Boobs in the bathroom

Listen up, non mothers.
I want to preach to you: Enjoy your ability to do whatever you want, when you want.

Your life (and I know because I used to have it) goes something like this: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go."

"Great. I'll just pack some orange chocolates and a change of underwear and we're off!"

And then you get in the car and you leave.

Here's how it works with a baby: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend - say, maybe in six weeks?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go. We just need to see if your mom can babysit that weekend. Will you be able to pump enough breastmilk? Will we take the carseat to your parents? You need to start pumping now."

"Great. I'll just pack some breast pads, the playpen, his activity mat, the diapers, the bum wipes, all his outfits in case he poos through them, his soother, his Vaseline, his Fisher Price cellphone, his favourite stuffed green lion, his sleeping blankets, his nursing blankets, his diaper rash cream, all the stored breast milk, the bottles, the sterilized nipples ... "

The past few weeks were the most tiring in my life thanks to the breastpump. Yes, it's a genius invention. Without it, I wouldn't be able to leave Little Man. But when you're pumping for a major event - we were going away for 30 hours, which meant I needed 10 to 12 8-oz bottles of milk - you have to pump whenever the babe isn't eating.

So my day went something like this:

Wake up.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Go to the gym.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Have dinner.
Watch CSI, while feeding and pumping, one on each breast.

I've heard breast milk described as liquid gold. Every drop you lose, it's like throwing $100 down the toilet. It's heartbreaking just to lose a drop, which is why I had many mini meltdowns during our romantic weekend away.

Here's the thing. You can't just breastfeed and then stop doing it for two days and because I was feeding and pumping so much, I'd become a Dolly Parton impersonator. You have to pump to keep your breasts from being engorged.

So this is the story of our romantic night:

Fishnet stockings clung to my legs and my green satin skirt, which I wore on our very first date, twirled around my knees every time I walked over one of Toronto's heating vents. Very Marilyn Monroe. For the first time since August, I'd done my makeup and I put on my prettiest, little black shirt. My hair was done and I'd even put on my dangly earrings (see previous post for photo).

We'd gone to the theatre district early so that we could have a long dinner, the three-hour kind we used to have before baby. We found a little dark Italian place, Verona, and got a small, intimate table at the back of the restaurant.

For the first time in a year, we ordered a bottle of red wine, a Kingston Estates Shiraz. I felt pretty and happy and I was loving the fact I could indulge in a lot of wine, knowing I didn't have to feed Little Man for the next 18 hours.

We shared our favourite appetizer - escargot, these ones done with shredded bacon, some shallots and onions.

The BF had gnocchi and I had mustard seed-crusted sole on top of a mushroom risotto.

The whole night I felt like we were in a Stars Wars movie. There was a force field around us and no one - not coworkers, not friends, not family, not mustard poo diapers - could touch us. We were invincible and invisible. And it was wonderful.

After dinner, and much intoxicated talk, we walked to the Princess of Wales Theatre to see Chicago, starring Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson. I loved him since I was in university. He was my favourite boy. (His favourite colour is teal blue). But truthfully, I wished we had skipped the show and just stayed in our own Little Italy because the show wasn't that good and the BF makes my heart skip much faster than an average pop singer trying to pull off the role of razzy snazzy lawyer, Billy Flynn. (Played by Richard Gere in Chicago, the movie with Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta Jones.)

After dinner, we made our way to Bluepoint Oyster Bar for another BF and Sarah tradition: After dinner drinky drinks and creme brulee. (Not as good as the dessert at Clark Day's Aqua Terra or Jason McMillan's at the Athlone Inn in Gananoque but still lovely.)

Our creme brulee and chocolate martinis came to our table and I excused myself.

It was time, I guess you could say, to slip into something more comfortable.

By more comfortable, I mean smaller, less heavy boobies.

I took my purse with me and headed to the bathroom at Oyster Bar.

Thankfully no one was in there.

I went into the stall and faced the toilet. I rested my purple purse on the back of the toilet - yes, it's dirty but I was buying another one that weekend anyway - and pulled out the pump.

I straddled my legs over the toilet and began to pump.

I had to give myself a little motivational talk to get going because what I was about to do was heartbreaking: I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Usually when you pump, there's a little container or bottle on the end of the pump.
This time, there was nothing.

I started to pump and the breast milk started to flow - straight into the toilet.

I must have pumped at least a cup, or a cup and a half, into that toilet.

As I stood there, watching my liquid gold being flushed away, I laughed at the fact that everyone else in the restaurant who saw me saunter away from the BF and head to the ladies room, thought I was going to freshen up. Add a little lipstick. Maybe fix my hair. No one could have imagined me in the bathroom splashing baby food all around the toilet.

And just to add insult to injury: When I was done, and I had tucked the breastpump back into my purse, I tried to flush the toilet.

Nope, broken. I had to stand there, in that dark stall, and stare at my precious, precious milk just floating there, so sad. So alone.

The chain had obviously come off the toilet's stopper in the tank because the handle had no pressure.

Well, I obviously wasn't going to lift the tank lid off and fix it so that I could flush it.

Do you know what kinda sick things people do in Toronto bathrooms?

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Yes, they're real

Sorry, I've been too busy to write fabulous posts the past few days. The BF whisked me away for the weekend. Sordid details to come in a day or two. But I can say this: This is me and the girls, all dressed up for a romantic dinner.

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Got Lucky Last Night?

Twas the night before Friday, and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Or, better yet, Little Man.

It was just after 6 p.m.

We'd finished our salmon, rice and grilled red peppers.

We'd chatted, chilled and now had three hours before CSI.

And Little Man was sound asleep in his swing.

Do you know what this means? It means Mom and Dad seemed to have free time for a little nudge, nudge and wink, wink.

We picked up Little Man and gently carried him up to his room, tucked him into his crib and scurried like anxious children into our room.

The BF smiled.

I smiled.

He told me how much he loved me and how happy he was.

I smiled.

He curled up next to me and kissed my neck.

And I smiled.

And then he kissed my forehead.

And I smiled ... and yawned, apparently.

"Two years ago, when we first got together, do you think you'd yawn?" he asked.

"What? I didn't yawn."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't ... and with that, a second giant yawn came tumbling out of my mouth.

And as soon as I yawned, and thought maybe, just maybe this one time, I could ditch the BF and get lucky with half an hour of sleep, Little Man started to wail and cry those big tears that stream down his rosy cheeks.

Like so many other babies, he hates his crib and so it was time to get up out of bed and have play time.

Hot night, I tell you.

Hot, hot night.

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Ridonculous, yet paradealicious boots

The next time my father's in town, I'm going to introduce him to Sharon Monson.
Many of you know her as Kingston Mayor Harvey Rosen's fiance.
I used to know her as the woman with funky hair. It's mostly red, with a sweeping wave of platinum blond in the front.
I will now refer to her as Queen of Kingston's Santa Claus parade.
The boyfriend and I took our two-and-a-half month old baby to his first parade on Saturday night to see his older sister strut her stuff down Princess Street.
First, we watched a man try to throw his child on top of two Bell Canada phone booths so that she could see Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen.
Then, we saw MP Peter Milliken and MPP John Gerretsen wave to the people.
Props to you Mr. Speaker, for your blinking Christmas lights necklace.
Next in the Christmas procession was our mayor. He was in the festive spirit, wearing a Santa hat with a jolly white pom-pom.
And, in a Tammy Wynette moment, Sharon Monson, was by his side smiling, waving, smiling and waving and more smiling and waving.
As the happy couple strolled past us, I caught a glimpse of her feet.
"Ha ha! She's one of us!" I thought to myself.
Sharon was wearing footwear that would horrify my father. Sharon was wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled boots.
Not comfy but ugly Uggs.
Not comfy but ugly Crocs.
She was wearing stylish boots that were completely inappropriate to walk the route - but they were paradealicious.
I'm a short girl. I'm five-foot-four and three quarters of an inch tall. I never made it to 5"5.
I've also battled the bulge most of my life. I've been 125 pounds at my skinniest and 178 at my largest. And 173.5 at my most pregnantest.
Wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes makes me, and you, appear longer and leaner. It's true. Just ask Stacy London of TLC's What Not To Wear. (Hey, I've got a lot of time to pass while I'm breastfeeding the babe and watching The Learning Channel is pretty much like reading. It's educational, you know.)
I never, ever take my high heels off.
I wore four-inch heels up until a week before I went into labour.
And now that it's boot weather, I rarely take my knee-high suede boots off.
They're an appendage to me, no different than my arms or legs.
But as rapper-turned-Hollywood hero Will Smith once infamously said: Parents just don't understand.
Whenever I go home for a visit, the first thing my father says to me is, "Sarah, take your boots off!"
I wear them inside.
I wear them while I'm lying on a couch watching TV.
I wear them while I'm making dinner, doing laundry, expressing milk.
I wear them while I'm going clothes shopping, even though as my parents point out, out it would be easier and faster to try on pants if I just had to untie a pair of running shoes than roll up my pant leg, unzip the long boot, and slide the boot off.
I sort of see where my parents are coming from here. I must be losing one-eighth of a second every time I try on clothes. I'm losing years off my life!
And yes, call the bad parents patrol - I wear my boots when I'm out with my son, lugging him around in his carseat and in walking him in his stroller.
You'll probably remember the media frenzy that happened last May when Britney Spears almost dropped her son, Sean Preston, while she was walking to her limo. Tabloid magazines and parenting groups jumped on the boo boo.
"She could have cracked his head open!" they screamed.
Many of Britney's detractors pointed the finger at the pop star's too-high shoes.
Her shoes, they said, were inappropriate mommy footwear. Her shoes almost caused chaos.
Soon, magazines were running features on which celebs wore safe shoes while carrying their children and which celebs wore bad, evil, too-high shoes while carrying their babies. Newly married Katie Holmes got two thumps up for her white runners. Not sexy, but gosh, were they practical.
Can you just imagine the horrors Sharon could have caused with her pointy-toed, high-heeled boots on Saturday?
She could have tripped. She would have grabbed Harvey for support and then taken him down with her.
The sheep, yes, there were sheep in the parade, would have trampled them.
Mayor down! Mayor down!
The police, firefighters and paramedics would soon be called and they'd all have to lose their spots in the parade lineup to attend to the mayor. The walking chicken mascot from a downtown fried chicken place would end up in distress from all the commotion and start nipping at the children there to see Santa. To save their children from the killer chicken, stressed-out parents would start pelting floats with their canned goods that were meant to be donations to the food bank. And soon, the news of the pandemonium would get back to Santa, and he'd grab his reindeer and the wifey and high-tail it back to the North Pole without any of our city's wish list letters.
The whole parade could have been ruined because of Sharon Monson's high-heeled boots.
But, as the cool kids say, let's not be ridonculous.
Santa safely made his way down Princess Street and I'm sure Sharon made it to the end of the parade unscathed.
Sure, the big red guy is the heart of the parade, but for us mommies in the crowd, the ones who refuse to wear mommy jeans and mommy shoes to match, Sharon was the sole of the event.

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Stuffing The Bra

Kids under the age of 18, listen up.

I've found the boy for you.

He's cute, he's sweet and he didn't blink when I hijacked a change room at SportChek from the BF the other day and ran in with a massive bag full of discounted Halloween Smarties and breast pads.

We'd gone shopping to get a jump on Christmas shopping.

Halfway to the mall, I started to think, "Darn, I feel thinner. My breasts feel smaller. Yup, all that working out is working out for me."

Then, I realized that for the first time since Aug. 30, I was without my pads.

I'd forgotten to tuck the oh-so sexy breastpads into my bra.

"Do you think I could take my socks off and stuff them in there?" I asked the BF.

His look said, "NO. NO. NO."

(It's not as if I haven't done it before around the house when I've been too lazy to go all the way back up the six steps to our bathroom but this was out in public. It seemed too risque. Still, don't tell anyone.)

I was in a panic about the pads until we got inside the shopping centre and I saw the setup for the Santa photographs. Soon, I was thinking only about putting my Little Man on Santa's lap and having all the elves coo about how my son is a cutie patootie.

Soon, we were in shopping heaven until I felt that familiar sensation. It's a dull throbbing that signals the flood gates are about to open in a few minutes.

I left the BF in the sock aisle (sorry, kiddies but everyone gets a pair of socks for Christmas) while I ran to get new breastpads.

Then, I got arrogant. I checked my shirt. Nope, no saucer-size stains.

"More shopping!" I declared.

It was off to SportChek. It was buy one item, get one for 50 per cent off.

Just as the BF picked up a few things to try on, I felt it.

Niagara Crosbie Falls.

My shirt - just on the left side - was soaked.

"Ask the guy if you can try something on!" I said to the BF.

"Now!"

The nice sales guy opened the door for the BF and I rushed in with my bag of orange and black Smarties and one massive purple box of breastpads.

I don't know what he thought I was doing in there. I didn't have anything to try on so I can only assume he thought:

A) I was going in there to stuff my face full of chocolate;
B) I was trying to shoplift something;
C) I was looking for a private place to, well, toot. (Hey buddy, you smelt it, you dealt it);
D) I was a new mommy who, for the very first time, soaked through her shirt in public.

I thought when I came out, and the BF went in the changeroom to actually try on some clothes, the sales guy would tell us to come find him if we needed any help. Instead, the guy took an interest in my baby. (What teenage guy is interested in some chick's child?)

"Cute kid."
"Thanks," I said, crossing my arms so the spillage wasn't visible, making me look very hostile for a woman out Christmas shopping and holding a very cute boy.
"Boy or girl?"
"Boy," I said.

"Maybe he'll be a hockey player?"
"Nope," I said, "his dad and older brother play hockey. Too many practices and games. And it's expensive."

"It won't be expensive if he uses his brother's equipment," he replied.

OK, normally I'm all for the chitty chat but the guy had to see my boob stain and you don't really want to talk when you're dripping milk down your shirt. So I decided to shut him up.

"Actually, I'm really hoping my son will grow up to be a flautist."

"Ha ha! I win," I thought.

The sales guy looked at me and smiled. I thought it was time for him to walk away.

"That'd be great," he said, "I love music. I'm a big jazz fan."

I smiled to myself. Yes, this was perhaps one of the most awkward moments I've ever had, but I also realized that I'd either found the most suave teenage sales guy in all of Kingston or a potentially hot boyfriend for a sweet kid.

He asked me about my baby. Engaged me in a conversation about children's hockey. Likes jazz music?

How to find him? He's the kid with the eyebrow ring.

(And kid? Thanks for not making me feel all weird and stuff. I'll buy my next pair of running shoes from you.)

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And the award for Kingston's best float goes to ...

Who's in charge of marketing at K-Rock 105.7?
Give that kid a candy cane!

We all know it's teens and 20-somethings who are the important consumers.

They know what's hip before us old fogies do. Do you know who Rocky, Tessa, Kyndra and Cami are? If you do, you're probably under 25 years old.

The kids know what websites are hot and which ones are not: MySpace, Facebook, YouTube.

They do the fashion thing way ahead of us. Skinny jeans, anyone?

And when it comes to music, they rattle off names of in bands long before they make the pages of People magazine (if, in fact, they ever do.)

The kids in Kingston also listen to K-Rock and the radio station does a good job of promoting itself to them. Every year, they hold BandSlam, a competition that pits local rockers against each other. The concerts have packed downtown bars on cold, rainy Monday nights. Now, that says something.

They've also got G and Shadoe, two very affable and easygoing guys (who, btw, are also popular with the ladies.)

K-Rock also has a rockin' float. Now, what I'm about to say could get me more snotty posts than Santa gets letters but it should be pointed out: Just because you pull a dead pine tree in a wagon covered with a string of red lights and you stick your three-year-old niece with a winter hat on in the car pulling the tree, doesn't mean you have a Santa Claus parade float. It means you have a pine tree in a wagon covered with a string of red lights and your three-year-old niece in a car wearing a winter hat.

If I had a nickel for every child who waved to me on Saturday night at the Santa Claus parade with a look of "Huh. I wonder if I'm missing reruns of Laguna Beach tonight. What did mom say we were having for dinner? Spaghetti. Must remember to wash my school uniform. Oh crap, forgot to smile. And wave" well, I wouldn't have to apply to be on Deal or No Deal, would I?

Good on you for being in the parade but let's put on our parade faces next year, shall we?

But K-Rock? Those crazy radio folks had a massive float, packed with a drummer drumming, a singer singing, a backup band, well, backing and a bunch of people there waving to the people - with enthusiasm.

Rocking around Princess and Regent streets, the band was doing AC/DC's TNT - but with festive Christmas lyrics.

So, to you hip folks at K-Rock, I'll say this: Santa knows if you've been bad or good. And you've been very bad - but in a good way.

Isn't that what the cool kids say these days - that bad is good?

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Dooce It

So, there's this chick in the United States who has a website called Dooce.
Her blog is No. 14 out of millions listed on Technorati.
(We, the people of SarahCrosbie.com are 2.1 millionth. Sigh.)
Now, here's a glimpse of my super ego: Not too entirely sure why she's No. 14.
She talks about her life, Britney Spears and takes pics.
I talk about my life, Britney Spears and I look nice in pics.
One of these things is not like the other?

Anyway. She's a chick who's supporting her family with her site, so rock on, mama.

Ms. Dooce was recently invited to New York City to take part in CNN's discussion of Time Magazine's Person of the Year.

Ms. Dooce asked for comments from her readers about who they would have chosen. The responses range from Britney to Fed-Ex, to Donald Rumsfeld, to the Amish Community, to Michael J. Fox to Ellen DeGeneres.

I wanted to add my two cents (as I always do) except her site has stopped accepting comments at 299 posts, so I'm posting my own comment here.

SarahCrosbie.com would choose Diet Coke and Mentos as the Time Magazine Person of the Year.

The explosive combo has been the talk of science pages everywhere; YouTube has turned the science project into a web phenomenon. Search "Mentos" and "Diet Coke" and you get 3,583 hits. And that's just YouTube; There's a Diet Coke and Mentos performance art group; and, of course, the candy volcano has given more lipservice to the super company of Coca Cola, which is now bigger than Suri Cruise and Angelina Jolie and the country of Malawi combined.

So, that's my answer Ms. Dooce: I choose Ms. Mentos and Mr. Diet Coke.

I guess my choice is more a couple of the year than a person of the year:

Brad Pitt+ Angelina Jolie = Brangelina
Tom Cruise + Katie Holmes = TomKat
And, of course, the original: Ben Affleck + Jennifer Lopez = Bennifer

And Mentos + Diet Coke = Mentoke

I guess I chose them just for the taste of it.

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Sad Feet Day

First, George Dubya beat Al Gore in the U.S. presidential race in 2000.
Then, in 2003, Ruben Studdard beat my little Clay Aiken in American Idol.
Now, Mr. Football Emmitt Smith has beat Mario Lopez on Dancing With The Stars.

Bad Americans!

I don't even know how to go on ...

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy - Pt. 2

Are you lovin' it?

Here he is! The BF in his full glory.

He's my Mac Daddy, er, Big Mac Daddy, I guess is the correct phrase.
He's no small fry.
I guess I should feel flattered that he's with me: He knows his buns so I guess mine are alright.

What? Don't you see him?
He's the smiling guy; the cute one.

This picture was taken in March, 1975 at McDonald's where the BF worked for six years and worked his way up to assistant manager. (Yes, back in 1975 I wasn't even a sperm yet. I was just a glint in my parents' eyes. I didn't come into this world for another two years.)

And don't tell him I told you but the BF also had a Dodge Monaco back then - and, get this, - he had the words BIG MAC put onto his car by a professional sign company.

If you see the BF around town, ask for a smile.

After all, they're free!

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Chocolate Baby Einstein

I really want one of those massive blowup snowglobes. You know the ones, little bits of fake snow, probably Styrofoam, blow around an inflatable bubble, while snowmen sit on a circling carousel?

There's about five of them in front of Canadian Tire on Gardiners Road.

The BF says we can wait until after Christmas to get one on sale for next year.

I think if he really loved me, and appreciated the fact that he does not have to breastfeed 12 freakin' hours a day, he'd buy me one.

Anyway.

That was an aside.

(If you loved me. You'd buy me one.)

But back to business.

The other day, while we were at Canadian Tire looking at outside lights, Henkel knives that are half price this week, and baby running strollers, we met perhaps the nicest, friendliest, most inquisitive sales girl.

I had three Advent calendars in the cart.

One each for the teenagers and one for Little Man.

"Ohmigod? Is that your baby? He's sooooooooo cuuutttee!!!!!!" she squealed.

"Ohmigod! How old is he? He's so sweeeeeetttt!!!!"

"Ohmigod! What's his name?"

"Ohmigod! Did you buy him an Advent calendar? That's so nnniiiiiccee!"

I smiled at the girl.

I'm used to strangers stopping me at No Frills, Canadian Tire, Starbucks, the voting station today, to tell me how scrumptious my babe is but this girl may win the prize for most interested.

"Ohmigod! He's soooo cuutteee!!!!!" she repeated again, as she followed us around through housewares.

"But wait a minute. Is he old enough to have chocolate?"

"The kid is two and a half months old, lady," I thought to myself.

Is he allowed to have Advent calendar chocolate?

Ah, no.

I smiled to myself as I left the store.

I probably would have wondered the same thing when I was 17.

OK, OK, I would have wondered the same thing last year.

But that doesn't make me a bad mother who doesn't deserve a snowglobe.

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy

So, my inbox has been bombarded with requests for me to post a picture of the BF.

I've been hesitant until now mostly because he's so HHOOTTT that I fear if you log on to www.sarahcrosbie.com, your computer may, in fact, melt.

But, because there are so many requests, I can no longer ignore the basic concept of supply and demand.

So, tomorrow morning, Tuesday, I will post a pic of the BF.

As Nelly says: It's gettin' hot in here. So take off all your clothes ...

And on Monday: Is it safe to feed your two-month-old Advent calendar chocolate?

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Minos is My God

I'm a stubborn, stubborn girl.
I don't need help, your help. I like doing things on my own.
Usually.

Last week, I went shopping at a Kingston grocery store. I also had Little Man with me.
When I go grocery shopping, I refuse to put my babe in those grimy baby seats attached to the top of the cart.
I know what comes out of my Little Man's bum bum. So, I don't want him sitting anywhere where there have been other mustard poo bums. So I put him in his carseat and put the carseat in the grocery cart and pack all the bacon, Pop Tarts, chocolate milk, Diet Coke, Wheat Thins and blocks of old cheese around him.

The other day, I had so many groceries, Little Man had to hold Fruit Roll-Ups for me.

When it came time to bag the groceries and leave the store, I realized I had so much I'd have to take Little Man out and carry him with one hand, pack the cart full and push it with my other hand, and put the pop, bleach and a jug of juice on the rack under the cart.

So, here I am, on a rainy day leaving the store, pushing the cart with one hand, lugging Little Man in his carrier in the other. And, because the pop, bleach and a jug of juice were rolling off of the bottom rack, I had to use one foot to repeatedly kick them back on the shelf.

Sarah Crosbie, three-ring circus. That's me.

As I said, I'm stubborn. I don't need help, your help.
Usually.

But I did that day.

Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick pop back onto rack so it doesn't fall off.
Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick bleach back onto rack so it doesn't fall off.
Push the cart. Carry the baby. Kick the jug of juice onto rack so it doesn't fall off.

One, two, three, four, five people walked by me.
"Please," I thought, "let someone ask if they can push my cart to the car."
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten more people walked by me.
"Please," I thought, "let someone ask if they can carry the bleach that's about to roll off again ..."
No one did.
***
The other night, our family ordered the family pack and an extra small Caesar salad from the downtown Minos takeout restaurant at the corner of Barrie and Queen streets. Sure, we're on mat and pat leave and our budget is tight, but sometimes you just need a break from baking chicken fingers for the kiddies, you know?

So, here I am, Super Sarah Crosbie going to pick up our dinner.
I'd told the BF and the kids to come straight home and me, the hero, would go, with Little Man, and get the dinner.

I've been sick and I wasn't thinking straight and I assumed that a whole roasted chicken, a pound of baby back ribs, a large Greek salad, a large rice, a large potato, a cup of gravy, four buns and two pieces of cheesecake, plus that extra Caesar salad, would fit into two bags.
I'd carry Little Man with one hand and dinner in the other.
I got a sweet parking spot right in front of Minos and ran inside quickly so Little Man didn't get wet in the rain.

When I got inside, the man behind the counter, the man who's always there and I've always suspected is somewhat strict, possibly even surly, put one, two, three, four, five bags on the counter.

Panic set in. There was no way I could carry all of this.

Memories of grocery shopping, memories of needing help, gripped me.

I instantly saw myself as a feature on the six o'clock CKWS TV news.

I had only two options.
Option A: Ask the man if I could leave my two-month old baby with him for a second, seven seconds tops, while I ran the bags of food out to my car. That was the worse of the two options. What if someone ran in and kidnapped him? What if he got burned by baby back ribs? What if someone slipped and fell on him? I'd be on the news and my defence would be, "Well, uh, I left him for only seven seconds."

Option B: Run Little Man out to the car, which was parked right in front of the restaurant, lock the doors, run inside, grab the food and run back out. I could do it in less than seven seconds I was sure. But what if, in those seven seconds, someone punched in my window and stole my baby? I'd be on the news and my defence would be, "Well, uh, I left him for only seven seconds."

I stood there in Minos looking dumbfounded.

"Something wrong?" the man behind the counter asked.

"I'm just going to leave the food here for a second while I run my child to the car," I said.

I was parked close enough that I was literally going to be able to keep an eye on my child and roasted chicken at the same time.

"No!" he said, rather assertively.

With that, he summoned the help of another man there, maybe a delivery driver, maybe a friend, maybe a customer, and the two men grabbed my bags, and carried them out to my car.

All that delicious food, plus a dose of chivalry, plus peace of mind, for just $42.90?

So, to you, Mr. Man Behind The Counter, this Kingston mommy thanks you and I'll be back (with more hands next time.)

SarahCrosbie.com gives the mommy-friendliness of the staff at Minos, 340 Barrie St., four thumbs up (two of mine, two of Little Man's.)

Just one more thing: Man Behind The Counter – where and when do you do your grocery shopping?

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Sneeze Like It's 1999

There is no sassyness in Sassyville today.

Little Man had his two-month shots this week. He was supposed to feel ill, perhaps be a little irritable.

Instead, I'm the one who is ill. And he's a super fine, smiling babe.

I feel like poo. My eyes are watering. My nose is running, my head is pounding.

I am crank-o-rama. I have not been sick since 1999.

But because I believe in the power of positive thinking, I'm trying to smile about a number of things today:

1. Britney is divorcing K-Fed. Rock on, you divorcing mama.
2. The bad evil Republicans lost the House of Representatives to the Democrats. Ha! Suckers!
3. My baby is the cutest baby in the world. (Yes, he's cuter than yours. Sorry. It's true.)
4. I'm having Minos takeout for dinner.

Sorry, that's all there is today.

Pray for the Democrats to take the U.S. Senate. (At blog press time, the results were still undecided.)

Maybe there is a God ...

(But if there is a god, wouldn't she have created a medicine breastfeeding mothers can take when they're sick that won't be passed to their babes or decrease milk supply?)

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Hey Kingston city council candidates - How old are you?

For the past two days in my paper, The Kingston Whig-Standard, municipal election candidates have filled the editorial pages with answers to serious and silly questions such as what is your first priority on council and if someone were to play you in a movie, whom would you pick?

One question – How old are you? – seems to have stumped four candidates.

• Brian Evoy
• Vicki Schmolka
• Anna Robertson
• Leonore Foster

Now, I don't know what's going on with you Mr. Brian Evoy, but I can only guess that Vicki Schmolka, Anna Robertson and Leonore Foster haven't given their numbers either because:
a) These educated and accomplished women don't know how old they are;
b) They're embarrassed about their age.

What's wrong with you ladies? You've raised families, spent years working on council and on various committees to better Kingston and you've completed post-secondary education.

You're willing to out your husband and partner's names but you're not willing to say how old you are? You're willing to say your favourite CDs are Fallen by Evanescence, workout music and Brahms Violin Concerto but you're not willing to say how old you are? You're willing to say Emma Thompson, Meryl Streep and Kingston actor Nicole Rea (my note: Most lovely woman in the world) would play you in movies, but you're not willing to say how old you are?

This, my female friends, is ridiculous.

The other day, I was having dinner with a bunch of girlfriends. One admitted that she was about to turn 30. I asked her if she was freaking out: Nope, she said. While she nibbled on naan bread and chowed down on her onion bhaji, she said life is a blessing, there's so much to do in a short time and as she gets older, life just gets more delicious because there are so many different things to sample and savour.

Then, she realized that, oops, she turned 30 last year. This year, she's turning 31.

Turning 30, it seems, was such an event, it was a non-event.

I can only assume that Vicki, Anna and Leonore don't want to put down your ages because you're what society would call "older."

But isn't that great? That you could sit next to Sara Meers or Kindra Breau at the horseshoe? Both of these candidates are in their 20s. Wouldn't it be great for the women, for the people of Kingston, to have younger and older female voices representing Kingstonians? Wow, what a crazy idea. Diversity. Far out, man.

You also, as city council candidates, should believe in openness and truth. If I can't trust you to tell me your age, why should I trust you on much more important issues like your main concerns: The Third Crossing of the Cataraqui River, taxes and affordable housing?

You, women who refuse to acknowledge your age, are part of the reason why society is obsessed with youth, beauty and too-taut skin. I think us younger women want to be able to age gracefully but say "God damn it, I'm freakin' 54 years old and I look fabulous!"

Our obsession with youth has become the talk of the world (again) lately thanks to Dove's new commercial that features a pretty girl becoming a supermodel with the help of makeup, bigger hair, and mucho Photoshopping. It should illustrate to all young girls that the models and celebrities we see in magazines are not human beings. They are computer-beautiful.

Three women recently stuck it to me - see comments under the post titled Don't Cha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me - because I had the audacity to say that us women should fight for our bodies and our beauty and we owed it to our children and husbands/partners/girlfriends/wives to look hot.

Forget sticking it to me. Readers should stick it to you, Anna, Leonore, Vicki – and you too Brian.

As Mark Montano says every day on 10 Years Younger (1 and 1:30 p.m. on TLC, channel 16 in Kingston - hey, I have to do something while breastfeeding), Vicki, Leonore and Anna: Just how old are you?

Go on, give your ages under the comments section here and right your wrong.

Sara Meers is 26.
Lisa Osanic is 39.
Kindra Breau is 25.
Dorothy Hector is turning 45.
Joyce Macleod-Kane is 47.

I, Sarah Crosbie, am 29.

Yes, that means I'll be 30 next year.

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Daughter of a Teacher Man

Do you ever wonder who really reads all those e-mail forwards that clog your inbox?
Well, I know two people who do: God bless 'em, my mom and dad do.

Last week, my dad sent me one titled something like: You Know You Lived Through the 1960s if ...

Tonight, this is what I got.

It's absolutely the perfect forward for them - they're both teachers.

They're probably going to be sorta mad that I put this on my blog but to make up for it, I'll say this: I actually think it's kinda cute.

I know they also sent it to me because as soon as Little Man was born, I started asking people not to speak to him in that goo-goo ga-ga wookie-pookie dookie-lookie kind of way all the time. The baby talk drives me a little nuts.

(Even though he's so damn cute I catch myself doing it sometimes.)

So, in the spirit of forwarding, I'm forwarding this on to you.

P.S. I'm very disappointed in the sad number of people who posted the top 5 romantic things their partner does for them under Sarah Shares With Rebecca Eckler. Stop watching the Grey's Anatomy you Tivo-ed last night and be romantic, gosh darn it!

THE FORWARD

Always be careful what you say to kids.

A group of kindergartners were trying very hard to become accustomed to the first grade. The biggest hurdle they faced was that the teacher insisted on NO baby talk!

"You need to use 'Big People' words," she was always reminding them.

She asked Chris what he had done over the weekend? "I went to visit my
Nana."
"No, you went to visit your GRANDMOTHER. Use 'Big People' words!"

She then asked Mitchell what he had done. "I took a ride on a choo-choo."

She said "No, you took a ride on a TRAIN. You must remember to use 'Big People' words."

She then asked little Alec what he had done? "I read a book," he replied.
"That's WONDERFUL!" the teacher said. "What book did you read?"

Alec thought real hard about it, then puffed out his chest with great pride, and said, "Winnie the SHIT."

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We're No. 1. OK. That's a Lie. We're No. 1.9 millionth

Heard of Technorati? It's a site that tracks and rates all the blogs in the whole world.

More than 175,000 blogs are added every day.

Currently, the site is tracking 58.7 million blogs.

Crosbiemania is the No. 1.9 millionth popular one! (the last time I checked). Yee haw!


First of all, thank you to the academy.
Every little girl dreams of this moment.
Wow, I can't believe this is happening.

I'd also like to thank my parents without whom I'd have no funny stories to share.
Thank you, mom and dad.

I'd like to thank the BF. Without you, there'd be no gushy stories to share.
You are my light.

I'd like to thank my baby boy, who inspires me every day to be a better person, a better writer and most importantly, a better blogger.

I'd also like to thank the other children. You know who you are. Without you, I'd be, like, so random and I'd have a bad blog and you know what that would be: Dagger!

Wait! Don't put the exit music on yet! I'm not finished!

Most importantly, I'd like to thank you, the fans. Without you, Crosbiemania wouldn't be possible.

Thank you! I love you!

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Don't Cha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me

I've used it as a rainjacket. So has the BF.
Once, it was a picnic blanket.
I think I used it to wrap breakables once when I was moving after I ran out of wrapping paper, Kleenex, toilet paper, bubble wrap and towels.
Once during a big fight with the BF, I got all defiant and refused to sleep in our room with him. Thinking, 'I'll show him,' I took the couch. (The first and last time that's happened, I'll tell you.) I was so stubborn that I refused to go back in our bedroom for blankets so I just pulled out all my jackets from the closet. It may have been in that pile.
But yesterday, something miraculous happened.
At exactly 9:45 a.m., I used my running jacket as, wait for it, a running jacket.
Well, a power walking jacket is more like it but it was the first time I've ever used it for exercise.

I got it for Christmas in 2002.

As part of Operation Smokin' Body, I have joined a power walking/conditioning class.
If you're pregnant or you've just had a baby, you should check out a group I found called Body Now 4 Mums run by a lovely drill sergeant named Tracie Smith-Beyak.

I didn't even know Kingston had a training group that focuses on pre and post-natal workouts until I saw a picture of some women (rock on, girls) working out in my very own paper.

Every Wednesday, we lunge, squat (damn you squat! - hey, doesn't that sound very Lady Macbeth-ish?) power walk, walk stairs, stretch and have some gab time.
And it kicks the crap out of me. Just cause ya pop out a babe eight weeks ago doesn't mean Tracie - who, by the way, did 2,000 crunches last week, which is double the amount Former Abs Queen Britney Spears used to do in a week - is going to be kind.
She kicks our butts and let me tell you ... mine spread out during pregnancy so I need some serious butt kicking and toning.

So, why go through the torture of working out just weeks after giving birth:
1. You have a responsibility to yourself to look and feel good;
2. You have a responsibility to your child/children to look and feel good;
3. You have a responsibility to your man/woman to look and feel good. This one actually may be the most important because - stay with me, folks - if you don't look and feel good, your man/woman won't dig you, want you, do you, which means, you won't feel good - so what's the point of working out halfheartedly and not seeing any results? Nothing really. That's why I like the thought of Tracie going all G.I. Jane on my butt over the next few months and going full throttle.

No man says "Hey! I've got a great idea. I want to be with a frumpy hag, who only wears pink flowered track pants, which hopefully hug her mommy belly and are so tight, her underwear is cutting each bum cheek in two. Maybe, if I'm lucky, she'll never do anything with her hair. She'll only wear it in a ponytail in a big scrunchie. (A shoutout here to Carrie Bradshaw.) And, if there is a God, she'll buy and wear Crocs in every single colour. But most of all, please let her be 17 pounds overweight and totally out of shape. A guy could only be so lucky ...")

You were hot when you met him/her and so you have a responsibility to keep your hotness. Forget aging gracefully. It's all about the god damn lunges.

Don't you think fewer people would have affairs if their lovers didn't let themselves go?

I do. Maybe that stings, but it's a cruel, cruel world, people.

Next week, I'll be back in my running jacket, hoofing it up the stairs and lunging my heart out.

It's survival of the fittest.
And here is the rest of it.

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A Letter to All You Second-Time Around Daddies: You're Bootiful

I fell in love with my man all over again tonight.

Thank you, Halloween.

I've never been a fan of the Oct. 31 spooktacular. Stupidtacular, was more like it.
I love playing dressup, but adding warts, lumps, bumps? Not my thing.
Usually I put on a miniskirt, some fishnets, some bangles and tell everyone who asks: Yes, I'm Pat Benatar.
Really, I'm Sarah Crosbie in a miniskirt, some fishnets and some bangles.
Yesterday though, was different.
The BF is Halloween obsessed. Is there a clinical term for someone consumed with the orange and black holiday, I wonder?

For weeks, he's been buying bits and pieces for our house: A furry black spider. A fog machine. A skeleton. A baby black spider. A tombstone.
Weeks ago, he came home so excited I thought we'd won the jackpot. Ah, no. He merely wanted to tell me how we were going to have sound effects at our home - thunder and lightning.

Yesterday, in Kingston, it rained almost the whole day. I was sure it was going to thunder and lightning for real and it would ruin the BF and all the kiddies' excitement, but the rain held during the precious hours from 5 to 9 p.m.

So much work went into decorating our home, I'm sure it was the best one in town.
The BF had a million wires running from the inside of our house to the hedges outside which concealed lights and speakers so he could simulate thunder and lightning.

A giant spider hung from our house - and controlled by the man, the wizard, behind the curtain.

A skeleton spun around our front porch - created from two oscillating fans.

Would, could our little display weather the storm?

But it didn't matter to me if it rained all night and no one showed up; just seeing the BF put it altogether was worth all the money, time, energy and sweat that went into the project. He says he does it because he loves scaring the kiddies. I think he also did it because I'd never seen his haunted house. I also think he did it because his children love it. And because his new son, though he's only two months old, had never seen anything like it.

Which brings to me what I really want to say: Our elaborate Halloween setup made me realize just how hard and demanding it is to be a second-time-around daddy.

Us younger gals who fall in love with these men (and there are many of us) demand that:

A) They love us;
B) They commit to us;
C) They stay faithful to us;
D) And, if we want them, they have children with us - even though if they're in their 30s, 40s or 50s, they've likely already had children.

Sure, it's a compliment to these guys that we want their children.

Many of us want their babies because we have the privilege of already seeing what they're like as fathers.

The BF is already an outstanding father. I saw that the first time I had breakfast with him and his son. We were sitting at Dennys, eating pancakes and eggs, and the BF kept his arm around his son's shoulder the whole time.

It was then that I knew he was a stellar father.

So, these guys fall in love with younger women and they instantly know they have to make a huge sacrifice. Instead of living the stereotypical life of an older man - sleeping in, visiting the kids at university, wining and dining, travelling and, I need to say it one more time, sleeping in, these guys are doing it all over again.

Waking at 4 a.m. to help with feedings. Buying baby toys. Talking about what kind of day care we want. Being thrifty while we survive with one less paycheque while I stay at home for a year. Waking at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., 6 a.m. Changing mustard poo diapers.

Decorating another house for Halloween - and now knowing you'll be doing it for the next 17 years. When you're 64.

To all of you who are brave enough (crazy enough? maybe you're senile already?) to do this all over again, thank you.

What would our lives be without you?

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