purpose than the paintings around it.
I grew up watching the Odyssey of this European clock and when I left for college it was still an inanimate hanging on the wall. When I came back it was just as still.
With time comes change and that change can be as insignificant as a leaf falling from a tree or as significant as a turning of a leaf in a life. I, like the clock, was stale and uncertain, unreliable and frustrating. For me, the time was right to make new beginnings and time--the very thing this clock was meant to represent--was bringing big changes my way.
A good friend of mine, whom I'd been close to for years, had asked me to be his girlfriend and after a few rough months we decided it was time for him to meet my parents. He drove from Michigan to Wisconsin in a snow storm and despite a rather frightening (though minor) car accident he arrived unscathed and ready to submit himself to the scrutiny of my parents.
He was appropriately awkward though confident, standing in the living room, not knowing whether it was appropriate to sit on this couch or that, or turn on the television, or flip through photo albums. He settled for doing what is generally acceptable when in a new home, looking at wall hangings and displays.
And there it was; the coo-coo clock. It taunted him. Hanging in the middle of the wall, pendulum dead, hands lifeless. Of course he did not know the story of this clock. He did not know the countless times it had been urged to perform its timely duty only to fail. He did not know its diagnosis as a broken machine. He only knew it was not ticking as it should.
He stepped over to the clock and gave the pendulum a healthy shove. He then informed my mother that her clock had stopped ticking and he took the liberty of restarting it for her.
She laughed and told him the story of the doomed device. She warned him of the vanity of his action and that the clock would most likely stop ticking by morning though he should not feel bad. It was, after all, the way of that particular clock.
Throughout the night we hear the clock coo the time, evidence that it was still alive and well. As the morning dawned we were all quite shocked to find the clock still running properly and keeping accurate time.
Despite the nay saying of my family and myself, throughout his stay the clock performed as it should. Day after day it continued to tick and tock, click and coo.
It was at this time that this young man made his intentions knows. While hiding in the bathroom, eavesdropping on their conversation, I overheard him tell my mother that if things continued they way they were going between himself and me, his intention was to make me his wife. My mother thanked him for his honesty and I got girlishly giggly while performing silent dances of jubilation in the bathroom.
While there he sufficiently impressed my parents enough to gain their approval and our relationship flourished.
He left and the clock continued to work.
Another day. Another week. Another month and the clock amazed us all by dutifully ticking on.
Our relationship did the same.
In the spring of 2005 I married that young man and my mother speculated that somehow the clock knew and was had been waiting for my husband, John, to come and start the time of our lives together.
Like some grandfather clocks inexplicably stop at the moment of their owners' death, this small coo-coo clock inexplicably started in the youth of our relationship.
My mother assures me that if the clock ever stops ticking she is going to call to ask what has happened in our relationship. It's been unanimously accepted that its life-force is somehow connected to the love we share. Just as it started with the touch of the man I love it would somehow end with the dissolution of that same love.
It's been nearly five glorious years of marriage and every time we go home we smile to find the clock still keeping the time of our life, of our love.
There is probably a very rational explanation for the clocks rejuvenation but as humans we are amazed, encouraged and dazzled with the idea of the miraculous. Our superstitious minds grasp upon ideas and we cling to them, neither caring nor even wanting a rational explanation.
If my mother called tomorrow to tell me the clock had stopped I would be sad but I would not be afraid for my marriage. It would be the end of a silly superstition and nothing more. On the other hand, as long as that clock continues to give time I will be encouraged by it and its significance in my own life.
Just the other day I called and inquired about the coo-coo clock.
"Is it still working?"
"Yes," my mother said, "John cured it. I check it often and as long as it's still working I know you guys are all right."
I laugh.
To me, that clock doesn’t just represent our relationship. It represents myself with the touch of a good man. It represents what can happen to a life with the right kind of guidance, respect, admiration, leadership, devotion and love. It represents my life with John.
In my past, like that fragile clock, there were moments I couldn't keep a steady pace and the slightest weariness led me to falter. Then John came. He gave me momentum. He encouraged me, and with his help I have found new strength to keep ticking on.
There's no longer a fear that the clock will stop. It has proven itself reliable despite its past failures. Likewise, I no longer fear my own weaknesses as much as I once did. Consistency has proven my reliability, strength and my ability to do what I knew I should and could all along. I just needed a little push from the right hands--from John's hands.
No one has to stand there and make sure the clock continues to run. One push in the right direction, with the right hands and the clock did the rest on its own. He took his hands away and the clock ticked on. Again, I think of myself. A good push in the right direction, a good dose of the right kind of leadership, by the right kind of man and I have found the resources and strength to stand on my own and be a good woman with or without him.
With time comes change. With change comes uncertainty. With uncertainty comes fear. There have been a lot of changes in our lives, a lot of uncertainty and even some fear. There will be changes to come. But I know that I have a man who will always be there to inspire me, to believe in me when no one else will and who will give me a shove in the right direction when I need it.
One day I hope to inherit that clock. Even if it stops ticking tomorrow I still want to hang it on my wall as an illustration of what the right kind of inspiration can do for both a clock and a life. I want to tell the story of that clock to my children and their children. I want to tell them about the kind of man who can not only jump-start disabled clocks, but revitalize timid spirits.
Once it made its trans-Atlantic journey and was set upon their living room wall, however, they were frustrated to find the clock failed to continue to tick. If started it may have worked for a day or two, possibly even three, but eventually we would wake to find the clock had ceased to tell time and the pendulum would hang, lifeless.
Unable to simply take it back to its maker, my parents invested some money in taking their clock to an American clock-smith who assured them that the clock was in fine working order and ran smoothly on his shop wall. He recommended they ensure to hang it level and dismissed them.
They rehung their coo-coo and gave a hopeful push to the pendulum only to find the clock dead again just days later.
It seemed the clock was doomed to be no more than a wall ornament and so they resigned it to such, never again attempting to revive it.
Time wore on and other than getting dutifully dusted, the clock served no more purpose than the paintings around it.
I grew up watching the Odyssey of this European clock and when I left for college it was still an inanimate hanging on the wall. When I came back it was just as still.
With time comes change and that change can be as insignificant as a leaf falling from a tree or as significant as a turning of a leaf in a life. I, like the clock, was stale and uncertain, unreliable and frustrating. For me, the time was right to make new beginnings and time--the very thing this clock was meant to represent--was bringing big changes my way.
A good friend of mine, whom I'd been close to for years, had asked me to be his girlfriend and after a few rough months we decided it was time for him to meet my parents. He drove from Michigan to Wisconsin in a snow storm and despite a rather frightening (though minor) car accident he arrived unscathed and ready to submit himself to the scrutiny of my parents.
He was appropriately awkward though confident, standing in the living room, not knowing whether it was appropriate to sit on this couch or that, or turn on the television, or flip through photo albums. He settled for doing what is generally acceptable when in a new home, looking at wall hangings and displays.
And there it was; the coo-coo clock. It taunted him. Hanging in the middle of the wall, pendulum dead, hands lifeless. Of course he did not know the story of this clock. He did not know the countless times it had been urged to perform its timely duty only to fail. He did not know its diagnosis as a broken machine. He only knew it was not ticking as it should.
He stepped over to the clock and gave the pendulum a healthy shove. He then informed my mother that her clock had stopped ticking and he took the liberty of restarting it for her.
She laughed and told him the story of the doomed device. She warned him of the vanity of his action and that the clock would most likely stop ticking by morning though he should not feel bad. It was, after all, the way of that particular clock.
Throughout the night we hear the clock coo the time, evidence that it was still alive and well. As the morning dawned we were all quite shocked to find the clock still running properly and keeping accurate time.
Despite the nay saying of my family and myself, throughout his stay the clock performed as it should. Day after day it continued to tick and tock, click and coo.
It was at this time that this young man made his intentions knows. While hiding in the bathroom, eavesdropping on their conversation, I overheard him tell my mother that if things continued they way they were going between himself and me, his intention was to make me his wife. My mother thanked him for his honesty and I got girlishly giggly while performing silent dances of jubilation in the bathroom.
While there he sufficiently impressed my parents enough to gain their approval and our relationship flourished.
He left and the clock continued to work.
Another day. Another week. Another month and the clock amazed us all by dutifully ticking on.
Our relationship did the same.
In the spring of 2005 I married that young man and my mother speculated that somehow the clock knew and was had been waiting for my husband, John, to come and start the time of our lives together.
Like some grandfather clocks inexplicably stop at the moment of their owners' death, this small coo-coo clock inexplicably started in the youth of our relationship.
My mother assures me that if the clock ever stops ticking she is going to call to ask what has happened in our relationship. It's been unanimously accepted that its life-force is somehow connected to the love we share. Just as it started with the touch of the man I love it would somehow end with the dissolution of that same love.
It's been nearly five glorious years of marriage and every time we go home we smile to find the clock still keeping the time of our life, of our love.
There is probably a very rational explanation for the clocks rejuvenation but as humans we are amazed, encouraged and dazzled with the idea of the miraculous. Our superstitious minds grasp upon ideas and we cling to them, neither caring nor even wanting a rational explanation.
If my mother called tomorrow to tell me the clock had stopped I would be sad but I would not be afraid for my marriage. It would be the end of a silly superstition and nothing more. On the other hand, as long as that clock continues to give time I will be encouraged by it and its significance in my own life.
Just the other day I called and inquired about the coo-coo clock.
"Is it still working?"
"Yes," my mother said, "John cured it. I check it often and as long as it's still working I know you guys are all right."
I laugh.
To me, that clock doesn’t just represent our relationship. It represents myself with the touch of a good man. It represents what can happen to a life with the right kind of guidance, respect, admiration, leadership, devotion and love. It represents my life with John.
In my past, like that fragile clock, there were moments I couldn't keep a steady pace and the slightest weariness led me to falter. Then John came. He gave me momentum. He encouraged me, and with his help I have found new strength to keep ticking on.
There's no longer a fear that the clock will stop. It has proven itself reliable despite its past failures. Likewise, I no longer fear my own weaknesses as much as I once did. Consistency has proven my reliability, strength and my ability to do what I knew I should and could all along. I just needed a little push from the right hands--from John's hands.
No one has to stand there and make sure the clock continues to run. One push in the right direction, with the right hands and the clock did the rest on its own. He took his hands away and the clock ticked on. Again, I think of myself. A good push in the right direction, a good dose of the right kind of leadership, by the right kind of man and I have found the resources and strength to stand on my own and be a good woman with or without him.
With time comes change. With change comes uncertainty. With uncertainty comes fear. There have been a lot of changes in our lives, a lot of uncertainty and even some fear. There will be changes to come. But I know that I have a man who will always be there to inspire me, to believe in me when no one else will and who will give me a shove in the right direction when I need it.
One day I hope to inherit that clock. Even if it stops ticking tomorrow I still want to hang it on my wall as an illustration of what the right kind of inspiration can do for both a clock and a life. I want to tell the story of that clock to my children and their children. I want to tell them about the kind of man who can not only jump-start disabled clocks, but revitalize timid spirits.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
M-4 Meets Nose, M-4 Wins
Perhaps it's typical for former Marines to be firearms enthusiasts and to marry fellow firearms enthusiasts or perhaps we are just atypical. Either way, may husband and I are both exuberant enthusiasts. We have a gun collection to rival some police stations and are both certified instructors. I've worked in the gun industry for the last three years and my husband shoots in two leagues.
I say all of that to say that we have guns and know how to use them (or so I thought!).
As a hopeful recruit of the United States Marine Corps I decided it would be prudent to know everything I could before I left for Recruit Training. Though I am extremely familiar with the M16-A2 battle rifle I have never performed any sort of rifle drilling.
I asked my husband if he would teach me some of the rifle drills and he was happy to comply. We got our AR-15, M-4 type rifles out of the safe and went to work on Inspection Arms. Though a few inches short in barrel and lacking the option for 3-round burst, the rifles are similar enough to do a decent drill with.
Primarily, the drill consists of standing at attention with your rifle to your right side, bringing it up and across your chest at a forty-five degree angle, racking the bolt back to reveal an empty chamber, checking the chamber and then presenting the rifle for inspection.
Sounds simple, doesn't it?
After the first five times of doing it I discovered just how difficult it can be. By the tenth time I was getting the initial presentation down and started working on racking the bolt and checking the chamber.
I watched my husband rack the bolt on his M-4, racked the bolt on my own M-4, watched him check his chamber and did the same. He brought his rifle back down sharply in front of his chest and I said, "Okay, like this?"
With that I whipped my rifle down and to the right and instantly felt my nose explode in pain, the fierceness of it spreading across the entire front of my face. The front site hit me squarely on the side of the nose with all the force of an improperly wielded rifle.
I cupped my nose with my right hand, my eyes welling with tears of pain as I held out my rifle with the left and said, "Take it! Take it! Take it!"
My husband was attempting to sound compassionate through the peels of laughter as he took my rifle from me. I would be laughing myself were it not for the fact that I couldn't stop crying.
Fully expecting to find blood in my hands I still cupped my nose and sobbed, laughed, cursed while my husband just laughed and got out of few words along the lines of, "That was hilarious," and "Are you okay?"
Finally, he convinced me to let him look at my nose and he assured me it was still straight though I could have sworn it was missing all together.
It took me about ten minutes to fully recover my composure and my husband and I shared another good five minutes laughing and taking turns checking for broken bones.
"I wonder what my Drill Instructors would have done if that happened in Boot Camp?" I asked.
My husband sat on the floor and shook his head, "I don't know but I really hope you never find out."
With a massive headache and throbbing nose I picked up my M-4 and said, "Okay. Let's try that again."
I say all of that to say that we have guns and know how to use them (or so I thought!).
As a hopeful recruit of the United States Marine Corps I decided it would be prudent to know everything I could before I left for Recruit Training. Though I am extremely familiar with the M16-A2 battle rifle I have never performed any sort of rifle drilling.
I asked my husband if he would teach me some of the rifle drills and he was happy to comply. We got our AR-15, M-4 type rifles out of the safe and went to work on Inspection Arms. Though a few inches short in barrel and lacking the option for 3-round burst, the rifles are similar enough to do a decent drill with.
Primarily, the drill consists of standing at attention with your rifle to your right side, bringing it up and across your chest at a forty-five degree angle, racking the bolt back to reveal an empty chamber, checking the chamber and then presenting the rifle for inspection.
Sounds simple, doesn't it?
After the first five times of doing it I discovered just how difficult it can be. By the tenth time I was getting the initial presentation down and started working on racking the bolt and checking the chamber.
I watched my husband rack the bolt on his M-4, racked the bolt on my own M-4, watched him check his chamber and did the same. He brought his rifle back down sharply in front of his chest and I said, "Okay, like this?"
With that I whipped my rifle down and to the right and instantly felt my nose explode in pain, the fierceness of it spreading across the entire front of my face. The front site hit me squarely on the side of the nose with all the force of an improperly wielded rifle.
I cupped my nose with my right hand, my eyes welling with tears of pain as I held out my rifle with the left and said, "Take it! Take it! Take it!"
My husband was attempting to sound compassionate through the peels of laughter as he took my rifle from me. I would be laughing myself were it not for the fact that I couldn't stop crying.
Fully expecting to find blood in my hands I still cupped my nose and sobbed, laughed, cursed while my husband just laughed and got out of few words along the lines of, "That was hilarious," and "Are you okay?"
Finally, he convinced me to let him look at my nose and he assured me it was still straight though I could have sworn it was missing all together.
It took me about ten minutes to fully recover my composure and my husband and I shared another good five minutes laughing and taking turns checking for broken bones.
"I wonder what my Drill Instructors would have done if that happened in Boot Camp?" I asked.
My husband sat on the floor and shook his head, "I don't know but I really hope you never find out."
With a massive headache and throbbing nose I picked up my M-4 and said, "Okay. Let's try that again."
Monday, November 23, 2009
Deployments
An Army recruiter asked me how I feel about being deployed.
In honesty, if I were go an entire enlistment and not get deployed somewhere, at some time, I think I would feel like I'd been cheated out of the whole military experience. Deployments, after all, are what the military does.
I am not someone who walks into a recruiter's office and says, "Can you get me a non-deployable MOS?"
First, I know there really is no such thing. If you want to join the military you have to accept the possibility--even probability--that you are going to be deployed. I have accepted this, if not embraced it.
Yes, I would miss my family. Who doesn't? But I would also strive to go into the deployment with a sense of pride and duty that I'd be doing what I was trained to do. Our military is not trained so that it can sit on its butt in the states. It is trained to go and meet the enemy at their own gates and confront them on their own turf. Why join the military if you aren't willing to go to that front and do what you are trained to do?
I know that seems a bit at odds with the idea of being a family woman but I can't help but see how so many military families make deployments work and are strong, thriving families. I, personally, don't see the difference between a mother or a father deploying either.
I read an article the other day that condemned mothers for serving in the military and deploying but said nothing of deploying fathers. Is there a difference? Is the absence of one parental unit better than the absence of another? Is a father's willingness to serve and deploy more acceptable than a mother's?
In my very humble opinion I would rather my son be raised without a mother than without a father, especially upon considering the kind of father he would be missing. My husband is a good, strong, confidence, independent, decisive, commanding man and a wonderful father. He has so much to teach and give his son and I have no doubt that with or without me, with nothing but the guidance of his father, our son would grow into a very confident and moral young man. I have that much faith and confidence in my husband. If I didn't, I wouldn't have married him, I wouldn't have had a child with him and I certainly wouldn't leave my child to be raised alone with him for months at a time.
Yeah, my husband might dress our son in clothes that don't match or have some trouble getting his coat on him or find it awkward to bathe him but in the end he is a father among fathers. I would not hesitate to leave my son in his care while I went to training or even on a deployment.
In honesty, if I were go an entire enlistment and not get deployed somewhere, at some time, I think I would feel like I'd been cheated out of the whole military experience. Deployments, after all, are what the military does.
I am not someone who walks into a recruiter's office and says, "Can you get me a non-deployable MOS?"
First, I know there really is no such thing. If you want to join the military you have to accept the possibility--even probability--that you are going to be deployed. I have accepted this, if not embraced it.
Yes, I would miss my family. Who doesn't? But I would also strive to go into the deployment with a sense of pride and duty that I'd be doing what I was trained to do. Our military is not trained so that it can sit on its butt in the states. It is trained to go and meet the enemy at their own gates and confront them on their own turf. Why join the military if you aren't willing to go to that front and do what you are trained to do?
I know that seems a bit at odds with the idea of being a family woman but I can't help but see how so many military families make deployments work and are strong, thriving families. I, personally, don't see the difference between a mother or a father deploying either.
I read an article the other day that condemned mothers for serving in the military and deploying but said nothing of deploying fathers. Is there a difference? Is the absence of one parental unit better than the absence of another? Is a father's willingness to serve and deploy more acceptable than a mother's?
In my very humble opinion I would rather my son be raised without a mother than without a father, especially upon considering the kind of father he would be missing. My husband is a good, strong, confidence, independent, decisive, commanding man and a wonderful father. He has so much to teach and give his son and I have no doubt that with or without me, with nothing but the guidance of his father, our son would grow into a very confident and moral young man. I have that much faith and confidence in my husband. If I didn't, I wouldn't have married him, I wouldn't have had a child with him and I certainly wouldn't leave my child to be raised alone with him for months at a time.
Yeah, my husband might dress our son in clothes that don't match or have some trouble getting his coat on him or find it awkward to bathe him but in the end he is a father among fathers. I would not hesitate to leave my son in his care while I went to training or even on a deployment.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Physical Training
At one point in time I was a very fit young woman. I could do more push-ups than any boy in my high school and could out last anyone on a run. I was proud of my body and how well it worked for me.
While my husband was in the Marine Corps I took up running again. The local recruiter's office used the running trail by our home and I cheerfully sailed past that "USMC 1.5 MILES" written in red across the pavement. I liked being fit and healthy.
Then I got pregnant.
Some women gain a lot of weight. I lost it all.
Prior to getting pregnant I was a healthy 110 lbs. Six weeks post partum I dropped to a frightening 96 and kept going. I happily sat around on my butt doing nothing but eating and was able to maintain a 95 lbs average. When I decided to get back into shape and started exercising, however, the scale warned me off by giving me numbers like 92.0.
Off to the doctor I went and he's assured me that the best thing for me is exercise combined with loads and loads for protein and calories. He assures me that not only will I put on muscle weight but I'll have more energy and be more healthy. He promises nothing but agony in the beginning, however.
Now I'm back to PTing and scarfing down Ensure Plus protein shakes and loading up on eggs, cheese and milk.
I must say I'm pathetically ashamed of myself that I can only do thirty-three seconds on the flexed-arm hang. I am struggling to do just five push-ups whereas I once would push out twenty-nine without breaking a sweat. I can't even do a single pull up from dead hang and the 1/2 mile that I ran tonight left me gasping for air. Oh for the days when I could mile after mile with ease.
I am not discouraged. Even if I weren't set on joining the Marines this would still be good for me. Lord knows we Americans could all use a little more physical activity.
It's also a time for me to be alone and think.
In the last year I've been flanked by either my husband or my son or both and while I love them dearly sometimes I feel I need a little me-maintenance time; a few minutes to have some space and breathe.
I'll admit that these last few days have seen me distancing myself from both my husband and my son. I am focused and distracted, almost obsessed and absent-minded from my wifely and motherly duties.
I have felt frustrated by the routine of dishes, diapers, detergent and the dogma of dutiful dependent.
Tomorrow I will go and run and come back to kiss my husband good morning and snuggle my son. Tomorrow it will be back to wife and mother with a goal because there are only so many months, weeks, days, hours left until I leave my family to fulfill my dream. It would be a tragedy, irresponsible and down-right wrong if I neglected them in the pursuit of my goals when I believe I am doing this for them as well.
While my husband was in the Marine Corps I took up running again. The local recruiter's office used the running trail by our home and I cheerfully sailed past that "USMC 1.5 MILES" written in red across the pavement. I liked being fit and healthy.
Then I got pregnant.
Some women gain a lot of weight. I lost it all.
Prior to getting pregnant I was a healthy 110 lbs. Six weeks post partum I dropped to a frightening 96 and kept going. I happily sat around on my butt doing nothing but eating and was able to maintain a 95 lbs average. When I decided to get back into shape and started exercising, however, the scale warned me off by giving me numbers like 92.0.
Off to the doctor I went and he's assured me that the best thing for me is exercise combined with loads and loads for protein and calories. He assures me that not only will I put on muscle weight but I'll have more energy and be more healthy. He promises nothing but agony in the beginning, however.
Now I'm back to PTing and scarfing down Ensure Plus protein shakes and loading up on eggs, cheese and milk.
I must say I'm pathetically ashamed of myself that I can only do thirty-three seconds on the flexed-arm hang. I am struggling to do just five push-ups whereas I once would push out twenty-nine without breaking a sweat. I can't even do a single pull up from dead hang and the 1/2 mile that I ran tonight left me gasping for air. Oh for the days when I could mile after mile with ease.
I am not discouraged. Even if I weren't set on joining the Marines this would still be good for me. Lord knows we Americans could all use a little more physical activity.
It's also a time for me to be alone and think.
In the last year I've been flanked by either my husband or my son or both and while I love them dearly sometimes I feel I need a little me-maintenance time; a few minutes to have some space and breathe.
I'll admit that these last few days have seen me distancing myself from both my husband and my son. I am focused and distracted, almost obsessed and absent-minded from my wifely and motherly duties.
I have felt frustrated by the routine of dishes, diapers, detergent and the dogma of dutiful dependent.
Tomorrow I will go and run and come back to kiss my husband good morning and snuggle my son. Tomorrow it will be back to wife and mother with a goal because there are only so many months, weeks, days, hours left until I leave my family to fulfill my dream. It would be a tragedy, irresponsible and down-right wrong if I neglected them in the pursuit of my goals when I believe I am doing this for them as well.
Pushy
I was very specific and clear with my recruiter. I told him that this was not an immediate thing. While I was sure the Marine Corps was what I wanted I would be waiting for at least six months to join while my son weans, I get back into shape and we arrange for things like child-care. As much as I want to be a Marine I'm not one yet and can still afford to put my family first. I will not leave without knowing my family is taken care of.
But, alas, I got a phone call last week asking me to go to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) this week and be sworn into the DEP (Delayed Entry Program) by the first of December.
I'm not entirely against being in the DEP but when I asked my recruiter how long I could expect to be in the DEP before I shipped he said, "One to two months."
That's a far cry from the six months to a year I quoted him when I first sat in his office.
At first I got excited and a very mischievous little part of me wanted to go for it. Why wait, right?
But then I remembered that I'm still ten pounds underweight. My son still screams his head off when I leave the room. We have no child-care arrangements for him while I'm in Boot Camp and my husband is at work. And on and on and on.
We aren't ready.
But as the saying goes: If you wait until the perfect time to do something you will never do anything.
I understand that there is no such thing as the perfect time but it is prudent (and responsible) of me to wait at least until my son is weaned. I am, after all, a mother to a boy who doesn't yet understand about dreams and desires and goals. He understands me and my relationship with him and to take that away right now would be hard, for both of us.
Part of my goal is to do this for him as well. I know that sounds crazy. How does leaving my son behind to become a Marine help him? My hope, prayer, desire and ambition is that it will teach me how to be a great leader and therefore a great mother. Even if I never left for the Marines I still would not be able to be around every second of every day. Eventually I will be gone, whether I want to be or not and what will matter to my son is not my presence but how I taught him to be alone. Did I give him the strength to stand up for himself? Did I teach him the character to say no to others and himself? Did I teach him the stamina to keep trying no matter how many times he's failed? What will he be able to take away from his time under my parentage?
I believe I am a good person. I want to be a strong person as well.
So that has become my goal.
I promised my recruiter I would call him back next week and give him my answer. As much as I really would love to be in the DEP and have a ship date I know I'm doing the right thing by waiting.
Now, to work on him about my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty).
But, alas, I got a phone call last week asking me to go to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) this week and be sworn into the DEP (Delayed Entry Program) by the first of December.
I'm not entirely against being in the DEP but when I asked my recruiter how long I could expect to be in the DEP before I shipped he said, "One to two months."
That's a far cry from the six months to a year I quoted him when I first sat in his office.
At first I got excited and a very mischievous little part of me wanted to go for it. Why wait, right?
But then I remembered that I'm still ten pounds underweight. My son still screams his head off when I leave the room. We have no child-care arrangements for him while I'm in Boot Camp and my husband is at work. And on and on and on.
We aren't ready.
But as the saying goes: If you wait until the perfect time to do something you will never do anything.
I understand that there is no such thing as the perfect time but it is prudent (and responsible) of me to wait at least until my son is weaned. I am, after all, a mother to a boy who doesn't yet understand about dreams and desires and goals. He understands me and my relationship with him and to take that away right now would be hard, for both of us.
Part of my goal is to do this for him as well. I know that sounds crazy. How does leaving my son behind to become a Marine help him? My hope, prayer, desire and ambition is that it will teach me how to be a great leader and therefore a great mother. Even if I never left for the Marines I still would not be able to be around every second of every day. Eventually I will be gone, whether I want to be or not and what will matter to my son is not my presence but how I taught him to be alone. Did I give him the strength to stand up for himself? Did I teach him the character to say no to others and himself? Did I teach him the stamina to keep trying no matter how many times he's failed? What will he be able to take away from his time under my parentage?
I believe I am a good person. I want to be a strong person as well.
So that has become my goal.
I promised my recruiter I would call him back next week and give him my answer. As much as I really would love to be in the DEP and have a ship date I know I'm doing the right thing by waiting.
Now, to work on him about my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty).
Determined and Scared to Death
I wanted to join the military when I was a kid. I could give you a million reasons why it didn't happen but the long and short of it is that I chickened out. If I wanted it bad enough I could have had it but I took those excuses and ran with them and some of them were darned good excuses. I took the path of least resistance and while it has led me to many wonderful things in my life it has left me wondering "what if" and regretting that which I never did.
I went to college, got married, had a child, worked many interesting and wonderful jobs but the desire to serve never left me, not ever for a second. Neither has that desire faded but rather grown in its intensity until it is all that I can think about. I've tried to bury it with work. I've tried to live vicariously through my husband and his service. I've tried distracting myself with my son but in the end I have nothing left but the knowledge that I've not done what I was called to do a dozen years ago.
Life has a funny way of bringing opportunities around and this thing called life just walked up to me with a silver platter and said, "This is it. If you don't do it now you never will. Take this opportunity because I won't be coming back with it."
I talked to my husband and he promised to support me completely so I started looking around at the different branches of service and seeing recruiters. I have always had the utmost respect for Marines. Heck, I married one. Though my husband has been out for three years now he still has that espirit de Corps that is infectious. After spending ten years around Marines I know as much as I can know without being a Marine myself. I know the ranks and the MOS fields and structure. I know cutting scores, lingo, policies, history, etc, but still I didn't even consider the Marines until I realized that, while looking through some Air Force information, I was having to convert everything into Marine Corps terms to understand it.
It hit me. Why not the Marines? Why settle for another branch when you already love and know the Corps?
It fit and when I told my husband of my new plan he got a big grin on his face and immediately started giving me tips on surviving Boot Camp and making lists of things I'll have to know. He got out his Green Monster from Boot Camp and installed a pull-up bar in my office so I can work on my flexed-arm hangs. He has been geeking out about the idea of his wife becoming a Marine ever since.
But here I am, shaking like a leaf. This is where I chickened out so many times. At least three times in my past I looked into my military future and turned away. It's not fear of deployments or physical trials. I'm not afraid of being yelled at or anything the military can do to me. In truth, I'm not exactly sure what I'm afraid of.
When I went down to the Marine Corps Recruiting Office, the recruiter had me (like all potential recruits) arrange tiles with words like "physical fitness", "college benefits" and "Professional Development and Opportunities," on them in order of importance. It's a way to gauge why people are enlisting and if it is for the right reasons.
My top four were: "Courage, Poise and Self-Confidence," "Pride of Belonging," "Leadership and Management Skills" and "Professional Development and Opportunities."
When asked to explain why I chose those tiles I explained that my life has become stale and my skills are atrophying from lack of use. While perhaps I'm not completely void of the things listed on those tiles they are the things I want to develop in myself. I want--no, need--to make a change in my life that allows me to feel like I'm doing something and going somewhere.
Yes, I love my family and have gotten great satisfaction from being a wife and a mother but I know to many house-wives who, once their children are gone, go on to be bitter old hags because they never developed themselves professionally. Their sense of purpose began and ended with their children and once their children were gone they lost that purpose and it embittered and angered them even leaving them to resent the life they chose.
For me, it's not about the money or the benefits. I think I'd still do this even if I got payed a dollar a week. I want the challenge. I want to be pushed out of my comfort zone, broken down and built back up to something bigger and better than myself. I want to earn the title I've respected and loved for so long.
Upon sharing that with my husband he just laughed and said, "Then you chose the right branch."
I don't want to chicken out. I don't want to find an excuse not to do this no matter how hard a part of me is looking for one. This is my last opportunity and I don't want to waste it. I don't want to look at myself in the mirror ten years from now and find a coward staring back at me. I don't want to be afraid but I am.
Perhaps I'm afraid that I'm not doing this for the right reasons. Perhaps I'm afraid of what this will do to my family. Perhaps I'm afraid of how much I will miss my husband and my son. Maybe I'm afraid of the uncertainty of it all. Maybe I'm afraid I'll hate it. I know I'm afraid of failure.
I heard once that courage is not the absence of fear. It's being afraid and acting anyway.
I need a good dose of action.
I went to college, got married, had a child, worked many interesting and wonderful jobs but the desire to serve never left me, not ever for a second. Neither has that desire faded but rather grown in its intensity until it is all that I can think about. I've tried to bury it with work. I've tried to live vicariously through my husband and his service. I've tried distracting myself with my son but in the end I have nothing left but the knowledge that I've not done what I was called to do a dozen years ago.
Life has a funny way of bringing opportunities around and this thing called life just walked up to me with a silver platter and said, "This is it. If you don't do it now you never will. Take this opportunity because I won't be coming back with it."
I talked to my husband and he promised to support me completely so I started looking around at the different branches of service and seeing recruiters. I have always had the utmost respect for Marines. Heck, I married one. Though my husband has been out for three years now he still has that espirit de Corps that is infectious. After spending ten years around Marines I know as much as I can know without being a Marine myself. I know the ranks and the MOS fields and structure. I know cutting scores, lingo, policies, history, etc, but still I didn't even consider the Marines until I realized that, while looking through some Air Force information, I was having to convert everything into Marine Corps terms to understand it.
It hit me. Why not the Marines? Why settle for another branch when you already love and know the Corps?
It fit and when I told my husband of my new plan he got a big grin on his face and immediately started giving me tips on surviving Boot Camp and making lists of things I'll have to know. He got out his Green Monster from Boot Camp and installed a pull-up bar in my office so I can work on my flexed-arm hangs. He has been geeking out about the idea of his wife becoming a Marine ever since.
But here I am, shaking like a leaf. This is where I chickened out so many times. At least three times in my past I looked into my military future and turned away. It's not fear of deployments or physical trials. I'm not afraid of being yelled at or anything the military can do to me. In truth, I'm not exactly sure what I'm afraid of.
When I went down to the Marine Corps Recruiting Office, the recruiter had me (like all potential recruits) arrange tiles with words like "physical fitness", "college benefits" and "Professional Development and Opportunities," on them in order of importance. It's a way to gauge why people are enlisting and if it is for the right reasons.
My top four were: "Courage, Poise and Self-Confidence," "Pride of Belonging," "Leadership and Management Skills" and "Professional Development and Opportunities."
When asked to explain why I chose those tiles I explained that my life has become stale and my skills are atrophying from lack of use. While perhaps I'm not completely void of the things listed on those tiles they are the things I want to develop in myself. I want--no, need--to make a change in my life that allows me to feel like I'm doing something and going somewhere.
Yes, I love my family and have gotten great satisfaction from being a wife and a mother but I know to many house-wives who, once their children are gone, go on to be bitter old hags because they never developed themselves professionally. Their sense of purpose began and ended with their children and once their children were gone they lost that purpose and it embittered and angered them even leaving them to resent the life they chose.
For me, it's not about the money or the benefits. I think I'd still do this even if I got payed a dollar a week. I want the challenge. I want to be pushed out of my comfort zone, broken down and built back up to something bigger and better than myself. I want to earn the title I've respected and loved for so long.
Upon sharing that with my husband he just laughed and said, "Then you chose the right branch."
I don't want to chicken out. I don't want to find an excuse not to do this no matter how hard a part of me is looking for one. This is my last opportunity and I don't want to waste it. I don't want to look at myself in the mirror ten years from now and find a coward staring back at me. I don't want to be afraid but I am.
Perhaps I'm afraid that I'm not doing this for the right reasons. Perhaps I'm afraid of what this will do to my family. Perhaps I'm afraid of how much I will miss my husband and my son. Maybe I'm afraid of the uncertainty of it all. Maybe I'm afraid I'll hate it. I know I'm afraid of failure.
I heard once that courage is not the absence of fear. It's being afraid and acting anyway.
I need a good dose of action.
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