When you're in the hospital, they don't just encourage you to breastfeed. They practically assign it as homework. Breast is best, they say. Like gospel. Like law. And don't get me wrong. I'm so glad we live in a time where that's accepted and even praised. But can we be honest? I am also a firm believer in fed is best. Because breastfeeding? That crap is hard.
Ashton struggled to latch right from the start. And when he did latch— oh my god, the pain. I cried. Actual tears. I'm pretty sure he drank more blood than milk those first couple tries. Not even being dramatic.
Brand new babies don't do much besides sleep and poop. Ashton? He slept for the first two days straight. We were still at my parents' house— thank God. My mom was helping, and my siblings all got to pass him around like he was the baby Jesus. My dad, Jane, Ryan, Lynn, even Mema, all of them got to hold him. My sweet, sleepy little boy.
But on day three, he woke up.
And he was starving.
Like rage-of-a-thousand-suns, inconsolable-wailing, tiny-demon-level starving. I was confused. I thought I'd been feeding him. He'd been latching. It hurt like hell every time, so I figured that meant it was working.
Spoiler: it was not.
He wouldn't stop crying. My mom, the genius, asked me how many wet and dirty diapers he'd had so far. I told her. She paused. And then gave me that look.
"That's not enough."
Cue the panic. Cue the guilt. Cue the "oh-my-god-am-I-starving-my-own-baby" spiral.
She knew I'd been struggling, and that's when she introduced me to the miracle: the breast shield. Apparently, I had inverted nipples. News to me. Nobody mentioned that in birthing class. There was nothing for Ashton to latch onto. Nothing to grab.
The shield? It was like a bottle nipple that fit over mine. A soft, silicone interface between his mouth and my very traumatized boobs. I popped that thing on and he latched. Really latched. And I knew it worked because within hours, we had wet diapers. Dirty ones too.
I wish I could say that was the magical fix. That everything got easier after that. But nope.
It still hurt. For weeks. Every feeding session, the scabs would fall off. I bled. I cried. I flinched every time he got hungry. I wanted to quit so many times. But I didn't.
Why?
Because I'm stubborn. And because I loved him. And because I was determined to give him everything I could, even if it meant bleeding through my shirt with a smile on my face and a nipple shield in my bra.
I know you're technically not supposed to co-sleep. And I didn't, technically. Ashton slept on my bed in his own little bed. One of those bassinet-style sleepers that tucked right next to me like a sidecar. I'm a ridiculously light sleeper, if a mosquito blinks too hard, I wake up. So the idea of rolling over and smushing him wasn't even a possibility. And even if it was, that little bed was a fortress. Perfectly designed to keep him safe and close.
Honestly? It was wonderful. All I had to do was scoot him closer, lift my shirt, and drift back to sleep while he nursed. It was hands-down one of the most beautiful things about breastfeeding. No getting up, no cold floors, no middle-of-the-night rocking marathons. Just sleepy snuggles and milk on tap.
Waking up next to him was pure magic. Those quiet, cozy mornings where he'd stretch and yawn like a little old man. He was such an easy baby. I know, I know— fight me.
I get that some moms have it really rough in the sleep department. I see you. I honor your dark circles. But Ashton? That boy started sleeping six-hour stretches early on. I don't know what deal he made with the baby gods, but I was grateful.
Our schedule was... weird. Not normal by any standard, but beautifully consistent. John worked the late shift— 1:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. —so I built our day around his.
We'd wake up around 10:00 a.m. Ashton and I would eat breakfast, get dressed (okay, I'd get dressed), and head to our Mommy and Me class. It was my lifeline. Other moms, other babies, a place where spit-up and sleep deprivation were badges of honor.
We'd come home, have lunch, nap. Then play for a little while, nap again.
Dinner was usually around 7:00 p.m.— late, I know. Wild, even. Now I'm the kind of person who's in pajamas by then, but back then it worked. Ashton would stay up until midnight most nights, which gave him a few solid hours with John when he got home. And me? I'd stay up until about 2:00 a.m., nursing, cuddling, watching reruns, breathing in baby shampoo and sweet silence.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was ours.
When Ashton was seven weeks old, John finally came home from deployment. I was so happy to see him. There's this strange, bittersweet ache when you're standing on the edge of reunion. Relief and joy tangled up with everything you've survived in their absence. My sister Marie came with me to help with Ashton, and thank God she did, because navigating a crowded military homecoming event with a newborn should qualify as an Olympic sport.
I wasn't the only wife holding a brand-new baby. John's unit had four babies born while they were gone, and we all stood there like exhausted queens holding tiny squishy heirs. But when John finally got to hold Ashton for the first time... my sweet boy wailed like a banshee. Red-faced, full-throttle baby meltdown. The kind that turns heads and rattles windows.
The funny thing? He never cried for anyone else. Ashton had been the easiest, happiest baby— smiley, chill, loved being passed around. But the second his dad touched him, he lost it. John didn't take it personally. At least, not that day. He smiled through the crying, laughed even. I think it was relief, maybe even awe. Then the tears came. Real, soft ones that surprised me. It was one of the few truly human moments I saw in him that month. And in the middle of that noise, I remember wondering if Ashton somehow knew. If he sensed that this man was a stranger in his story.
Years later, I'd joke with Ashton about that moment, tell him how he screamed like the devil was holding him. "Well," I'd say, "technically, you weren't wrong."
For the next month, I had to get to know my husband again, and that's not just a cute turn of phrase. I mean really get to know him. I hadn't seen him in nearly seven months, and before he deployed, we hadn't even known each other a full year. We hit our "we've known each other for one year" milestone while he was overseas. If that doesn't scream red flag in a megaphone while waving an air traffic controller baton, I don't know what does.
Everything shifted when he came back. The quiet nights turned chaotic. He snored, for starters, loud, wild chainsaw snores that drowned out my comfort shows and baby sighs. He mocked my midnight reruns, flipped off the TV, and said it was time for "real sleep." He called Ashton a mama's boy constantly, but there was a bite in it. And worse, he'd sometimes joke, "You sure he's mine?" Ashton looked exactly like him. There was no doubt. But he'd still say it, like he was testing me. Or testing how much control he still had. It wasn't funny. It was unnerving.
It was strange having him home. Surreal, even. The rhythm I'd built for myself, just me and Ashton, our quiet, weird little schedule, the slow mornings and long nights, got completely upended. John didn't know the baby's cues or cries. He didn't know our inside jokes (yes, I had inside jokes with my infant, don't judge me). And I didn't know how to fit this stranger back into my life. We were married. We had a child.
It wasn't just strange having him home, it was destabilizing. Suddenly, I was living with someone I barely knew.