Sometimes we have to lie for Santa

This was the first year my son was really interested in Christmas. He is, after all, only two and a half. His first Christmas, he was four months old. He slept through it in his swing. Last year, at a year and a half, he sorta got it, but really just liked scrunching up the used wrapping paper. This year, he understood that a magical fat man named Santa Claus was going to slide down our chimney and bring presents. (And candy. He was quite persistent that Santa would bring candy, too.)
Of course, Christmas morning, my son didn't remember it was Christmas morning.
"Do you know what time it is?" I asked after he'd gotten up and had spent cuddle time (read: more time for mommy to sleep) in our bed.
"Cereal!" he screamed.
"Ah, no. What's today?" I asked him, again.
"Cereal. Mommy? Can I have the ones with marshmallows?"
Once we got past the fact that Dec. 25 is about more than Lucky Charms, we went to the fireplace to open our stockings - which is when I got myself in a bit of a Christmas pickle.
My husband and I had decided that because the economy is so fragile, we wouldn't give each other presents this year so that we could save money. But I couldn't resist and so I bought him a few things for his stocking. (I think stockings are separate from Christmas presents, so technically I didn't break the rules. And we all know that Santa only stuffs children's stockings so adults have to take care of themselves.)
I bought Daddy some chocolate covered almonds, orange-chocolate balls and some red licorice. It probably cost $6, but I did break the rules. Maybe. I'm still not convinced.
As my son tore open his stockings and looked at all the candy - Christmas M&Ms, NERDS, and chocolate covered raisins, he noticed in a very Sesame Street moment that one of the stockings was not like the others.
"Mommy? Where's your stocking?"
Mine was on the fireplace with my son's, his stepbrother and sister's and my husband's - all of them full of trinkets, candy and little gifts.
I told my son I had already opened my stocking.
He looked at me, his face all scrunched up trying to understand the situation.
"No it's empty, mommy!"
It was empty. It's true, I had broken the rules and put stuff in my husband's stocking even though we said no gifts, but still – no one had bought me even a $1.19 chocolate bar for my stocking.
Later that night, I told my mom about how my son had noticed my stocking was empty (yes, because, once again, I had chosen to break the rules.)
"Sarah," my mother said.
"Every year, I bought something for my own stocking. It's something mothers do."
Well, let me just say this: Next year Sarah's stocking is going to have some pretty good stuff in it then!





And here is the rest of it.

There might be more(or not)

Merry Christmas – time to "makeup"

With children and teenagers running around with cellphones, Blackberrys and iPhones, it's a wonder they haven't learned to take over the world yet. Because, as we all know, children are smarter and more ingenious than adults - and it's proved year after year after year when it comes to the hiding/finding of Christmas presents.
Adults - me included - are twits when it comes to hiding things. All of our presents for the children have been stuffed in our closet for the past six weeks - partially out of busyness and partially out of laziness. My two-year-old son or teenaged stepchildren could have walked in, taken a survey of their treasures and known all before Christmas Day. But you have to hope that by the late teen years, some of the snooping stops. And my toddler? Well, he likes the Christmas wrapping cardboard tubes best anyway.
Sometimes though, present snooping will get you. It got me one year, back in the '90s.
My parents tried many hiding places. One year, in the late 1980s, they hid my She-Ra: Princess of Power doll (she was the sister of He-Man from Masters of the Universe, very 80s) under their bed. For a month, I'd get her out of the Zellers bag and play with her, pretending to stroke her golden hair through the protective plastic. That same year, they bought me one of those white charity teddy bears The Bay always used to sell - they had little red scarves. I played with him, too in the days leading up to Christmas because my parents hid him under their bed with She-Ra.
Love you mom and dad, but duh.
After that incident - because I confessed on Christmas I'd been playing with them forever - my parents started taking our presents to relatives' houses but that became a pain when you wanted to wrap them, or check them out to see what kind of batteries they took, so the gifts returned to our house. One year, when it was time to start snooping, I had a vision. I just instantly knew where everything was, so I went to the keys in our front hall and grabbed the one for the Volkswagon Jetta, an old car that was rusted to the ground in our garage that dad was always supposed to be doing something with, according to my mother. I popped the trunk open and there they were - the motherload. (If this was a TV show, a church choir dressed in burgundy robes would have popped out of the back seat and started to sing Hallelujah!)
And there, in the trunk, was a gift I hadn't asked for but one that was really creative and cool and useful, unlike so many other presents that parents buy teenagers.
My parents had bought me a professional-style makeup mirror, one with lights so that you could change the colour and brightness of the lights to office, or evening or daytime so that your makeup would be suited to your environment. I loved it. I was excited. I had great parents.
On Christmas morning, I opened gift after gift after gift, waiting for my makeup mirror. I got junky jewelry and bad turtlenecks and a nice hair brush set from my brother. I didn't mind these gifts because I knew the mirror was coming. But as the morning went on, there was no mirror. And then, Christmas seemed to be over. But I thought my parents were just tricking me.
"Christmas is done. Did you have a good one?" my mother asked.
I sat there looking smug, knowing they were going to pull out one last gift for my brother and me.
And then, so predictable, my dad reached behind his chair and pulled out another gift - it was the makeup mirror. I knew the shape of the box.
"Here you go," my dad said ...
... and he handed the box to my mother.

Crosbiemania wishes everyone a very merry Christmas and reminds everyone that snoopers never prosper.

There might be more(or not)

Thanks Mom, Dad. I've always wanted an S&M outfit!

There's a universal truth in the Crosbie household about Christmas presents when it comes to clothing gifts.
If the piece of clothing is from my dad, usually we keep it.
If it's from my mother? It goes back.
The tradition of returning the clothes started when I was 12 years old and in Grade 6. I remember tearing into a gift box and pulling out a sweatshirt with a Scottie dog on the front. It wasn't so bad until I saw what was printed below the dog: "I love Scotties."
This was a problem.
When I was 12, I loved a boy named Scott. He was the best dancer at my school. (Bestowing such a strange honour on a 12-year-old boy always reminds me of bad girl Cha Cha Di Gregorio in Grease saying "They call me Cha Cha because I'm the best dancer at St. Bernadette's".)
It was only a few months before Christmas that I'd made my dad drive me to Scott's house so I could drop off a Secret Admirer card at his home – except, when I got to his house, someone turned on the porch light and started to open the front door.
I chucked the card on the front window of his family's station wagon and ran for my own wagon.
"Go, go, go!" I screamed at my dad once I was in the car, hiding on the floor.
I never knew whether Scott or his family saw me – which meant, of course, that I could not wear an "I Love Scotties" shirt to school.
So, back it went.
Years and Christmases went by. There were shirts, pants, jackets and blouses that all got returned on Boxing Day.
My mom always had a line though, pleading for the clothes' safety: "But Sarah! It's a Haggar!" she'd say.
"But mom, it's frilly," I'd respond.
Or, "But it's a London Fog from the petites section!"
"But mom, it's sooooo mommy!" I'd cry. "It's for an old person, a 30-year-old – not for a teenager!"
The flip side went something like this: "Oooh, cool jacket! Thanks dad. Love it. Love you!"
"How'd you know your father picked that out?" my mom would ask.
"Because I like it," I'd respond sarcastically.
But one Christmas, everything went awry.
My brother and I had ripped open all of our small stuff and now it was time to get to the big stuff – the good stuff.
I grabbed a box, tore it open and slowly looked inside. It was a … pleather vest.
Hmm. Not great. Not bad. But not great.
My brother went next and opened something – maybe a tennis racquet? It doesn't matter. All I know is that it wasn't pleather.
I grabbed another box …
Oh no... What was she thinking?
I slowly pulled out a pair of black pleather pants.
"It goes with the vest!" my mother shrieked excitedly.
"Uh huh. I can see that," I said.
A two-piece pleather outfit? Where would I wear such a thing?
Another gift for my brother, and then it was my turn.
I slowly pulled the paper off a box. This gift had to make up for the pleather ensemble.
But ... oh ... no....
It was a black pleather jacket.
My mother bought me a three-piece black pleather suit? Maybe it would look Ok on, I thought.
I ran upstairs and put all three pieces on, and then ran back downstairs to get a a look at myself in our full-length mirror in our front hall.
I looked like a burnt marshmallow. Or a suburban Catwoman who got her gear at a department store. Or a biker. Or an S&M wannabe.
This was a million times worse than the Scottie Dog sweatshirt.
"You love it, don't you?" my mother asked, as she watched me study myself in our mirror. (I was in shock. She thought I was in awe.)
"I knew you'd love it. Your father picked it out!" she said.

And here is the rest of it.

There might be more(or not)

Three Tiny Christmas Shopping Blog Tales - All From The Same Day

Christmas Tale No. 1

I'm buying 37 Christmas cards at once. One for my mom. One for my dad. One for my mom and dad together. One for my brother. One for my son. One from my son for his grandparents. The list goes on.
As I'm picking out cards and rating their cry factor - cards at my house that score at least a 7.5 out of 10 will elicit tears from my mother. An eight also gets a high five from me to my brother or father and vice versa. A nine deserves a tackle. How'd you out do my card?! And a 10? Well, I'm not sure Hallmark has made one of those yet.
As I'm choosing cards (and let me just say I've picked some doozies this year) an older woman comes up to me and watches me as I rock Little Man with my foot while he's in his car seat. "How old?" she asks. "Just over three months," I say. She stands there. Staring, staring, staring, staring at my baby ... Finally, she whispers "I'm sorry. It's just that I want to be a grandmother so much." She crawls away, whimpering. I make a mental note to call my mother and tell her she's a good grandma.


Christmas Tale No. 2

I'm in an electronics store buying an Xbox game for my bro.*
I pick out of game. I've got a $59.99 treat in one hand and Little Man in the other. I head to the cashier.
The cashier, an older man, probably in his 50s or 60s, smiles and says: "You know you have to be 17 to buy that game? Can I see some ID, please, ma'am?"
Ah, he must have been blind but it made my day.
He also made me a teenage mommy.


Christmas Tale No. 3
Back to the card store: As I'm rummaging through the cards trying to see if there's one that says "Merry Christmas to my personal trainer" - and why not because there are ones for the paper delivery boy - I spy on a couple in their 30s who are having one heck of a time buying cards. The man is bragging about how, when it comes to cards, he can pick a good one. The woman is wandering around, questioning his decisions. Finally, they separate for a few minutes and the man discovers a section of the store where all the cards play songs. He picks one up and opens it to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. Opens it again to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. This goes on a number of times. Finally, his wife reappears and tells him she doesn't think they should waste money on cards that play music. "Well, this one was going to be your card anyway," he says. She tells him she hates the fact that every year they buy their Christmas cards for each other together.
Together?!
Wow, holy romantic.

*Note: Xbox game may or may not be for my brother. Can not say for sure on the grounds it may incriminate me and ruin Christmas Day.

There might be more(or not)

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.

There might be more(or not)

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.)

There might be more(or not)

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?

There might be more(or not)

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.

There might be more(or not)