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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Baby Saunders

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.