Over the past few weeks, I've started several blog posts only to abandon them to my recently acquired ADD. Couple it with my OCD, PMS and mild PPD and I am a giant H-O-T mess of alphabet soup.
I am, however, consistent.
One day while fretting about my physical condition, I started the following post:
In recent months I've lost my hair, boobs, sleep and free time. And in return I've gained a lot of weight and guilt. Something about this exchange doesn't seem right. Instead of complaining about it I decided to harness the power I have to change the things I can. So we bought a treadmill. $200 on Craigslist -- well, $220 because my husband accidentally gave the guy too much and it was a pain in the ass to drive back and get it -- and it's in perfect, fat-burning, working order.
And another day I started musing about working from home:
I love working from home. And not because I get to see my kid. That's fleeting, minutes at time here and there. It's because with the hour I save in not showering and commuting, I get to spend 2 hours with my kid, work out, walk the dog, eat breakfast and be ready to sit down and work by 8:45.
Yet another day I was particularly frazzled and inspired by the Beastie Boys "Get it Together":
Between learning to go with the flow, managing a big job and a little baby, my ever-changing emotions, a household and some semblance of a social existence, I often feel my life (and head) meandering in random directions. Like a Beastie Boys song.
Everything feels so scattered, and I spend the majority of my time trying to make sense of it all. Often, I come home and go straight for Oliver's schedule to see how he did during the day. And my husband always stops me with, "hi, how are you doing, how was your day, love you too." You could say I'm so focused on figuring it all out that I forget the simple things. Like saying hello to my family.
In an upside down world that I can't control, I doubt everything. My ability to get my job done. Whether or not my husband loves me. If my child recognizes me. If I'll ever see the triangle of light between my thighs again.
In re-reading these would be posts I find that I am consistent is my quest to control things (and complaining about the fact that I can't). Every one of these posts is about taking back a life that was once so finely managed.
Which brings me to a conclusion. This, my friends, is the new normal. Buckle up.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
God is Good (the church is not)
When I became pregnant I started praying regularly each night before bed, and occasionally before big doctor's appointments and significant events (like labor). What is it about carrying another human being and subsequently bringing him into the world that forces one to find God again? In my case, fear and worry.
I was raised a Catholic. Loosely. I went to Catholic school (until 5th grade), I had all my sacraments (except marriage in a church), and went to mass (occasionally). My parents didn't really instill a strong sense of religion or God in me, although I often heard "so help me God", "Goddamn it, Courtney" and "oh my God" around my house.
The only other time I can recall praying this consistently and formally was in my late teen years, when my father gave me a Prayer to Mary imploring her for help. He would be horrified to know that I used it to pray for boys to like me, and that I didn't get AIDS or pregnant. And so you understand why I am elated that I had a boy.
That aside, now that I'm a Mommy, I find myself saying his prayers and mine each night. And having him baptized is of the utmost importance despite my loose faith. I believe in God, maybe not like the Catholic church says I should, but you'd be crazy not to think there isn't some sort of higher power. I mean, how else do you explain conception? Or bacon? I've done a lot of bargaining with God in my day, and he/she/heshe has always been a source of comfort.
So I decided to have my child baptized in Pennsylvania because his Godparents are there, and it's significantly easier for us to get to them than vice-versa. In order to have your baby baptized in a visiting parish, you need a letter from your parish allowing the baby to be baptized somewhere else. I take issue with that in itself, but it isn't the worst of it. My parish apparently didn't think I contributed enough money to write me a letter allowing the baptism. No, I'm not kidding.
They had listed me as an "inactive member". They've seen too few offertory envelopes in my name come through. Now it's true, I don't go to church as often as I should. Ok, almost never. But it's where I would go if I did go, and I've thrown them some dough out of guilt over the years. And I don't need to go to church to believe, be grateful, or worship in my own way.
$50 and a preparation class later, we'll be having our baptism.
Damn Catholics.
I was raised a Catholic. Loosely. I went to Catholic school (until 5th grade), I had all my sacraments (except marriage in a church), and went to mass (occasionally). My parents didn't really instill a strong sense of religion or God in me, although I often heard "so help me God", "Goddamn it, Courtney" and "oh my God" around my house.
The only other time I can recall praying this consistently and formally was in my late teen years, when my father gave me a Prayer to Mary imploring her for help. He would be horrified to know that I used it to pray for boys to like me, and that I didn't get AIDS or pregnant. And so you understand why I am elated that I had a boy.
That aside, now that I'm a Mommy, I find myself saying his prayers and mine each night. And having him baptized is of the utmost importance despite my loose faith. I believe in God, maybe not like the Catholic church says I should, but you'd be crazy not to think there isn't some sort of higher power. I mean, how else do you explain conception? Or bacon? I've done a lot of bargaining with God in my day, and he/she/heshe has always been a source of comfort.
So I decided to have my child baptized in Pennsylvania because his Godparents are there, and it's significantly easier for us to get to them than vice-versa. In order to have your baby baptized in a visiting parish, you need a letter from your parish allowing the baby to be baptized somewhere else. I take issue with that in itself, but it isn't the worst of it. My parish apparently didn't think I contributed enough money to write me a letter allowing the baptism. No, I'm not kidding.
They had listed me as an "inactive member". They've seen too few offertory envelopes in my name come through. Now it's true, I don't go to church as often as I should. Ok, almost never. But it's where I would go if I did go, and I've thrown them some dough out of guilt over the years. And I don't need to go to church to believe, be grateful, or worship in my own way.
$50 and a preparation class later, we'll be having our baptism.
Damn Catholics.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Not So Skinny Bitch
When I look in the mirror I often wonder, who is that person with the flabby tummy and gargantuan back staring at me like I should know her? That bitch should put down the wine glass and find a treadmill.
For the first time in my life, I am in the unacceptable range of body flab. I feel that I've reached that point where some people decide they're ok with their new-found roundness and suddenly three years later they put biggest loser contestants to shame. I can see how it happens. Lord knows I love my bread, and how and when to exercise is an enigma wrapped in a mystery thrown into a black hole. I know, I just had a baby. And people tell me all the time how good I look. Blind people, that is. Because I didn't "just" have a baby and while that excuse is nice and all, I don't feel very good about the sound of my fat jeans ripping as I jump up and down to get into them.
And here I was just a few months ago, pregnant and proud that I only gained 35 pounds eating whatever the hell I felt like (mostly pizza and chicken fingers) and never swelled like a whale until my final weeks. I was also proud when I lost 25 of those pounds in the first four weeks after delivery.
What I didn't know is the last 10 (ok, call it 15 because let's be honest I was chubs when I got knocked up) would hold on for dear life. And that my entire body would be different. Honestly, even if I do lose this weight (correction: when) I'm not so sure I'll be happy with the results.
Tube socks toting tennis balls for tits, and jiggles where I didn't know they were possible. Not to mention my unrecognizable thighs. They used to never touch but now they're up close and personal. You know my husband is psyched to hit this. It's a good thing we're too damn tired for sex.
This not so skinny bitch needs to find a way to lose this poundage fast so my beach vacations don't suffer. That, or I'll just get pregnant again. Um, not. Now where did I put that discipline...
For the first time in my life, I am in the unacceptable range of body flab. I feel that I've reached that point where some people decide they're ok with their new-found roundness and suddenly three years later they put biggest loser contestants to shame. I can see how it happens. Lord knows I love my bread, and how and when to exercise is an enigma wrapped in a mystery thrown into a black hole. I know, I just had a baby. And people tell me all the time how good I look. Blind people, that is. Because I didn't "just" have a baby and while that excuse is nice and all, I don't feel very good about the sound of my fat jeans ripping as I jump up and down to get into them.
And here I was just a few months ago, pregnant and proud that I only gained 35 pounds eating whatever the hell I felt like (mostly pizza and chicken fingers) and never swelled like a whale until my final weeks. I was also proud when I lost 25 of those pounds in the first four weeks after delivery.
What I didn't know is the last 10 (ok, call it 15 because let's be honest I was chubs when I got knocked up) would hold on for dear life. And that my entire body would be different. Honestly, even if I do lose this weight (correction: when) I'm not so sure I'll be happy with the results.
Tube socks toting tennis balls for tits, and jiggles where I didn't know they were possible. Not to mention my unrecognizable thighs. They used to never touch but now they're up close and personal. You know my husband is psyched to hit this. It's a good thing we're too damn tired for sex.
This not so skinny bitch needs to find a way to lose this poundage fast so my beach vacations don't suffer. That, or I'll just get pregnant again. Um, not. Now where did I put that discipline...
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Mommy Fail
As I sit here staring at my fancy night vision monitor, watching my baby boy sleep two hours after I arrived home (on his belly - failure #1, and an hour earlier than he should be - failure #2), the only thing that comes to mind as exhaustion takes over is this: being a working mom blows. Hard. Like a porn star.
Sure, sure. I am a strong, empowered woman who is taking care of her family. Hear me roar! I keep telling myself I appreciate my adult life and time away. I keep telling myself. But hear me cry as I pull out of the driveway, leaving this perfect little specimen I brought into the world just 90 days (90 days!) ago, behind. The guilt is overwhelming.
As a child, I had to make sure all of my stuffed animals had a friend before I went to bed each night. You know, so they wouldn't get lonely. I might have done this with Oliver's too. So...you can only imagine what I'm going through with a ridonculously adorable baby boy that stares back at me with my own eyes (when his head isn't turned to the left - failure #3). He needs a Mommy by nature, and I'm not there (failure #4).
I want to work. And I have to work. As much as I enjoy what I do most days, I don't feel that I'm doing the right thing. I'm certainly not the first mom to go back to work. Women do it every day, and under much more difficult circumstances than mine. And I'm sure I should be grateful to those who fought for our equality in the workplace, but right about now I'm wishing the only option I had was what color apron to wear while I cook dinner.
My entire adult life my career has defined me. Ask anyone who Courtney is and I guarantee the first thing out of their mouth is related to my success in the workplace. Or that I'm an intimidating bitch, take your pick, they are one in the same in this world. What might surprise you is that I don't see myself this way. At all. I'm proud of what I've accomplished, but the truth is it came relatively easy to me. I'm driven, dedicated and want to make a difference, but it's what I've been doing until what I'm really supposed to be doing comes along, and I just happen to be really good at it.
Now, motherhood? That, my friends, is a whole different story. It's the hardest fucking thing I've ever done, and I work my ass off only to be what I would consider average. God how I hate that word. Every single day I feel like a failure. Is he eating enough, what am I doing that's preventing him from sleeping, am I using the right baby products, is his head the right shape? And there's no backspace button on my kid, people! I realize this is the ultimate challenge, one I so desperately want to be good at, and you got it, the one I want to define me. Didn't see that coming.
Conundrum. So, I want to work despite feeling guilty and need to work but don't want it to define me because now I'm a marginal mommy who wants to be a super mommy but can't because I work.
Got it? Neither do I.
Sure, sure. I am a strong, empowered woman who is taking care of her family. Hear me roar! I keep telling myself I appreciate my adult life and time away. I keep telling myself. But hear me cry as I pull out of the driveway, leaving this perfect little specimen I brought into the world just 90 days (90 days!) ago, behind. The guilt is overwhelming.
As a child, I had to make sure all of my stuffed animals had a friend before I went to bed each night. You know, so they wouldn't get lonely. I might have done this with Oliver's too. So...you can only imagine what I'm going through with a ridonculously adorable baby boy that stares back at me with my own eyes (when his head isn't turned to the left - failure #3). He needs a Mommy by nature, and I'm not there (failure #4).
I want to work. And I have to work. As much as I enjoy what I do most days, I don't feel that I'm doing the right thing. I'm certainly not the first mom to go back to work. Women do it every day, and under much more difficult circumstances than mine. And I'm sure I should be grateful to those who fought for our equality in the workplace, but right about now I'm wishing the only option I had was what color apron to wear while I cook dinner.
My entire adult life my career has defined me. Ask anyone who Courtney is and I guarantee the first thing out of their mouth is related to my success in the workplace. Or that I'm an intimidating bitch, take your pick, they are one in the same in this world. What might surprise you is that I don't see myself this way. At all. I'm proud of what I've accomplished, but the truth is it came relatively easy to me. I'm driven, dedicated and want to make a difference, but it's what I've been doing until what I'm really supposed to be doing comes along, and I just happen to be really good at it.
Now, motherhood? That, my friends, is a whole different story. It's the hardest fucking thing I've ever done, and I work my ass off only to be what I would consider average. God how I hate that word. Every single day I feel like a failure. Is he eating enough, what am I doing that's preventing him from sleeping, am I using the right baby products, is his head the right shape? And there's no backspace button on my kid, people! I realize this is the ultimate challenge, one I so desperately want to be good at, and you got it, the one I want to define me. Didn't see that coming.
Conundrum. So, I want to work despite feeling guilty and need to work but don't want it to define me because now I'm a marginal mommy who wants to be a super mommy but can't because I work.
Got it? Neither do I.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Didn't I Tell You
I spent some time re-reading my blog this weekend. I do this every couple of months because it's kind of like reading past diary entries to assess your mental state. Who am I kidding. It's a narcissistic indulgence that leaves me thinking I might actually be able to make a career out of this some day. Tangent -- back to my point.
There were three posts that struck me, posts where I had commented about life after baby, and I'd just like to share that I was correct in my assumptions. Which only goes to show that I am not delusional and have a clue. What a relief.
The first is the smell of Dead Animals. It's baaacckk. Which means it was not, in fact, my crazy pregnant nose. There is something in the walls. Or the drains. It's subtle. You might not notice it at first, but even my husband has caught a whiff and he can't smell anything. It's going to make me crazy, so the source must be found and destroyed. And in the meantime I'll once again be burning the candles and La Tee Da lamps.
The second is my son's name. Yes, we named him Oliver, which I allude to in House of Destiny. What I didn't know is that he would actually be born on December 20, which I suppose makes it even more apropos. But the name didn't come easy. We waffled, and continued to waffle into his third month of life. Hell, we're still waffling, because we can't seem to find a nickname that doesn't make my husband cringe. The obvious, Olly or Ollie, doesn't do it for us and you are guaranteed to have people calling him by this shortened version of the name. It's as natural as Mike for Michael. Is it crazy to change your child's name after 3 months? Opinions welcome.
And finally, there's my efficiency. It hasn't left the building. I am more than happy to report my house is still clean and will remain that way thanks to Daisy and her team, and I'm still cooking (it's what got me through weeks 1-8), and putting checks in household boxes. I cannot and will not compromise my environment. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. And, I'm happy to report that in one day back to the office I've already made great strides in tidying up the ship. I told you not to Underestimate me.
Onward and upward.
There were three posts that struck me, posts where I had commented about life after baby, and I'd just like to share that I was correct in my assumptions. Which only goes to show that I am not delusional and have a clue. What a relief.
The first is the smell of Dead Animals. It's baaacckk. Which means it was not, in fact, my crazy pregnant nose. There is something in the walls. Or the drains. It's subtle. You might not notice it at first, but even my husband has caught a whiff and he can't smell anything. It's going to make me crazy, so the source must be found and destroyed. And in the meantime I'll once again be burning the candles and La Tee Da lamps.
The second is my son's name. Yes, we named him Oliver, which I allude to in House of Destiny. What I didn't know is that he would actually be born on December 20, which I suppose makes it even more apropos. But the name didn't come easy. We waffled, and continued to waffle into his third month of life. Hell, we're still waffling, because we can't seem to find a nickname that doesn't make my husband cringe. The obvious, Olly or Ollie, doesn't do it for us and you are guaranteed to have people calling him by this shortened version of the name. It's as natural as Mike for Michael. Is it crazy to change your child's name after 3 months? Opinions welcome.
And finally, there's my efficiency. It hasn't left the building. I am more than happy to report my house is still clean and will remain that way thanks to Daisy and her team, and I'm still cooking (it's what got me through weeks 1-8), and putting checks in household boxes. I cannot and will not compromise my environment. It's the only thing that keeps me sane. And, I'm happy to report that in one day back to the office I've already made great strides in tidying up the ship. I told you not to Underestimate me.
Onward and upward.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Re-entry.
Writer's are supposed to write, right? Well I do. It's just been in my head where no one can read it for the past 90 days. Yes, folks, our trial period is over. Even though. I hear white baby boys sell for about $40k these days, we've decided to keep him. And all that he brings with him.
There's the giggles, cuddles, coos and endless hours of staring at him wondering how I could have possibly done something so right. And there's also the 10 extra pounds I still have, the daily headaches, continued baby brain (it got worse) and the perpetual voice telling me not to screw this up. And to stop using the f-word.
Being a Mom is the hardest thing I've ever done. Not hard in the sense of the daily routine. In fact, now that I know being a SAHM is all about operations it's rather appealing to me, it's something I could master. No, it's hard in the sense of the expectations I place upon myself for raising him right. And my new obsessive compulsive disorder that focuses on figuring out what's wrong with him each day (answer = nothing). I've re-read my baby books multiple times, swearing I missed the part that fixes [INSERT RANDOM BABY CONCERN HERE]. Babies aren't logical. That's the downfall of a logician like me (you like that word, don't you). Raising a kid is a giant science experiment that relies on magic, and every day I feel like I'm blowing up the beakers while the rabbit escapes my hat. Poof.
With so much child rearing to think about, it leaves little room for much else. Which brings me to Monday's return to work. For his sake, it's probably better that cray-cray Mommy is off to the mines. Bodes well for his long term mental stability. And I'm at peace with leaving my child. After all, he'll be with his Daddy and a truly wonderful nanny we were blessed to find.
While I am excited to start "having it all" (Step 1: figure out what "all" is), in my current state of mind I am fearful of what I am returning to with all that has, or more appropriately hasn't, transpired while I've been gone. Not to mention the impact of the very short fuse that is my sleep-deprived patience right now. The clean-up promises to be challenging, to put it mildly, thus I'm hoping to find balance, perspective, and a filter before Monday.
Balance. Ha. I'm still figuring out how to shower by 10am, let alone working in the 9-5. I know, I know, everybody does it. And Marissa Mayer, well isn't she the quintessential working mother. Thanks for killing maternity leave for the rest of us. Oh, and telecommuting.
And so Life 2.0 begins. Where did I leave my wand....
There's the giggles, cuddles, coos and endless hours of staring at him wondering how I could have possibly done something so right. And there's also the 10 extra pounds I still have, the daily headaches, continued baby brain (it got worse) and the perpetual voice telling me not to screw this up. And to stop using the f-word.
Being a Mom is the hardest thing I've ever done. Not hard in the sense of the daily routine. In fact, now that I know being a SAHM is all about operations it's rather appealing to me, it's something I could master. No, it's hard in the sense of the expectations I place upon myself for raising him right. And my new obsessive compulsive disorder that focuses on figuring out what's wrong with him each day (answer = nothing). I've re-read my baby books multiple times, swearing I missed the part that fixes [INSERT RANDOM BABY CONCERN HERE]. Babies aren't logical. That's the downfall of a logician like me (you like that word, don't you). Raising a kid is a giant science experiment that relies on magic, and every day I feel like I'm blowing up the beakers while the rabbit escapes my hat. Poof.
With so much child rearing to think about, it leaves little room for much else. Which brings me to Monday's return to work. For his sake, it's probably better that cray-cray Mommy is off to the mines. Bodes well for his long term mental stability. And I'm at peace with leaving my child. After all, he'll be with his Daddy and a truly wonderful nanny we were blessed to find.
While I am excited to start "having it all" (Step 1: figure out what "all" is), in my current state of mind I am fearful of what I am returning to with all that has, or more appropriately hasn't, transpired while I've been gone. Not to mention the impact of the very short fuse that is my sleep-deprived patience right now. The clean-up promises to be challenging, to put it mildly, thus I'm hoping to find balance, perspective, and a filter before Monday.
Balance. Ha. I'm still figuring out how to shower by 10am, let alone working in the 9-5. I know, I know, everybody does it. And Marissa Mayer, well isn't she the quintessential working mother. Thanks for killing maternity leave for the rest of us. Oh, and telecommuting.
And so Life 2.0 begins. Where did I leave my wand....
Saturday, December 29, 2012
A Birth Story (and then some)
A year ago, we were considering starting a family. I was mentally preparing myself for a difficult time conceiving and the possibility of not at all, worrying about my heart condition, and coming to terms with delivering via c-section should we actually get pregnant.
Which only goes to show God laughs at your plans.
I think I'm still in a little bit of shock that there is a 9-day old human, mine, asleep in his nursery dreaming of his next feeding. I could not have imagined this to be a reality as quickly as it became one, nor the way in which it did.
After getting pregnant immediately and having an easy pregnancy at that, I figured the rest would be a bit more complicated. When he was diagnosed with his heart condition, I felt vindicated, as I'm perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then we determined it was simply something to watch, and knowing I've lived a full life with the same thing, there was suddenly less to worry about.
So therefore delivery would most certainly be on the grueling end of the spectrum you hear about so often (e.g. 20 hours of labor followed by an emergency c-section). And then it wasn't. Induction, roughly 6 hours of contractions felt simply as pressure (thanks to that epidural), four strong pushes, and voila -- baby.
Yep.
And now were home, finding our way in our new world and getting to know one another. It's, in a word, surreal. Exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, rewarding...every possible emotion on the spectrum. And it's only just begun.
I've learned a few lessons, and there are a few things I wish I'd known:
Which only goes to show God laughs at your plans.
I think I'm still in a little bit of shock that there is a 9-day old human, mine, asleep in his nursery dreaming of his next feeding. I could not have imagined this to be a reality as quickly as it became one, nor the way in which it did.
After getting pregnant immediately and having an easy pregnancy at that, I figured the rest would be a bit more complicated. When he was diagnosed with his heart condition, I felt vindicated, as I'm perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then we determined it was simply something to watch, and knowing I've lived a full life with the same thing, there was suddenly less to worry about.
So therefore delivery would most certainly be on the grueling end of the spectrum you hear about so often (e.g. 20 hours of labor followed by an emergency c-section). And then it wasn't. Induction, roughly 6 hours of contractions felt simply as pressure (thanks to that epidural), four strong pushes, and voila -- baby.
Yep.
And now were home, finding our way in our new world and getting to know one another. It's, in a word, surreal. Exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, rewarding...every possible emotion on the spectrum. And it's only just begun.
I've learned a few lessons, and there are a few things I wish I'd known:
- Get a brazilian before labor. You will be spread eagle and exposed most of the day in front of nine of your closest medical professional friends. And your husband. All humility is lost.
- The "every three hour" feeding is actually every 2-3 hours, which equals about 1 1/2 - 2 hours sleep for you, max. Feedings are counted from the time they START, not end. Devastating.
- Baby Blues affect everyone. In some way shape or form. Mine manifests in anxiety starting at 7pm each night, like clockwork, until my 11pm feeding. Crying has become a full time hobby, be they tears of joy or pain. Hormones are awesome.
I've also had a few unexpected realizations:
- Having a baby has evolved and deepened the love I have for my husband. Seeing him embrace and enjoy the role of Daddy makes an already amazing man absolutely incredible.
- It's true - you can't describe the feelings you have for your child when placed in your arms for the first time. It's a whole new level of love, and an entirely different emotion. It changes you forever.
- Your body is superhuman. You will find a way to exist on 3 hours of sleep over 4 days, and manage to socialize. And you won't need caffeine (or blow) to do it.
- I will never, ever, for a single second, consider delivering naturally. The 5 minutes of contractions I felt were enough for one lifetime.
And now it's time for nap.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Extreme Nesting (among other extreme behaviors)
If I could somehow convince a camera crew to follow me around these next few weeks, I'm sure it would be 5 -star entertainment that might land me a new reality show.
Nesting. The emotion and actions of late pregnancy prepping for baby, sometimes accompanied by a surge in energy. Not something I thought I would experience as I am a natural nester when not pregnant.
Wrong. It's manifested in an extreme state. I am bat-shit crazy, and everything under the sun needs to be done. Yesterday. And this applies not only to my home, but my work. I have been insanely productive at the office, but making my husband insane at home. Trade offs, you know?
Let's look at my list. We got the windows cleaned and painted. In that order. So naturally they need to be done again. We had a bathtub installed for the baby, which is awesome, less the drywall dust that has cast my home in a lovely shade of grey that now needs to be resolved. We need a new bed, the damn Tempur-Pedic won't stop stinking. One thousand loads of baby laundry need to be complete. And the house needs to be cleaned -- top to bottom to include the baseboards, floors, vents, cabinets, and every visible surface. At least the garage and closet projects went well. And are done.
And then I need to hire a cleaning lady. Set up the cradle, pack-n-play, and baby bathroom. And pack my hospital bag.
Christmas shopping. Shit.
In the meantime, I understand how people go schizophrenic. All these things remain undone, it's like I don't know where to start. It's paralyzing. Debilitating. And making me so agitated and angry, which is awesome for my kid, right? The mood swings are visible. So I focus on working. Like 14 hours a day, because somehow that's easier to get done.
Here's hoping I get it all done this weekend so some semblance of peace of mind can return.
Nesting. The emotion and actions of late pregnancy prepping for baby, sometimes accompanied by a surge in energy. Not something I thought I would experience as I am a natural nester when not pregnant.
Wrong. It's manifested in an extreme state. I am bat-shit crazy, and everything under the sun needs to be done. Yesterday. And this applies not only to my home, but my work. I have been insanely productive at the office, but making my husband insane at home. Trade offs, you know?
Let's look at my list. We got the windows cleaned and painted. In that order. So naturally they need to be done again. We had a bathtub installed for the baby, which is awesome, less the drywall dust that has cast my home in a lovely shade of grey that now needs to be resolved. We need a new bed, the damn Tempur-Pedic won't stop stinking. One thousand loads of baby laundry need to be complete. And the house needs to be cleaned -- top to bottom to include the baseboards, floors, vents, cabinets, and every visible surface. At least the garage and closet projects went well. And are done.
And then I need to hire a cleaning lady. Set up the cradle, pack-n-play, and baby bathroom. And pack my hospital bag.
Christmas shopping. Shit.
In the meantime, I understand how people go schizophrenic. All these things remain undone, it's like I don't know where to start. It's paralyzing. Debilitating. And making me so agitated and angry, which is awesome for my kid, right? The mood swings are visible. So I focus on working. Like 14 hours a day, because somehow that's easier to get done.
Here's hoping I get it all done this weekend so some semblance of peace of mind can return.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Memories Echo, Part II
"there is only so much you can control in this life"
-- Courtney Saunders, November 1, "October Lessons" blog post.
Never were truer words written. Two weeks ago, I found out that my Baby Boy has a hole in his heart. Just like his mommy. Of all the traits I had hoped to pass onto him, this was not at the top of my list. I always knew there was a "small but significant" chance this could happen, but when it does you are no more prepared for it than if you had zero knowledge of the possibility.
This condition, known as CHD, (and VSD or ASD depending on the location of the hole), is not all that uncommon. Approximately 1 in 100 newborns, in fact. And provided the hole remains small, the prognosis is that it will eventually close on it's own as his heart grows. Surgery is not usually recommended, unless it's large enough to impede function. In short, it's a lot less scary than it was 35 years ago when I was born.
But no less scary when it's your child.
You want the best for them. From the moment they are conceived and every day of their life there after, you strive to give them all the advantages you can because life is hard enough. So I didn't initially deal well with this diagnosis, no matter how insignificant it may ultimately turn out to be. Beyond my worry, it makes me mad. Furious, actually. Especially knowing I personally had something to do with it.
But I can't dwell on it, and my anger won't solve anything (nor will my tears). My doctors don't seem overly concerned, including the pediatric cardiologist who did an echo of his heart last Thursday. An echo in utero. Amazing, right? I thought my own echos were uncomfortable. I was very wrong. It's much worse when they are stabbing you with the evil wand in the stomach and applying pressure you didn't know was possible without popping.
But the pain was worth it, as will be most unbearable things I do in this life for my child's well being. In doing this we know exactly what we're dealing with and will be able to take any necessary steps to ensure his health (and Mommy and Daddy's peace of mind).
In the meantime, Baby Boy is growing well and kickboxing, tumbling and flipping like a champ. We're praying for his continued good health, comforted by the fact that we already know he's a fighter.
Just like his Mommy.
-- Courtney Saunders, November 1, "October Lessons" blog post.
Never were truer words written. Two weeks ago, I found out that my Baby Boy has a hole in his heart. Just like his mommy. Of all the traits I had hoped to pass onto him, this was not at the top of my list. I always knew there was a "small but significant" chance this could happen, but when it does you are no more prepared for it than if you had zero knowledge of the possibility.
This condition, known as CHD, (and VSD or ASD depending on the location of the hole), is not all that uncommon. Approximately 1 in 100 newborns, in fact. And provided the hole remains small, the prognosis is that it will eventually close on it's own as his heart grows. Surgery is not usually recommended, unless it's large enough to impede function. In short, it's a lot less scary than it was 35 years ago when I was born.
But no less scary when it's your child.
You want the best for them. From the moment they are conceived and every day of their life there after, you strive to give them all the advantages you can because life is hard enough. So I didn't initially deal well with this diagnosis, no matter how insignificant it may ultimately turn out to be. Beyond my worry, it makes me mad. Furious, actually. Especially knowing I personally had something to do with it.
But I can't dwell on it, and my anger won't solve anything (nor will my tears). My doctors don't seem overly concerned, including the pediatric cardiologist who did an echo of his heart last Thursday. An echo in utero. Amazing, right? I thought my own echos were uncomfortable. I was very wrong. It's much worse when they are stabbing you with the evil wand in the stomach and applying pressure you didn't know was possible without popping.
But the pain was worth it, as will be most unbearable things I do in this life for my child's well being. In doing this we know exactly what we're dealing with and will be able to take any necessary steps to ensure his health (and Mommy and Daddy's peace of mind).
In the meantime, Baby Boy is growing well and kickboxing, tumbling and flipping like a champ. We're praying for his continued good health, comforted by the fact that we already know he's a fighter.
Just like his Mommy.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
October Lessons
For one who likes to call herself a writer, I sure don't write much. It's been almost three weeks since my last post, but feels like yesterday. I woke up to November this morning, after 12 1/2 hours of much needed rest to get over the month of October, and pondered the things I've learned since we last spoke (well, wrote and read).
Kids change you. More than you think they will. And mine isn't even born yet. I was faced with a fairly monumental life decision over the past few weeks, and ultimately went in the direction the single, non-Mommy version of Courtney would have never, not in her lifetime, chosen. I went the safe route, and looked the other way from adventure and opportunity. Even I didn't think I would until the moment I did it (and then got violently ill wondering what the hell I had done). I know, right? Who does that, certainly not this girl. But some little voice nagged and nagged and I could not make it shut up.
I've since come to terms with it, and have reconciled that this is the first of many sacrifices I will make in my lifetime for my child. Someday, I'll be glad I chose him.
I've also come to find that pregnancy is hard when your old. Especially late pregnancy. I'm not talking about people discounting you with "pregnancy brain" or dropping rude comments about how large you are (with two months to go). No, that's just the tip of the iceberg. Screw the emotional, I'm talking about the physical.
I went into this thinking I'm Wonder Woman, I'll work up until my due date, carry on as normal la ti da. I didn't consider how limiting all this extra weight on my front side would be. You know, like limiting how well (and if) you walk? And how much you sleep, if at all. I sit there, my brain spinning, with a list of things I need and want to do, yet. You just.can't.do.it. Physically speaking. It is BEYOND frustrating.
No one really talks about this phase of pregnancy -- maybe because it's so close and you're simultaneously wrapped up in the excitement of meeting your child? Women forget, God's little trick of nature to make you have more kids.
I'm going to the Dr. tomorrow, and worried they are going to put me down for the count. Just a hunch, seeing as my candle has been burning at both ends with activity and my stress level could stand to come down a few hundred feet. Not to mention I'm sick. And can't walk. So naturally they will put me on bed rest because that's the last thing I could possibly deal with right now.
And finally, I've learned that there is only so much you can control in life. You do your best, and good enough is sometimes, well, enough.
On that note...
Kids change you. More than you think they will. And mine isn't even born yet. I was faced with a fairly monumental life decision over the past few weeks, and ultimately went in the direction the single, non-Mommy version of Courtney would have never, not in her lifetime, chosen. I went the safe route, and looked the other way from adventure and opportunity. Even I didn't think I would until the moment I did it (and then got violently ill wondering what the hell I had done). I know, right? Who does that, certainly not this girl. But some little voice nagged and nagged and I could not make it shut up.
I've since come to terms with it, and have reconciled that this is the first of many sacrifices I will make in my lifetime for my child. Someday, I'll be glad I chose him.
I've also come to find that pregnancy is hard when your old. Especially late pregnancy. I'm not talking about people discounting you with "pregnancy brain" or dropping rude comments about how large you are (with two months to go). No, that's just the tip of the iceberg. Screw the emotional, I'm talking about the physical.
I went into this thinking I'm Wonder Woman, I'll work up until my due date, carry on as normal la ti da. I didn't consider how limiting all this extra weight on my front side would be. You know, like limiting how well (and if) you walk? And how much you sleep, if at all. I sit there, my brain spinning, with a list of things I need and want to do, yet. You just.can't.do.it. Physically speaking. It is BEYOND frustrating.
No one really talks about this phase of pregnancy -- maybe because it's so close and you're simultaneously wrapped up in the excitement of meeting your child? Women forget, God's little trick of nature to make you have more kids.
I'm going to the Dr. tomorrow, and worried they are going to put me down for the count. Just a hunch, seeing as my candle has been burning at both ends with activity and my stress level could stand to come down a few hundred feet. Not to mention I'm sick. And can't walk. So naturally they will put me on bed rest because that's the last thing I could possibly deal with right now.
And finally, I've learned that there is only so much you can control in life. You do your best, and good enough is sometimes, well, enough.
On that note...
Friday, October 12, 2012
House of Destiny
As I work from home this morning, happy to be horizontal and unshowered, I ponder how much this house has brought to our lives. It's done much more than provide a roof over our head. You might say it's predicted our fate. A little story for you.
Finding our home was a bit of happenstance in itself. I drove by it one day while touring the area, a little side street I'd never seen before, and loved the neighborhood. I got excited when I saw the For Sale sign, but completely defeated once I looked it up online. It was absolutely beautiful, exactly what we had searched an entire year for, and way out of our price range.
And then it wasn't. For some reason I elected to watch the property, and a few weeks later I was notified the price dropped, significantly. It was a short sale (defeating realization number two). But we went for it anyway. Pestered real estate agents, banks and home owners for three months, until the day after Thanksgiving they called to say the sale was approved. I get a little teary-eyed just thinking about it. We closed December 20th.
You see, my home is everything to me. It's my rock in the storm of life. My sanctity from all things that trouble me, and nothing can touch me when I'm in it. I am not stable unless my home is.
Finally settling in our home was so powerful in bringing my now husband and I closer together. Which is why three months after we moved in he proposed to me in our bedroom. It couldn't have been more perfect.
In searching for a wedding venue, the Mansion on Forsyth park had stuck with me following a trip to Savannah several years ago. But they only had Sunday dates available for 2011. We decided to visit anyway. The day we arrived to tour the property, they had a cancellation for Saturday, October 1. And of course you know that's the day we got married.
What I didn't mention is that the Mansion was designed by the same architect that built (and from whom we bought) our home. Coincidence? I think not. It was meant to be.
We've spent the past two years feathering our nest, getting it just so, enjoying it with friends and family, and never for a second forgetting to appreciate how fortunate we are to have it.
Now, we're getting ready to share this dwelling with a new little guy. This morning, as I was standing outside waiting for Gizmo to be done with his business, I happened to glance at a sign that had been left in our garage that we just never moved. It was a sign for our neighborhood developer. It.was only then that I realized....our top choice for our baby's name is on that sign. And he's due almost two years to the day that we closed.
So you see, my home brought much needed stability to my life, led to my marriage, picked my wedding venue and now has named my baby. That's a lot for a house to do outside of providing comfort and shelter.
We can never move. It just wouldn't be right. Can't wait to see what it cooks up for us next.
Finding our home was a bit of happenstance in itself. I drove by it one day while touring the area, a little side street I'd never seen before, and loved the neighborhood. I got excited when I saw the For Sale sign, but completely defeated once I looked it up online. It was absolutely beautiful, exactly what we had searched an entire year for, and way out of our price range.
And then it wasn't. For some reason I elected to watch the property, and a few weeks later I was notified the price dropped, significantly. It was a short sale (defeating realization number two). But we went for it anyway. Pestered real estate agents, banks and home owners for three months, until the day after Thanksgiving they called to say the sale was approved. I get a little teary-eyed just thinking about it. We closed December 20th.
You see, my home is everything to me. It's my rock in the storm of life. My sanctity from all things that trouble me, and nothing can touch me when I'm in it. I am not stable unless my home is.
Finally settling in our home was so powerful in bringing my now husband and I closer together. Which is why three months after we moved in he proposed to me in our bedroom. It couldn't have been more perfect.
In searching for a wedding venue, the Mansion on Forsyth park had stuck with me following a trip to Savannah several years ago. But they only had Sunday dates available for 2011. We decided to visit anyway. The day we arrived to tour the property, they had a cancellation for Saturday, October 1. And of course you know that's the day we got married.
What I didn't mention is that the Mansion was designed by the same architect that built (and from whom we bought) our home. Coincidence? I think not. It was meant to be.
We've spent the past two years feathering our nest, getting it just so, enjoying it with friends and family, and never for a second forgetting to appreciate how fortunate we are to have it.
Now, we're getting ready to share this dwelling with a new little guy. This morning, as I was standing outside waiting for Gizmo to be done with his business, I happened to glance at a sign that had been left in our garage that we just never moved. It was a sign for our neighborhood developer. It.was only then that I realized....our top choice for our baby's name is on that sign. And he's due almost two years to the day that we closed.
So you see, my home brought much needed stability to my life, led to my marriage, picked my wedding venue and now has named my baby. That's a lot for a house to do outside of providing comfort and shelter.
We can never move. It just wouldn't be right. Can't wait to see what it cooks up for us next.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The Elusive Down Time
I'm slowly learning that sleep and relaxation are not so bad. That is, when it actually happens.
Let's start with sleep. It's amazing we get any at all seeing as we can't seem to find a mattress that works for us (and Gizmo). Scott and I have been together for 9 years, and in those years we've had 4 different mattresses. Truth be told, it's him, not me. But not this time.
The week after Labor Day we bought a Tempur-Pedic bed (seeing as we've been through most brands of innerspring and a Sleep Number, not even kidding). It took two weeks to arrive, and when it did it took over my house. With it's smell. Or, "offgassing" as they call it. So bad it caused me headaches, nausea, a stuffy nose and a cough. Not to mention fighting my way out of quick sand each of the four times I had to get up to pee. Seems my side of the bed had a defect. I slept in the baby's room for a week before we finally returned it. And for the record, that $200 Ikea mattress rocks.
A new Tempur-Pedic has since been delivered (we've been old our first one was a defective model), and while the smell is significantly better, it's still there. Every day, the windows are opened, fan is turned on high, and the bed is generously doused with Febreze and left to continue "offgassing" for 12 hours. Then every night, we re-make the bed and flick our new pets, the stink bugs, off the curtains back out the open windows. Not exactly the nighttime ritual I'm used to, but at least I'm sleeping in this bed.
I've got three more months to slumber when I want and as long as I want. Let's hope this bed works out.
Our couch, on the other hand, has seen a lot of me. I've taken to naps, at least once day including weekdays after work. It's a wonderful indulgence, and boy do I need them. This weekend, I planned to practice relaxing and napping -- part of my committment to taking care of me. We did all of our chores and activities on Saturday, so nothing but laundry and football would be left for today.
And then my husband woke up with the flu or stomach flu -- maybe a little bit of both -- and God laughed at my plan. Granted, I haven't left the house, but I haven't exactly been sitting on my ass all day either. I spent my morning cleaning vomit off the floors and walls of the bathroom, and now I'm playing nursemaid. Believe me, he needs it. I'm simultaneously scared for him and of him. But as bad as I feel for him, I can't help but pout a little too. It's my turn to be taken care of, damn it.
Although let's hope not because I get what he has. That would forever define my hell.
Seems down time is just going to have to wait a little while longer.
Let's start with sleep. It's amazing we get any at all seeing as we can't seem to find a mattress that works for us (and Gizmo). Scott and I have been together for 9 years, and in those years we've had 4 different mattresses. Truth be told, it's him, not me. But not this time.
The week after Labor Day we bought a Tempur-Pedic bed (seeing as we've been through most brands of innerspring and a Sleep Number, not even kidding). It took two weeks to arrive, and when it did it took over my house. With it's smell. Or, "offgassing" as they call it. So bad it caused me headaches, nausea, a stuffy nose and a cough. Not to mention fighting my way out of quick sand each of the four times I had to get up to pee. Seems my side of the bed had a defect. I slept in the baby's room for a week before we finally returned it. And for the record, that $200 Ikea mattress rocks.
A new Tempur-Pedic has since been delivered (we've been old our first one was a defective model), and while the smell is significantly better, it's still there. Every day, the windows are opened, fan is turned on high, and the bed is generously doused with Febreze and left to continue "offgassing" for 12 hours. Then every night, we re-make the bed and flick our new pets, the stink bugs, off the curtains back out the open windows. Not exactly the nighttime ritual I'm used to, but at least I'm sleeping in this bed.
I've got three more months to slumber when I want and as long as I want. Let's hope this bed works out.
Our couch, on the other hand, has seen a lot of me. I've taken to naps, at least once day including weekdays after work. It's a wonderful indulgence, and boy do I need them. This weekend, I planned to practice relaxing and napping -- part of my committment to taking care of me. We did all of our chores and activities on Saturday, so nothing but laundry and football would be left for today.
And then my husband woke up with the flu or stomach flu -- maybe a little bit of both -- and God laughed at my plan. Granted, I haven't left the house, but I haven't exactly been sitting on my ass all day either. I spent my morning cleaning vomit off the floors and walls of the bathroom, and now I'm playing nursemaid. Believe me, he needs it. I'm simultaneously scared for him and of him. But as bad as I feel for him, I can't help but pout a little too. It's my turn to be taken care of, damn it.
Although let's hope not because I get what he has. That would forever define my hell.
Seems down time is just going to have to wait a little while longer.
Friday, October 5, 2012
All About Me...or not.
Eleven weeks and counting until our lives are forever changed and Baby Saunders graces us with his much anticipated presence. I remember when I was just eleven weeks pregnant, and couldn't wait to hit thirteen so I could tell everyone. Time flies when you're getting fat.
Last week, I completed my last business trip of the year, a milestone I've been looking forward to since April 20th. While I am over the moon about being grounded, naturally I'm a mere 1,434 MQMs (read: one friggin' flight) short of maintaining my Delta status into next year. I have seriously contemplated taking a roundtrip flight to anywhere just to get my miles. Sickness.
And then I remember that it's time to start taking care of me. I've not slowed down one iota since becoming pregnant, and these last three months are supposed to be time to cut myself a break, give my boy everything he needs to complete his in-utero growth, and do everything I can to avoid preeclampsia, pre-term labor and permanent insanity.
Which does not include flying on airplanes, mopping my floors, throwing parties, working 60 hour weeks or worrying about keeping everyone around me happy. All things I actually think I'm going to be doing in the next 90 days.
It's supposed to be me time (not to mention the last of it for the next 18 years) and yet I feel immensely guilty about it. A few examples:
Holidays. Seeing as I will be 37 weeks pregnant come Thanksgiving, that pretty much rules out flying, or even going, anywhere. So I've ruined Thanksgiving and Christmas. We've been asked by virtually every family member to join them, but seeing as they all live miles and miles away, there's a slim to none chance it's going to happen. I feel pressured and guilty.
Work. We've already established my super-human productivity. So one might think working from home a day or two a week would be appropriate at this stage in my pregnancy. Wrong. I somehow can't seem to allow myself that reprieve, which isn't really a break at all other than I don't have to shower.
Husband. I just want to be taken care of. Pretend I'm a helpless, insecure trophy wife. Consume me with affection and compliments. Expect nothing of me but to sit there in the glory of my pregnancy glow. That's what I want (and need) right now. And yet, I feel terrible just asking him to pick up a few more tasks around the house.
I know this is all my own doing. I can choose to think and act differently, it's just not in my nature to indulge "me" and let others "do". It's the one time in my life I should be able to justify being a little bit selfish, and yet I struggle. I'm the pregnant one, right?
The truth is, it's exhausting pretending to be me day after day. She's just not there right now. I blame the hormones. They're crazy. Correction, I'm crazy. All the more reason I should be taking care of me.
Here's hoping I figure this out before bed rest does it for me.
Last week, I completed my last business trip of the year, a milestone I've been looking forward to since April 20th. While I am over the moon about being grounded, naturally I'm a mere 1,434 MQMs (read: one friggin' flight) short of maintaining my Delta status into next year. I have seriously contemplated taking a roundtrip flight to anywhere just to get my miles. Sickness.
And then I remember that it's time to start taking care of me. I've not slowed down one iota since becoming pregnant, and these last three months are supposed to be time to cut myself a break, give my boy everything he needs to complete his in-utero growth, and do everything I can to avoid preeclampsia, pre-term labor and permanent insanity.
Which does not include flying on airplanes, mopping my floors, throwing parties, working 60 hour weeks or worrying about keeping everyone around me happy. All things I actually think I'm going to be doing in the next 90 days.
It's supposed to be me time (not to mention the last of it for the next 18 years) and yet I feel immensely guilty about it. A few examples:
Holidays. Seeing as I will be 37 weeks pregnant come Thanksgiving, that pretty much rules out flying, or even going, anywhere. So I've ruined Thanksgiving and Christmas. We've been asked by virtually every family member to join them, but seeing as they all live miles and miles away, there's a slim to none chance it's going to happen. I feel pressured and guilty.
Work. We've already established my super-human productivity. So one might think working from home a day or two a week would be appropriate at this stage in my pregnancy. Wrong. I somehow can't seem to allow myself that reprieve, which isn't really a break at all other than I don't have to shower.
Husband. I just want to be taken care of. Pretend I'm a helpless, insecure trophy wife. Consume me with affection and compliments. Expect nothing of me but to sit there in the glory of my pregnancy glow. That's what I want (and need) right now. And yet, I feel terrible just asking him to pick up a few more tasks around the house.
I know this is all my own doing. I can choose to think and act differently, it's just not in my nature to indulge "me" and let others "do". It's the one time in my life I should be able to justify being a little bit selfish, and yet I struggle. I'm the pregnant one, right?
The truth is, it's exhausting pretending to be me day after day. She's just not there right now. I blame the hormones. They're crazy. Correction, I'm crazy. All the more reason I should be taking care of me.
Here's hoping I figure this out before bed rest does it for me.
Monday, September 17, 2012
The Case for the Bad Boy
I have always been that girl who could not resist the bad boy. The truth is, most women can't. All of us have someone, somewhere in our past that didn't respect us and in most cases didn't even really like us that much. And we just COULD NOT get enough of him and his evilness. I know I'm guilty. Several "wish I could forget" times over.
In some cases, they really are just raging assholes lacking sensitivity chips. In others, women don't respect themselves in which case, why should a man? My period of indulgence was most definitely high school -- teenage self-esteem co-mingled with some really (and still) wrong dudes. I don't think there was a single good one in the mix, despite their sheer numbers. This might explain why I went polar opposite in college and dated the Good Guy. For eight years. Because I wanted to marry a guy who I knew genuinely loved me, would never cheat on me, and offer me a lifetime of security.
And then I didn't. Why? Because I wasn't challenged. I'm a handful. I'm highly opinionated, aggressive, driven, and good or bad can only respect people that level with me. Not concede to me. Because I'm not always right and I don't know everything. You just have to remind me sometimes.
So I married a bad boy. Oh yes I did and I am proud of it. There is no question he has been awarded this status by more former girlfriends and one-night-stands than I care to know about (yet, somehow do). He even started out as my rebound bad boy. And then something happened.
I realized the bad boy isn't really all that bad. Sure, they objectify women and use them as entertainment. Until they find the right one, that is. Once they do, you realize they too are very human and even feel, underneath all of that crazy "I could care less about you" sexiness. And there's a woman for every bad boy, because no guy, I don't care what they tell you, wants to be 45 hitting up 25 year-olds in today's club scene. Trust me. I know a few who still talk a good game but would do anything to be snuggled on the couch watching the Bachelor with their wife. Seriously.
Most bad boys want to be challenged and intrigued by their mate. And most young women don't have a clue. Hence the reason these bad boys are usually the last to marry. But when they do, they redeem themselves and then some. Like my very own husband. Who is likely going to put me in my place for writing this post, but wait Honey! I'm about to say something really awesome.
My husband is the most caring and compassionate yet strong and principled human being I know. He does not let me get away with anything, and I would not have it any other way. At the same time I feel very loved and supported and I question nothing about our commitment to one another. Admittedly it took some time to get here, but once we did the reward significantly outweighed any hardship. Even as a writer I don't think I could ever find sufficient words to describe how much I value him and the life we live together. Every day he positively impacts my world and makes me a better person. Which is more than anyone could ever ask for in a mate.
And he was a bad boy. They make the best husbands. You know, if you marry one, that you were worth changing their ways. Not to mention they come with significantly less ex-baggage than good guys. You are the one, and the only one, because the rest (for the most part) simply didn't matter. Which in turn brings that little ego boost that comes with knowing you snagged one...but you can't let that go to your head. Enjoy it, privately.
Morale of the story? Don't run away from the bad boys, embrace them, but do so wisely. If the timing's right, they could be the one. Today's asshole could be tomorrow's hero. You just never know.
In some cases, they really are just raging assholes lacking sensitivity chips. In others, women don't respect themselves in which case, why should a man? My period of indulgence was most definitely high school -- teenage self-esteem co-mingled with some really (and still) wrong dudes. I don't think there was a single good one in the mix, despite their sheer numbers. This might explain why I went polar opposite in college and dated the Good Guy. For eight years. Because I wanted to marry a guy who I knew genuinely loved me, would never cheat on me, and offer me a lifetime of security.
And then I didn't. Why? Because I wasn't challenged. I'm a handful. I'm highly opinionated, aggressive, driven, and good or bad can only respect people that level with me. Not concede to me. Because I'm not always right and I don't know everything. You just have to remind me sometimes.
I realized the bad boy isn't really all that bad. Sure, they objectify women and use them as entertainment. Until they find the right one, that is. Once they do, you realize they too are very human and even feel, underneath all of that crazy "I could care less about you" sexiness. And there's a woman for every bad boy, because no guy, I don't care what they tell you, wants to be 45 hitting up 25 year-olds in today's club scene. Trust me. I know a few who still talk a good game but would do anything to be snuggled on the couch watching the Bachelor with their wife. Seriously.
Most bad boys want to be challenged and intrigued by their mate. And most young women don't have a clue. Hence the reason these bad boys are usually the last to marry. But when they do, they redeem themselves and then some. Like my very own husband. Who is likely going to put me in my place for writing this post, but wait Honey! I'm about to say something really awesome.
My husband is the most caring and compassionate yet strong and principled human being I know. He does not let me get away with anything, and I would not have it any other way. At the same time I feel very loved and supported and I question nothing about our commitment to one another. Admittedly it took some time to get here, but once we did the reward significantly outweighed any hardship. Even as a writer I don't think I could ever find sufficient words to describe how much I value him and the life we live together. Every day he positively impacts my world and makes me a better person. Which is more than anyone could ever ask for in a mate.
And he was a bad boy. They make the best husbands. You know, if you marry one, that you were worth changing their ways. Not to mention they come with significantly less ex-baggage than good guys. You are the one, and the only one, because the rest (for the most part) simply didn't matter. Which in turn brings that little ego boost that comes with knowing you snagged one...but you can't let that go to your head. Enjoy it, privately.
Morale of the story? Don't run away from the bad boys, embrace them, but do so wisely. If the timing's right, they could be the one. Today's asshole could be tomorrow's hero. You just never know.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Underestimated
I am a machine. I make efficiency an art form, and it's inconceivable that life could be lived any other way. I make the most of every moment of the day, to the point where I can plan to procrastinate. Yes, that's right. Plan to procrastinate. I have to, otherwise the balance is thrown off.
I don't know how I got this way. I just have a knack for seeing the shortest yet most effective means of getting things done, and establishing the systems that make it continuously possible. You could say I'm always prepared. For anything. I should have been a performance engineer.
It comes in really handy at work, as I can juggle a hundred different balls and barely break a sweat. When I say I'm busy, I stretch the definition of the word. My to do list is not average, not even close. Like your own, plus three of your co-workers. It's sometimes hard re-setting your own expectations in managing people who don't have that same level of efficiency (and are not expected to), but otherwise, it's pretty damn awesome.
I'm the same way at home. It takes me two hours to clean 3,500 square feet. My husband? Three days. Again, not his fault, just wired different ways. I even attempt efficiency in putting things away around the house, making little piles to carry with me up and downstairs as I go about other tasks. I will have considered it a wasted trip if I go downstairs to feed the fish and forget to bring my laptop back to the docking station. It's a little sick, I admit it.
So to my point. To all the lovely people out there that keep telling us we aren't going to be able to keep a tight ship around here once my little man arrives, I have two words for you: watch me.
Let's be clear about this. I'm under no delusion that things aren't going to change and that expectations won't have to be re-established. They certainly will. I won't be able to keep playing the same game because there will be more things to care for, namely raising the child. Which becomes a priority over the weekly vacuuming and once I go back to work pretty much everything.
But, I can assure you that what I would consider my bare minimum will still manage to get done, and in comparison to the rest of the world it will seem as if I'm achieving the impossible. I know you want to see me fail, and you want me to eat my words. But it's not going to happen.
Beyond my confidence in my own capacity for get shit doneness, I have living proof. Lots of it, but for the case of two examples, one is of my own blood and the other might as well be. Full-time working Moms with two kids, running a tight ship in the household, while managing to still be beautiful. It's possible. I've seen it with my own two eyes. They might not think they're doing it, and yes there are days when a padded room sounds more fun than coming home, but they are indeed successful and if they can do it I can...especially with just one bambino.
No, my husband isn't going to go hungry. Yes, my house will stay clean, even if I have to outsource it. So let's stop preaching and see what happens.
I don't know how I got this way. I just have a knack for seeing the shortest yet most effective means of getting things done, and establishing the systems that make it continuously possible. You could say I'm always prepared. For anything. I should have been a performance engineer.
It comes in really handy at work, as I can juggle a hundred different balls and barely break a sweat. When I say I'm busy, I stretch the definition of the word. My to do list is not average, not even close. Like your own, plus three of your co-workers. It's sometimes hard re-setting your own expectations in managing people who don't have that same level of efficiency (and are not expected to), but otherwise, it's pretty damn awesome.
I'm the same way at home. It takes me two hours to clean 3,500 square feet. My husband? Three days. Again, not his fault, just wired different ways. I even attempt efficiency in putting things away around the house, making little piles to carry with me up and downstairs as I go about other tasks. I will have considered it a wasted trip if I go downstairs to feed the fish and forget to bring my laptop back to the docking station. It's a little sick, I admit it.
So to my point. To all the lovely people out there that keep telling us we aren't going to be able to keep a tight ship around here once my little man arrives, I have two words for you: watch me.
Let's be clear about this. I'm under no delusion that things aren't going to change and that expectations won't have to be re-established. They certainly will. I won't be able to keep playing the same game because there will be more things to care for, namely raising the child. Which becomes a priority over the weekly vacuuming and once I go back to work pretty much everything.
But, I can assure you that what I would consider my bare minimum will still manage to get done, and in comparison to the rest of the world it will seem as if I'm achieving the impossible. I know you want to see me fail, and you want me to eat my words. But it's not going to happen.
Beyond my confidence in my own capacity for get shit doneness, I have living proof. Lots of it, but for the case of two examples, one is of my own blood and the other might as well be. Full-time working Moms with two kids, running a tight ship in the household, while managing to still be beautiful. It's possible. I've seen it with my own two eyes. They might not think they're doing it, and yes there are days when a padded room sounds more fun than coming home, but they are indeed successful and if they can do it I can...especially with just one bambino.
No, my husband isn't going to go hungry. Yes, my house will stay clean, even if I have to outsource it. So let's stop preaching and see what happens.
Monday, September 10, 2012
110/80
The desirable blood pressure of an adult female. Unless "high strung" defines your temperament, as it has mine on more than one occasion. Usually, this trait is associated with some level of hypertension (that's high blood pressure for all you healthy people). I typically hit 120/90.
These days, my pulse has been so faint I'm not sure I can claim the status of living. Pregnancy has once again gotten the best of me, and caused the polar opposite effect. My blood pressure has dropped, significantly. Dizzy, nauseous, about to faint...all common over this past weekend, not to mention the ridiculous weakness and fatigue. Yet more evidence of the possession of Courtney Saunders.
But not today. Oh hell no. By 8:30am my inbox was so full of bullshit my mmHg's spiked at a greater rate than is considered safe in the medical world. No fatigue here, unless you lump "defeated" in the same category. While it seems this pregnancy is treatment for my job stress, conversely my Monday is treatment for my LBP symptoms.
Despite the apparent yin/yang of the whole situation, something tells me none of this is good.
These days, my pulse has been so faint I'm not sure I can claim the status of living. Pregnancy has once again gotten the best of me, and caused the polar opposite effect. My blood pressure has dropped, significantly. Dizzy, nauseous, about to faint...all common over this past weekend, not to mention the ridiculous weakness and fatigue. Yet more evidence of the possession of Courtney Saunders.
But not today. Oh hell no. By 8:30am my inbox was so full of bullshit my mmHg's spiked at a greater rate than is considered safe in the medical world. No fatigue here, unless you lump "defeated" in the same category. While it seems this pregnancy is treatment for my job stress, conversely my Monday is treatment for my LBP symptoms.
Despite the apparent yin/yang of the whole situation, something tells me none of this is good.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Meet My Little Man
Thanks to a low PAPP-A test result and a pre-existing heart condition in me (the mommy), we have doctor's appointments every 2 weeks to keep an eye on how things are progressing with the little man. Which means scheduling is hell, but I get to see him every month.
Before today, he's been pretty stubborn -- a trait he will undoubtedly possess once born as well. I mean, you've met Scott and I, right? He's been fond of facing inward, preventing us from seeing anything and everything we really needed to (even after being prodded, poked and allowed periods of rest). Not sure he likes Dr. Gomez.
But today, he decided to cooperate. We had a little talk on the way, and he did not disappoint. I'm not sure I'll ever see or feel anything more amazing than when his tiny face suddenly appeared on the screen. Twice. And then he yawned. You want to talk about all this becoming real? That'll do it. Before today he was a squirmy little alien that liked to kick me...and now he's a little person.
He's a charmer, right?! Yes, he kind of looks like the aforementioned alien, but you did too once upon time. He's only 25 weeks old and doesn't even really have his skin yet, don't judge.
I like how he's kinda smiling! But even more I like that everything is nice and normal. He's perfectly average in weight (1lb 10oz), no issues with his heart and all other development seems to be progressing as planned. You think I might cut myself a break and stop worrying a little, but I can guarantee that won't happen until he's in his late 30's. Maybe 40's.
I'm more excited than ever to hold him for the first time. Only two more perinatal appointments before our birth month. But first, I'm going to spend the next three months enjoying the changing of the seasons, my husband, dinners out, movies, and sleep. We celebrate our first wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and celebrate we will. What a year it's been.
Before today, he's been pretty stubborn -- a trait he will undoubtedly possess once born as well. I mean, you've met Scott and I, right? He's been fond of facing inward, preventing us from seeing anything and everything we really needed to (even after being prodded, poked and allowed periods of rest). Not sure he likes Dr. Gomez.
But today, he decided to cooperate. We had a little talk on the way, and he did not disappoint. I'm not sure I'll ever see or feel anything more amazing than when his tiny face suddenly appeared on the screen. Twice. And then he yawned. You want to talk about all this becoming real? That'll do it. Before today he was a squirmy little alien that liked to kick me...and now he's a little person.
 |
| Baby Saunders |
I like how he's kinda smiling! But even more I like that everything is nice and normal. He's perfectly average in weight (1lb 10oz), no issues with his heart and all other development seems to be progressing as planned. You think I might cut myself a break and stop worrying a little, but I can guarantee that won't happen until he's in his late 30's. Maybe 40's.
I'm more excited than ever to hold him for the first time. Only two more perinatal appointments before our birth month. But first, I'm going to spend the next three months enjoying the changing of the seasons, my husband, dinners out, movies, and sleep. We celebrate our first wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and celebrate we will. What a year it's been.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
I am but a vessel, navigating the world in search of healthy food and calming environments for my passenger. Who has all the sudden decided he needs a bigger cabin.
Last night, I stood in the front of the full-length mirror brushing my teeth and wondering who the person quizzically looking back at me was. She had the same face, legs and arms of someone I used to know, but the torso looked vastly differently.
It's disturbing to all of the sudden have so much more of yourself to contend with, especially when it seems to have happened overnight.
My first clue to my expansion was a t-shirt I wore last weekend, that this weekend didn't come close to meeting the top of my pants. I thought I'd shrunk it, and then that I was losing my mind. No, just gaining belly mass. Not to mention my heaving breasts, seemingly attempting to keep pace with the belly. The insanity of this is I did nothing to acquire this body, it's being manipulated by a tiny human inside of me.
It's like something from a science-fiction novel. At least for a first-time Mom.
I have to admit I am somewhat fond of my roundness, aside from the strangeness of it all. It's rather attractive, and the only time in my life I will consider myself bigger to be better. That said, it feels a little too good to be true. I keep waiting for my ass to expand and the rest to swell. So far so good, but the third trimester is right around the corner.
In the meantime, I will accommodate my passenger's request (as if I had a choice) and enjoy this new womanly version of myself. And of course acquire a new wardrobe to suit it.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
The first and last. Promise.
Let me start by saying that I am the least politically-minded person on the planet. I believe that my odds of solving the mysteries of the universe are significantly greater than finding an honest political candidate I can get behind. So I generally remove myself from the shenanigans and hoopla. But I also believe that you have to participate in some way, shape or form if we really are to be a government "of the people, by the people, for the people". In other words, put up or shut up.
Of course I have an opinion that, like everyone else, I feel compelled to share. I might not even consider it a well-informed opinion at this point. But this is my blog, which you have a choice to read or not to read. And I do hope you'll hear me out. This isn't about Obama or Romney. I would likely be classified as a Republican, but it's not about my label. This is about people.
It's not the politicians fault. Crazy, right? But it's true. All of humanity is a disgrace these days and collectively we are failing to meet our potential. That's the bigger problem. Where the politicians and government play a role is in how easy they make it for us to destroy ourselves and thus our country. I am extremely proud to be an American, and there is no where else I would rather live. But damn did we become a bunch of greedy, moralistically depraved bastards.
Case in point, the Banks and Corporate America. You hear so much about how greedy they are. And of course they are, doing whatever deceitful act it takes to make a dollar (euro, yen, whatever). But so are the poor. Bitching about how unfair it all is, perfectly capable of working but instead living off welfare. In both cases it's because, in part, the government and thus we made it possible.
I, for one, am sick and tired of paying for both of their mistakes. I work my ass off. I never aspired to own Freddie Mac or Frannie May, and I never really had the desire to take care of someone who has less than me. I have a job. I bought a home I could afford. I don't spend more than I earn. Oh yea, and I save money too. I don't expect anyone to take care of me, and I expect that those around me won't ask to be taken care of. I'm honest, fair, and understand that the bottom line truth is what I put in is what I'm going to get out. What is so damn hard about this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
What makes me (and many Americans) different? Accountability. Or, let's call it personal responsibility. This is the second part of the equation. Somewhere along the way our government taught us that it was ok to be irresponsible if it meant we could have more and someone else would pay for our mistakes. So we decided to compromise the hard-working, ethical nature that our country was built upon.
And nothing is going to change until we hold the irresponsible accountable for their actions. Government, corporations, and your everyday American alike.
So who I am voting for? Whomever I decide is going to throw down the hammer and make us own up to our mistakes. Economic, environmental, social policy - no matter. It's going to hurt, you can guarantee it will be painful. But it has to happen if we are ever to be a people I can be proud of once again. And maybe, just maybe, with a little humility we'll achieve the moral correction we so desperately need.
I'm going to step down off my soapbox now. Some of you will be offended by what I've written, some of you will praise me. It doesn't really matter, and you shouldn't stop talking to your brother-in-law or write off good friends because they feel differently. People are entitled to their own opinions, it's what makes this country great. But it could be better. So much better.
That concludes my first and last political post. Good luck in making the decision on how to cast your vote for yourself. But don't fuck it up by voting for Obama, ok? I'm kidding. Relax.
Of course I have an opinion that, like everyone else, I feel compelled to share. I might not even consider it a well-informed opinion at this point. But this is my blog, which you have a choice to read or not to read. And I do hope you'll hear me out. This isn't about Obama or Romney. I would likely be classified as a Republican, but it's not about my label. This is about people.
It's not the politicians fault. Crazy, right? But it's true. All of humanity is a disgrace these days and collectively we are failing to meet our potential. That's the bigger problem. Where the politicians and government play a role is in how easy they make it for us to destroy ourselves and thus our country. I am extremely proud to be an American, and there is no where else I would rather live. But damn did we become a bunch of greedy, moralistically depraved bastards.
Case in point, the Banks and Corporate America. You hear so much about how greedy they are. And of course they are, doing whatever deceitful act it takes to make a dollar (euro, yen, whatever). But so are the poor. Bitching about how unfair it all is, perfectly capable of working but instead living off welfare. In both cases it's because, in part, the government and thus we made it possible.
I, for one, am sick and tired of paying for both of their mistakes. I work my ass off. I never aspired to own Freddie Mac or Frannie May, and I never really had the desire to take care of someone who has less than me. I have a job. I bought a home I could afford. I don't spend more than I earn. Oh yea, and I save money too. I don't expect anyone to take care of me, and I expect that those around me won't ask to be taken care of. I'm honest, fair, and understand that the bottom line truth is what I put in is what I'm going to get out. What is so damn hard about this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
What makes me (and many Americans) different? Accountability. Or, let's call it personal responsibility. This is the second part of the equation. Somewhere along the way our government taught us that it was ok to be irresponsible if it meant we could have more and someone else would pay for our mistakes. So we decided to compromise the hard-working, ethical nature that our country was built upon.
And nothing is going to change until we hold the irresponsible accountable for their actions. Government, corporations, and your everyday American alike.
So who I am voting for? Whomever I decide is going to throw down the hammer and make us own up to our mistakes. Economic, environmental, social policy - no matter. It's going to hurt, you can guarantee it will be painful. But it has to happen if we are ever to be a people I can be proud of once again. And maybe, just maybe, with a little humility we'll achieve the moral correction we so desperately need.
I'm going to step down off my soapbox now. Some of you will be offended by what I've written, some of you will praise me. It doesn't really matter, and you shouldn't stop talking to your brother-in-law or write off good friends because they feel differently. People are entitled to their own opinions, it's what makes this country great. But it could be better. So much better.
That concludes my first and last political post. Good luck in making the decision on how to cast your vote for yourself. But don't fuck it up by voting for Obama, ok? I'm kidding. Relax.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Dead Animals
A few weeks ago, I came home from a business trip and walked in my front door only to be overcome with an urgent need to vomit. Our house smelled like dead fish, or, the scallops Scott had made for dinner. My food aversions have passed, but I'm still not the biggest fan of seafood, especially as a signature scent.
I'm incredibly sensitive about smells in my home, and on top of that my olfactory system is frighteningly keen. Even when I'm not pregnant. So I paraded around with air freshener, choking the shit out of my husband, dog, plants and ultimately myself. But at least it was with clean linen.
Here we are, several weeks later, and I swear I can still smell it. It certainly cannot still be the scallops. I look for it constantly...is it the garbage, the sink, Scott's shoes? Dead animals in the walls? I'm currently convinced that there are thousands of cockroaches decomposing in our walls from our regular extermination. I also think those cockroaches are the re-incarnated souls of murdered civil war mill workers, but that's another post.
The problem is (beyond my own psychosis), no one else can smell it. I feel like a crazy person wandering around my house, sniffing every surface and wall. I just finished reading a book, Broken Harbor, where a man was so convinced there was an animal in his attic that he drove his family insane trying to track it down -- to the point where his wife killed him and his children. I need someone with a good nose to walk around with me and prove to my husband that I do not need to be committed, and prevent myself from a similar fate.
In the meantime, it's candles and La Tee Da lamps. And a "no fish in the house" mandate, strictly enforced.
I'm incredibly sensitive about smells in my home, and on top of that my olfactory system is frighteningly keen. Even when I'm not pregnant. So I paraded around with air freshener, choking the shit out of my husband, dog, plants and ultimately myself. But at least it was with clean linen.
Here we are, several weeks later, and I swear I can still smell it. It certainly cannot still be the scallops. I look for it constantly...is it the garbage, the sink, Scott's shoes? Dead animals in the walls? I'm currently convinced that there are thousands of cockroaches decomposing in our walls from our regular extermination. I also think those cockroaches are the re-incarnated souls of murdered civil war mill workers, but that's another post.
The problem is (beyond my own psychosis), no one else can smell it. I feel like a crazy person wandering around my house, sniffing every surface and wall. I just finished reading a book, Broken Harbor, where a man was so convinced there was an animal in his attic that he drove his family insane trying to track it down -- to the point where his wife killed him and his children. I need someone with a good nose to walk around with me and prove to my husband that I do not need to be committed, and prevent myself from a similar fate.
In the meantime, it's candles and La Tee Da lamps. And a "no fish in the house" mandate, strictly enforced.
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