My husband Danny is an army veteran. He served eight years in the military right after high school. Sometimes, he misses it and enjoys telling stories of the good old days. He also likes to tell me that I would have been a good soldier because I can eat, poop and shower in three minutes or less. Oh, and also because of the loudness of some of my burps. (This is his interpretation … I think my burps are quite delicate and ladylike.) Anyway, one of the stories that my husband likes to tell is from his days in Advanced Individual Training (AIT).

During AIT, you still have a drill sergeant, but things are a little more relaxed. After the intensity of Basic Training, the few extravagances of AIT are quite meaningful. For example, at meal times you have more than three minutes to enjoy your food and you're even allowed to talk with fellow soldiers. One day, as my husband and some fellow trainees were having lunch in the cafeteria, their drill sergeant walked up. “Hello, soldiers,” he said gruffly to the group at the table.

Everyone looked up. “Hey, drill sergeant,” they replied. The drill sergeant regarded the table. The soldiers were almost finished, but there were a few items left that hadn't been eaten. One soldier, across the table from my husband, was just about to reach over and pick up his strawberry cupcake to take the first satisfying bite when the drill sergeant walked over and stuck his finger smack in the middle of it.

“You didn't want that cupcake, did you, soldier?” the drill sergeant said, more as a statement than a question.

“No, drill sergeant,” the soldier replied. You could almost feel his disappointment as his head drooped down toward his chest and the look on his face resembled a puppy whose bone had just been snatched.

“I'll take it then,” the drill sergeant said cheerfully, as if he were doing a generous favor. Then he very slowly peeled back the pink cupcake liner and opened his mouth to take the first delicious bite right there in front of the spurned soldier. As he walked away, the rest of the soldiers laughed and jeered at the soldier with the stolen cupcake, while he tried to pretend like it didn't bother him.

I always laugh when Danny tells this story because not only does it help me understand the military life he experienced, but it also reminds me of my first few months of motherhood. I like to call them Baby Boot Camp.

You see, I was that soldier with the stolen cupcake. I don't know why because I was an enlisted mother. I signed myself up. I didn't need to be courted by a recruiting officer, with promises of excitement, adventure, a decent salary and a great MOS. I wanted to become a mother. I was looking forward to it. I read all the books. I devoured the pregnancy magazines like they were the newest testament to the Bible. I could tell you down to the day, the exact developments of my fetus on a physical, psychological and spiritual level. I went to my OB and midwife appointments religiously. I hung out at the play area at the mall, just to get into the parent groove. But nothing prepared me for the first few months of motherhood.

These are the months when it takes a carefully refined military operation to organize a hot shower for mommy. And she had better get it done in under three minutes, or there will be general mayhem among the ranks. These are the months when you wolf your meals in three minutes or less while your drill sergeant (i.e. baby) waves his fists and barks baby commands at you demanding you go faster and faster. A military style MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) would be helpful during this time, because these rations are compact, easy to consume and generally pack more than 1,000 calories a punch for long-burning energy.

These are the months when you spend time after the drill sergeant goes to sleep practicing packing your equipment (i.e. diaper bag) so that you can be quicker and more skillful when he is awake and shrieking orders at you. (“Waahhh! Waahhh!” Translation: I need milk now. And my butt is filthy.)

There are the months when you wish you had been issued a Baby Boot Camp Handbook at the hospital that would tell you exactly what to do in each confusing new situation. For example, while undertaking Operation Dinner (drive-thru dinner, followed by immediate consumption in car while baby remains hopefully asleep and content), your drill sergeant begins to scream his lungs out in the back seat. What do you do? Do you pull over and try to calm him down? Do you continue with said Operation? Do you abort the mission, chow an emergency candy bar from your glove compartment, and go home? Surely the Baby Boot Camp Handbook would have the correct response clearly listed.

These are the months when you must adopt the Baby Boot Camp dress code or accept a dishonorable discharge. No nice clothes (they will ruined by diaper blowouts and baby puke). No long hair (it will be pulled out). No earrings (they will be ripped out). No necklaces (they will be destroyed and the pieces will become immediate choking hazards). No makeup (who has time for makeup?) No high heels (unless you want to risk a fall while holding your tiny drill sergeant). And don't even think about taking out your Dress Blues (i.e. fancy wear) unless you've arranged a sitter and are planning to go on a date with your husband.

These are the months when you fear that your butt may leave a permanent indentation on the couch because you spent 80% of your day on Operation Comfort Suck. After eight hours of nurse, burp, wipe, change, nurse, burp, wipe, blowout, change, puke, change, nurse, burp, puke, etc. your nipples will definitely feel the burn, even if your calf and thigh muscles are slowly deteriorating into nothingness.

It wasn't that I was unhappy during those first few months. I was more shell-shocked. No one could have warned me sufficiently because Baby Boot Camp is like real boot camp in the sense that you have to experience it to understand. In no way am I trying to belittle the experience of serving in the military. I have the utmost respect for our soldiers. But motherhood is also a service to humanity. We are raising our children not just for our own personal benefit, but because we hope that our children will one day become productive adults and good citizens.

Five years into motherhood now, I'm a regular soldier. I catch my three-minute shower, two-minute poop, pull on my BDU's (i.e. grungy jeans and T-shirt suitable for constant stainage and grimy little fingers), throw my hair in a ponytail, pack up my gear for a day in the field, and scarf down my breakfast while standing at the kitchen counter. That way, no one will have the opportunity to stick their finger into my strawberry cupcake or my scrambled eggs. But the truth is, I don't really mind anymore if they do.