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.
Friday, November 16, 2012
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.
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