Fishnets, knee-high boots and charity

A couple of days ago, when I was supposed to be working, I was actually out on a lunch date. The night before, my toddler son had asked me to draw pictures of him and his mommy and daddy. "What's dat?" he asked, pointing to a picture I'd drawn of myself, which, unfortunately for me, resembled an illustration of Star Trek's Spock. (I was a straight-A student in high school, who struggled to get 60s and 70s in art.)
"That's a skirt," I said.
"Skirt?" he asked.
"Yes, skirt," I replied.
"Mommy, you don't wear skirts! You wear hockey skates."
It was one of those smack-me-upside-the-head moments, where I realized that, in fact, I had worn skates more than skirts in the past month:
Skates: 3.
Skirts: 0.
So, with my fishnet stockings, mini black skirt and knee-high boots, I set off to work, ready to take my sweetie out for lunch and play hooky for a few hours.
We met up for lunch at Confederation Place Hotel, where we greeted by the delicious smell of hearty stuffing, loaded with herbs; moist, glistening turkey; and a view of Kingston's snow-sprinkled harbour that's fit for a snowglobe.
I was already seated when my husband came up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder to gently let me know he was there, and then bent down and kissed me, stealing some of my sparkly pink lipstick.
Ah, it was just the two of us …
… and more than 100 Kingstonians who also wanted to give underprivileged local teenagers a Christmas.
Operation Teen Christmas 2008 was a lunch with a silent and live auction to raise money so that teenagers can have a gift under the tree on Dec. 25. Teenagers are often overlooked when it comes to clothing and toy drives. Last year, the Salvation Army decided to do something about it and started this lunch. Tickets were $25. Money was also raised through the auctions. Diners had the opportunity to bid on 10, eight-person turkey dinners that would be delivered to needy families on Christmas Eve.
Fellow diners who attended last year said the gathering was much larger this year. And next year, like any three-year-old, it could be an event that's wonderfully out-of-control, because I tell you, it's only a matter of time before others learn about this event and it sells out.
Sure, you have to sneak out of work for a few hours, but how can anything be bad that feels sooo good?
After a delicious lunch, two cups of coffee, and a few bites of mini carrot cakes and Nanaimo bars – each table had their own platter of desserts with brownies and chocolate-covered strawberries – it was time for my date with my husband to come to an end.
Life is busy, especially this time of year, and everyone I know craves more time with their significant other. Next year, think about turning Operation Teen Christmas into your own lunch-time sneak-away.
It's better to give than to receive, but this event is a win-win situation: By buying a $25 lunch, you're raising money for the Salvation Army to give a teenager a gift so that she can still believe in Christmas magic and you get to go on a week-day date. And be a little naughty. Or nice.
Operation Teen Christmas 2009? I'd like to reserve two tickets, please.
Whoever said fishnet stockings and charity don't mix?

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Wanna make me smile? Wiggle that thang.

Spend a decade covering entertainment as a columnist, reporter and editor, and you can become jaded. When musicians, actors, comics and artists are starting out, they ask and plead for coverage and they're happy for any help they get. Sometimes, depending on how many events are going on in the city, how busy reporters are, and the size of the newspaper, all we can offer them is a listing: Their name, location of the event, time it starts and cost of admission.

Often, they're grateful and appreciative. Usually, we do much better: Every week, we publish [in the Ticket] photos and feature stories on local artists and out-of-town artists performing/exhibiting/ entertaining in the Kingston area. A story usually warrants a heap of love from the person being profiled.

You always hope that when they say they'll remember you when they make it big, they mean it.

Having the K-Rock Centre has ushered in a new level of frustration for those of us who cover entertainment. Bigger stars equal bigger shows, but bigger headaches, too.

We try to give our readers superior coverage but that's hard to do when Sheryl Crow would only do preshow interviews with two radio stations and Avril Lavigne's handlers levied a heavy contract on us about what we could and couldn't do with the photographs we took and refused to give her hometown newspaper an interview. Photographers in Canada are already buzzing on the 'Net about the fact they haven't been allowed to shoot the Bob Dylan show. (Kingston could change that on Nov. 15).

But it doesn't have to be this way. When the Little Guy becomes the Big Guy, The Guy can still be gracious and accommodating. I have proof of it from Anthony, Jeff, Murray and Sam.

It's true: Avril Lavigne could learn a thing or two from The Wiggles.

The Australian entertainers were in town Tuesday to perform for one of the toughest crowds: Children; hungry, overtired, overexcited, poopy-in-their-diapers, (Oh, was that just my kid?) children.

These four singers -middle-aged men who are known as the yellow Wiggle (Sam), the red Wiggle (Murray), the blue Wiggle (Anthony) and purple Wiggle (Jeff) - started the show by leaving the stage and walking around to meet the concertgoers.

What's scarier - Lavigne having to walk through a crowd of teens or Wiggles dancing through throngs of children who will be out for blood soon if they don't hear classics like Dorothy the Dinosaur and Fruit Salad (Yummy, Yummy). I think the Wiggles take the bigger risk by leaving the stage.

I may be the only person who saw Lavigne at the K-Rock Centre and thought the concert was a snoozefest. Everyone I talked to looovved her. She didn't interact with the audience and there was no dancing. Yes, the hot pink piano was sexy and her vocals were good, but her show, in terms of entertainment? Not good enough for such a seasoned performer.

The Wiggles, on the other hand, mixed song with dance - including the famed lift from Dirty Dancing - with acrobatics and comedy. Murray (Mr. red Wiggle) was outed by his band-mates, who told the crowd he was named the sixth best guitarist in Australia. To show the adults he has a sense of humour, he played the opening to Stairway to Heaven.

The Wiggles' publicist also called us and asked if we'd like an interview - and which Wiggle we'd like to interview. They called us?! Huh?

Yes, these guys are children's entertainers but they're rock stars for anyone under eight. And they're rich.

Maybe they're truly gracious or maybe they're brilliant self promoters, but it doesn't matter. I was entertained. Performers who come to the K-Rock Centre have a new standard to attain. They better Wiggle it.
And here is the rest of it.

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Wanted: A jock strap to fit a two-year-old!

I swear we were looking for a rake.
We have a large red maple in our backyard that coats our lawn and another maple on our front lawn that blankets that grass, too.
My son was asking for a rake and so, I thought, it could only be a good thing to teach him some manual labour at the tender age of two.
When I was a kid (and a teen), I hated doing yard work with my parents. I always had this silly thought that the cool kids were going to be driving by my house at the same time I was raking and they'd think I was a loser. But here's the thing: from the yard, with a rake in your hand, it may seem like the cool kids are driving by in slooooomo mocking you, but when you're in a car, driving by someone's house, you don't have time to assess everything going on in the street, have time to mock the raker, and then look cool driving away. Plus, there's no shame in helping your parents.
Except, we couldn't find a toy rake anywhere, so we headed to the used kids' stores, where we've found some incredible deals.
The second we walked in the door of one of the stores, my son saw "them." They were on the floor, a little dusty, basically hidden under a rack of kids' winter coats and snow pants.
"Skates!" my son screamed.
For the past month, my son has been asking for skates. But he's two. Whose two-year-old has ice skates?
Ah, mine does.
If he wasn't my son, I'd think he had wacko parents who were forcing him to pick up a stick and wear skates in the hopes of being the next Sidney Crosbie, er, Crosby.
My son is an interesting study in nature versus nurture. I can't skate. His father, however, is a goalie and his 15-year-old brother plays rep hockey.
As soon as our toddler son turned one, he became obsessed with all things hockey and never left the house without a hockey stick. This isn't something we forced on him; it was something he wanted to do. In fact, I promptly put him in music lessons to counteract his obsession with the (outrageously expensive) game. But he persevered.
In the summer and fall, we played hockey in the driveway. In the winter, we were forced into the garage. Sure, he's had a wandering eye (he is male, after all). He had a thing for diggers and, for awhile, he couldn't get enough of screwdrivers, but lately, it has been all hockey all the time.
I don't know how he spotted these skates, but there they were: size eight skates and just $10.
We bought them and brought them home. He walked across our lawn in his skates to show the neighbours, ate his dinner sitting on the couch wearing them and went to bed with his skates on his night table so he could see them as he fell asleep.
When his father got home later that night, and went into our son's room to give him a good-night kiss, he woke up, pointed at his skates, and in his sleep whispered: "I bought skates!"
The next morning, my son woke up, got his skates and carried them to the breakfast table.
"Mommy. I need a homot." A what? "A homot."
So, there we were, first thing on a Sunday morning at Canadian Tire, with all the other hockey parents.
We grabbed a helmet, made for two-to-five-year-olds, (seriously, what two-year-old needs to skate?) and headed home. But when we got home, my son had one final request: "I need goves," he announced.
We told him no-no, there would be no gloves. A few minutes later, he appeared with an old pair of volleyball knee pads on his hands. "Goves!" he shouted with glee. I don't even want to know what he's going to do with his Winnie The Pooh sippy cup.
And here is the rest of it.

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Secret revealed: How to get Sarah to shut up

Door to door, the trip from my front door to my parents' cottage is four and a half hours, which is a long time for adults and a really long time for a two year old.

We bought a DVD player for the car so he can watch Mighty Machines, Finding Nemo and The Wiggles but the DVD viewing will end in a year or two and I will subject him to the Crosbie car fun. We will sing Down By the Bay (Did you ever see a frog sitting on a log? Did you ever see a cat wearing a hat?) and Old MacDonald.

When my brother and I were growing up, and the songs got old, we'd hold competitions, like I Spy with My Little Eye and Count the Road Signs - whoever saw and counted the most won. (The 1988 debate over whether real estate signs count for a point was never amicably resolved.)

But my all-time favourite way to pass the time on the drive to the cottage was my dad's challenge.

"Alright, Sarah, if you can be quiet for the next half an hour, and not say a word, I'll give you a quarter to spend," he'd say with a devilish grin and a twinkle in his eye.

I'd watch the clock tick from 4 p. m. to 4:09 to 4:12 to 4:24 to 4:31.

"I did it!" I'd scream. "I did it! You owe me a quarter! Let's do it again!"

The competitor in me would never lose a challenge and so I'd shut up for the two-hour drive and make myself a buck.

But my son, who's just 24 months old, can't play these silly games yet and so we rely on videos and toys to entertain him on long drives.

Only once, in his two years, have we taken him as a treat to get fast food.

We took him to McDonald's to get chicken nuggets and fries. He loved the nuggets, refused the fries, and ate heaping spoonfuls of our Thai takeout dinner. But he did love the toy. His kids' meal came with a plastic toy bird from the movie Kung Fu Panda.

Growing up, fast food was a treat in my house so I treasured the little plastic knickknacks that came bundled with the kids' meals.

I still have two plastic Fraggles and their little toy cars, a McDonald's Hamburglar in a blue race car and a Kermit the Frog that rides around on a rocking horse that was a promo toy for the animated TV show Muppet Babies.

As we headed west to the cottage on Highway 401, and lunchtime approached, I told my son we'd get something to eat and he'd get a treat.

"A treat! Oh!" he squealed. We stopped at a highway restaurant and I ordered him a kids' meal.

This was a key junction in our trip. I needed him to fill his tummy, get back in the car and then be fascinated with this new toy (as rinkydink as I knew it would be.) It just had to keep him amused long enough so that he'd be happy and eventually drift off to sleep for the final two hours of the trip.

I dumped out the nuggets and pulled out the fries and looked in the bag for the toy.

"Treat! Treat!" he yelled happily. But there was no toy in this kids'

meal. Instead, there was a disc tucked in a cardboard sleeve.

Since when did fast-food restaurants start giving out audiobooks?

"You can enjoy the adventure almost anywhere and anytime! Pop in your Listening Library CD while riding in the car, getting dressed, relaxing at home, or at bedtime," the package read.

"Here you go, sweetie," I said, handing him the square package.

"Where treat?" he asked. Exactly.

Have we really become so technological that we can't give children a toy car? What's next? A coupon for our children to download Mary Had a Little Lamb from iTunes?

(Did you ever see a boy, who didn't want a car toy? Down By the Bay!)
And here is the rest of it.

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The controlling man in my life

I need to apologize to every mother who, in my self-obsessed 20s, I condemned as being a bad parent because I thought you were letting your baby be a wild child. I know now that you don't control your toddler; he controls you.

While my 23-month-old is the apple of my eye, he's become a crab apple in the past few weeks as he learns to assert his independence.

He has two favourite sayings. If he drops something and I offer to get it, he'll reject my help: "No, I get it!"

And my baby boy who used to love being in his stroller or in a shopping cart, doesn't like to sit anymore.

"I walk!" he'll demand.

One of my favourite things to do with my son is (was) grocery shopping. He'd sit in the cart and choose green peppers for me to bag and we'd open a bag of cookies in the store and each have one.

This week, when we went shopping, I evidently brought the wrong child. Strange, how the spawn of the devil looks just like my angelic boy.

We stepped into the store and there, just a few steps in, was my worst nightmare: A bin full of pink, blue, green and purple balls.

"Balls!" my son shouted. "Balls! Balls! Balls!"

(Whoever set this display up, doesn't have children or has a vendetta against mothers.)

Before I could grab my son, he picked up two balls and then kicked them toward the broccoli. Then, he escaped under the turnstile, leaving me behind with the shopping cart.

On my way to grab him, I threw two bunches of broccoli (just 99 cents each!) into my cart and took off in my high-heeled shoes. We zipped through the pharmacy for diapers and then headed to the meat section for chicken, still playing soccer with two balls.

Then, he picked up the balls and whipped them at a frozen hamburger display and then ran away.

With five packages of cold, soggy chicken skewers under my arm, I set off to catch him, my purse still in the cart, now an aisle away.

And then he fell. Face first. The screams echoed in the store.

I picked him up and carried him back to the shopping cart, his legs like egg beaters, whirling around, kicking me in the thighs and stomach. I grabbed one ball from the frozen burgers display and chased the other, which was rolling towards the dairy section.

"I walk! I walk!" he screamed.

As soon as I put him down again, he took off. Giggling. I caught up to my son in the cereal aisle, where he threw himself on the floor and started kicking the shelf, causing boxes of bran to topple.

"Excuse me!" a woman said, exasperated as she tried to get past us. I scooped up my son again and

stuck him in the main part of the cart with the food. As I flew around the aisles, my son calmed down.

I was checking my grocery list, enjoying the peace, when a woman strutted over to my cart.

"Ma'am," she spitted. "Your son -" she paused. "Is sitting on your broccoli!" He must have sensed the hostility

because he snapped out of his happy place.

"I walk!" he screamed.

We dashed to the checkout, where my son whipped the balls at a 20-something male cashier - over and over again.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized - over and over again.

"This is the best part of my day," he said, as he rang through my flattened broccoli.

"It's fun." Fun?

And here is the rest of it.

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Meet the E-mail forward king

I’d like to bestow an honour on my father: Dad, I declare thee the E-mail Forwarding King of Canada.
Right now in my e-mail inbox I have probably a few hundred forwards he’s sent me over the past few months. I have to be honest: Most of them I don’t open because I know the e-mail is going to contain a collection of cute baby animals photographs or silly jokes. Have you heard the one about the three dads who walk into a bar on Father’s Day? No? Me neither, but I can probably get it for you. It’s undoubtedly in my father’s Forward Vault and, any day now, he’s going to unleash it on the world.
The latest one he sent me is titled: To My Wine Drinking Friends:
“Wine for Seniors,
California vintners, in the Napa Valley area, which primarily produces Pinot Blanc, Pinot Noir and Pinot Grigio wines, have developed a new hybrid grape that acts as an anti-diuretic. It is expected to reduce the number of trips older people have to make to the bathroom during the night. The new wine will be marketed as...”
(Ready for the punchline? I’m sorry to do this to you…)
“Pino More!”
Do you see why I don’t open many of these things? They’re incredibly lame. But my problem is, I know my father likes sending them to me. They’re an easy way for a father to communicate with his daughter. I don’t think there are very many dads out there who are going to sit their 31-year-old daughters down and say, “Honey. I can sense that you’re feeling overwhelmed with life. You have a busy toddler and a demanding job. Every mother and wife feels like she has to take on the world. Let’s talk. Want to grab a Green Tea Frappucino (no whip) and share?”
But e-mail forwards a nice way to say: “Hey. I’m your dad and I’m thinking about you. And wine. And bad punchlines. And cute animal baby animals.”
It has been a stressful month in my home. Our sewer backed up in our house. Then my son got an ear infection. Then I got a wicked bronchial virus – which I gave to my husband. Then my son came down with a gastrointestinal virus, which made him so sick, we panicked a little and took him to Hotel Dieu’s Children’s Outpatient Centre because we were sure he was becoming deyhydrated since he couldn’t keep anything in his tummy. I obviously complained a little too much to my mother, because my father abandoned his forwards and started sending me real – albeit one-line – e-mails that said things such as: “Chin up! Have a hot shower and a nap and you’ll feel better!”
Still, the respite could last only so long. Within a couple of days, I noticed my inbox was filling up again with forwards, followed by e-mails from my dad enquiring as to whether I had actually read his forwards.
There is one piece of mail I got from my father that made me smile; a true, genuine, smile:
1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don’t like you.
5. Every night, someone thinks about you before they go to sleep.
6. You mean the world to someone.
7. You are special and unique.
8. Someone that you don’t even know exists loves you.
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you take another look.
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget the rude remarks.
Yes, I got this in the mail from my dad – but not e-mail.
He’d actually sent me these 11 tips in an e-mail forward days ago, and then he realized I’d likely never read them. So, he printed them on two pages, taped the pages together, and mailed them to my home.
And then, of course, he e-mailed me to ask if I got his letter.
Gotta love him.
Happy Father’s Day, dads.

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A Little Man's love for Ga-ma

After I gave birth to my son, mothers of sons all told me the same thing: There's a special bond that exists between mothers and sons; a special kind of love.
What no one said, was that my 21-month-old son would be willing to kick me to curb with his size-5 Velcro runners, if it meant he got to be with grandma, or as he calls her "Ga-ma."
It all started when he was three months old. The Husband and I decided to go away for one night, but one night, when you have a baby, feels like a million nights. As a mother, you so desperately want a break, and then once you're gone for half an hour, you want your baby back.
After our 24-hour rendezvous, we returned to my parents' house the next morning to pick up our son and take him home. I expected him to smile and reach out to me. Yes, I realize he was only three months old, but I was his existence. Or, I had been until that trip away. He clung to my mother, ignoring the fact we'd come to get him. That was the night she cleverly planted the idea, I'm sure, that he could come live with her. And live happily ever after.
My parents live a couple hours away, so when we go for visits, we often stay the whole weekend. The second we get in the house, my mother whisks away her grandson. First, she shows him all the new clothes she's bought him. Then, she shows him the toys. Sometimes it's just a ball or two. Sometimes it's a dump truck, a bubble lawnmower, sandbox shovels, a Backyardigans colouring book and a play fireman's hat.
Next, my mom takes her grandson up to the kitchen to show him all the food she's made him: There are his favourite homemade bran muffins, his favourite chicken noodle soup and his favourite coo-coos (cookies). Plus, she's made him Jello. And bought him a new sippy cup for his milk. And did we see the new magnetic letters on the fridge she bought him, too? (He'll sit with her for half an hour and sing the alphabet while lining up the orange, purple and yellow letters, but here, at home, he'll use them only as hockey pucks.)
Sometimes it breaks my heart when we're all together and I need some mother-son time and I'll ask him to come hug me.
"No!" he'll bark.
"Ga-ma!"
"Sweetie," I'll say, tenderly.
"Who's the one who carried you for nine months, gave birth to you, breastfed you at 1, 3, 5, 7 in the morning? For a year? Who takes you to daycare every morning? Who gets up with you every morning at 6 a.m.? Who loves you the most?"
He'll pause and look at me and smile. Then, he'll tentatively take a step toward me and –
"Ga-ma!" he'll shriek with joy.
While I feign being distraught (OK, I actually do get upset) I love that he loves her so much, but it also breaks my heart.
Last weekend, my parents came for a quick visit on Sunday afternoon. They used to like visiting me. Now they come to see their grandson.
"Oh, hi," my mother will say, as she bolts through the door, shoving me aside, her eyes darting around the house searching for her grandson.
In the few hours my parents were here, grandson and Ga-ma picked rhubarb out of the garden together; watched MVP: Most Valuable Primate, the greatest movie ever made for a toddler; a story about a hockey-playing monkey!; ate crackers and hummus and read his new Thomas book. Then, it was time for his afternoon nap. When he woke up two hours later, Ga-ma was gone.
"Ga-ma!" my son called in his sweet sing-song voice.
"Ga-ma! Ga-ma?"
But Ga-ma was gone, back to her home, two hours away.
Lucky are you, the grandparents who live in the same city as your grandchildren.
There's a special bond that exists between mothers and sons; a special kind of love.
But the love between a Ga-ma and her boy? It's true love.

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That's My Boy

So, I'm a full dancing addict.
When I was five years old, I took tap and jazz lessons at a little studio. (I remember being so young that I couldn't figure out why our dance teacher didn't look like all us little girls – but realized that if I sucked in my tummy really hard, I, too, could have boobies. It was actually my rib cage sticking out, but at five, I thought I'd given myself a chest. Anyway.)
One year later, doctors discovered that I had a benign tumour in my knee. But the countless doctor visits/diagnosis/operation at Sick Kids in Toronto/recuperation time totally killed my dream of dancing for a good year. By the time I got back into it, I'd missed a couple of years and all of a sudden there were competitive dancers in my grade and me. I just wanted to dance. I didn't want to take a ballet class, a tap class and a jazz class. I just wanted to do jazz. (Jazz hands!) But the place I went did something awful to me: They made a "competitive" class and a regular class for everyone else, which had people 12 to 60 years old in it. I hated dancing with the old farts and I quit soon after. One of the biggest mistakes in my life; I just didn't have the sophistication/understanding/maturity to suggest to my parents that I go somewhere else to dance or take a different class.
Every time there was a high school dance, I'd beg my friends to go. I never cared if I looked silly, I just wanted to dance.
I remember in university, on the stage at AJs, dancing to Grease. Coming through the crowd at me was my uni crush, Scott. I looked at my roommate, grabbed her hand, stared in the face and ordered: "Dance! Dance like you've never danced before!!!"
We never hooked up but we did dance a few times together and had a slow dance together at our graduating prom.
I don't have a lot of time to dance now, but I still love it. (My only regret about my December wedding is that we didn't dance. There were 11 of us in Las Vegas, so not enough to have our own party and the Hubbie and I were too exhausted/overwhelmed/silly to go on a hunt in the city for an appropriate club.)
Now, I get on my dance thang two ways: My son, who's almost two, and I have dance parties in our kitchen. I also watch dance TV - Dancing With the Stars, and So You Think You Can Dance.
It would horrify most men, but I've taught my son to point his toe and tap it to the music.
But best of all, the other night, Dancing With the Stars came on, and just as Cheryl Burke and Christian de la Fuente were about to dance, my son tugged on arm and said, "Momma! Momma! I das. I das!"
Maybe in a decade or so, he'll be able to show me how to booty shake. It's my goal in life right now.
Seriously.
I'm not kidding.
Any booty shaking tips appreciated.

Here's my favourite dance video. If my hubby ever ditches me, I'm finding this guy, stealing him from his wife, and marrying him. Now this is a groom.

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The hiatus is over

So, here's the thing.
Going back to work, having a toddler, trying to keep fit, and have a mini life pretty much sucks all the energy out of you. OK, truthfully, going back to work fulltime sucks all the energy out of you.
That's why I haven't written here in, um, ages.
BUT I am going to do my darndest to give you a little somethin' somethin' frequently.
There is much history to cover, my friends.
Like, did you know I got married in December? In Vegas. Tis true.
Here's a wedding pic.
Click below to see it. It is tasty, I promise.

It's a pic of a salad one of our family members ate before the wedding.
What? You thought you were going to get a dress pic?
Tomorrow. Or the day after. We'll see.

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Gag me with a baby spoon

Anyone who's ever been barfed on by a baby knows that nothing in the world compares to the stench of the curdled juice.

Not even adult barf smells like baby barf.

Sometimes I try and pretend that Little Man hasn't just released a white glob onto his outfit but after awhile, the stench is too overpowering and I have to put him in a new outfit. Again. For the fourth time that morning.

The other day, I was burping Little Man and I was sure, absolutely sure, that I heard him do a little baby barf. I immediately checked my shoulder. You see, you're supposed to put a blanket on your shoulder so you don't get the goo on you but there's never one around, or I've taken them all downstairs to be washed, or it was one of those instant barfs that come out of nowhere so I didn't ever have the need for the blanket.

No spitup on my shoulder. "Strange," I thought. "I'm sure I heard it."

A few minutes passed. Now I also thought I could smell it.

I looked again.

Nothing on my shoulder.
Nothing down my front.
Nothing on him.
No drippies anywhere.

"This is exhaustion," I thought.
"I'm dreaming that I'm covered in baby barf."

I accepted that I was nutso and went on with my day - but the smell followed me.

It came with me to the laundry room as I washed dirty workout clothes.
It came with me to the bathroom.
It came with me to the nursery to change a diaper.
It came with me to the mailbox.

I was being haunted by the ghost of baby barf.

Until I wised up.

I was wearing this little blue sweatshirt - actually, as the cool kids say, a little blue hoodie.

I took off my sweater and there, inside the hood, was a pool, a pool I tell you, of baby barf. I'd been carrying it around all day with me.

I was like a Kinder Egg. I had a surprise inside.

That was lame. Oh barf.

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Sorry, Mama

Mothers, I am now one of you.
I’m overworked and underappreciated.
But that’s not the worst of it.
Now that I am overworked and underappreciated, I understand how overworked and underappreciated my own mother was for the 23 years I lived under her roof.
So to you, mom, and to all mothers out there, let me say this: I’m sorry for all the times, the hundreds and hundreds of times I didn’t help you.
I’m sorry. Let me count the ways.
(Why does it take having children of your own to realize just how much of a scumbag we are as children, teens and 20-somethings to our parents? I know Little Man is only five and a half months old but I can already feel this bad behaviour coming on …)

1. I’m sorry for always vanishing whenever it snowed and it was time to shovel our driveway. My hardworking father would nicely ask me if I could help out a little. “Sure,” I’d say. And then I’d do everything possible to not have to touch a flake of snow. I’d go look at photographs in our crawlspace. I’d start a conversation with my mother. I’d pretend to do schoolwork – anything to get out of helping my father, who was in his 50s when I last lived at home.

2. I’m sorry for never turning off the lights when I left a room. When I was a teenager, I honestly felt like if I had to reach up and hit the light switch, I’d just die. It would be too much exertion. I’d just die, I tell you.

3. I’m sorry for always leaving my wet towel on the bedroom floor. Hang it in the bathroom on a towel rack? The exertion! Again! It was just asking too much.

4. I’m sorry for all those times I’d get home from school and watch Geraldo, The Young and the Restless and The Ricki Lake Show and then gallingly look at you, mom and dad, as you walked in the door at 6:30 p.m. and ask: What’s for dinner?

5. I’m sorry for always leaving just a dribble of milk in the pitcher so that I didn’t have to change the bag. Exertion. Again.

6. I’m sorry for all those times you made me a nice lunch, even when I was 18 and 19 years old in high school, and I’d pitch it out once I got an offer to go out for lunch and buy a slice of pizza with friends. Waste of money. Waste of time. But it wasn’t my money or time so it never really bothered me.

7. I’m sorry for all those times you asked me to help pick up the hedge clippings as dad was shearing it. I just couldn’t help. It would have been, like, totally embarrassing for someone to see me doing yard work. Can you imagine? Oh my god.

8. I’m sorry for always leaving the table and never, once, offering to load the dishwasher or put away the leftovers.

9. I’m sorry for bringing the car home when it was basically running on empty.
10. I’m sorry for always making you wait up for me. But I was never late, right? You said my curfew was 1 a.m. and I was home, every time, at 12:59 a.m. That’s early! I should have been rewarded, no?

11. I’m sorry for making fun of your veal parmigiana that night you were just trying to make us something new, something different.

12. I’m sorry for all the times I left a room and left the TV on. It’s a lot of work, you know, having to take the remote control and press the OFF button.

13. I’m sorry it took me almost 30 bloody years to say I’m sorry.

Oh lord, this list could go on forever – but I can’t end on number 13 because my mother is superstitious and it would scare her to see a list ending on 13, so one more.

14. I’m sorry for all those times you called me when I was at university because you were missing me and I was too busy on Sunday nights watching The X Files to take your calls.

Love you.

I really do.

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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.

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Let them eat quiche!

My dad is really, really tired of hearing about poo and all things associated with poo. Baby poo. Baby farts. Baby diapers. Baby poo. Baby pee. Yellow poo. Brown poo. Yellow poo with green flecks. Poo that seems thicker after a couple of meals of formula instead of breast milk.

Poo, poo, poo.

Well, today, three of my peeps and I talked about baby poo, baby farts and baby diapers and there was no daddy-o there to say "enough already! Can't we talk about something other than bowel movements?"

We did talk about other things: Daycare, naps, strollers, exercise, jobs, university, first babies, second babies and breastfeeding but we were also free to talk about the p-word.

Every Wednesday morning, a group of us get together with trainer Tracie Smith-Beyak and exercise our buns off. I've talked about Tracie and her Kingston company, BodyNow4Mums, here before but I wanted to pay homage to her again - tis the season to be thankful.

Since I joined her power walking/conditioning group in October, I've felt and seen my body change. My baby tummy is flatter. My legs feel stronger and I can lunge with the best of 'em. Sure, I've also been exercising on my own but I always crap out when I'm going solo. I skip that last set of crunches or decide to cut my jog by 10 minutes but you can't pull a fast one when you've got Tracie watching over you.

This week, I went to the gym to go for a run. Usually, when I've been inactive for a few months - or, nine months when I was pregnant - I can only run a three-minute race. Seriously.

This week, I power-walked for five and then ran my heart out for another 15 minutes and then power walked for five more minutes. In total, I covered almost two kilometres and burned 200 calories. I chalk it up to my Wednesday power mornings.

But something else important is happening on Wednesday mornings: Us gals are bonding - not just over babies but feeling the burn. And this week, we gathered at one of the women's houses for quiche, muffins, French toast, and gab.

One of the women in the Wednesday morning class told us all a story about being out in Kingston and seeing a sad and exhausted-looking new mommy. She said the new mommy confessed she didn't have any friends with babies and felt very alone. The woman in my class gave the new mommy her phone number and said to call at any time.

I've been there. My two best girlfriends also don't have babies yet and so there have been times I wanted some company - just someone to say "Hey, do you share your bed with your baby?" or "How much did you spend on your baby jogging stroller?"

So, to all you new mommies (or soon to be mommies who'll be ready to work out in a couple of months) visit Tracie's site, e-mail her or give her a call and see if one of her classes work for you. (Christmas present, wink, wink.) And come hang out with us.

This is my way of reaching out to those of you who need someone to listen to you - and won't judge you if you do want to ask about poo.

Once the winter BodyNow4Mums term starts, we're going to hang out after some of our classes - a chance for mommies to talk, chill and eat quiche.

Plus, I make a mean cracker and cheese plate you really don't want to miss.

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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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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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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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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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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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