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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Sex and the City and refried beans

I remember five years ago when my best friend popped by my apartment for a visit.
I’ve always been messy – (but it’s an organized mess) and I never know where anything is (I would, my husband and my mother tell me, if I’d just put things back in their proper place) - but I’d sunk to a new low.
I’d become a prisoner on my own couch. In a semicircle surrounding me were 10, 15, maybe 20 cans of opened refried beans with a fork stuck in them. Yes, I’d been eating the beans out of the cans. I’d washed the beans back with a case or two of Diet Coke. I’d eaten myself into a corner.
“Oh, Sarah,” my friend said, surprised, shocked, saddened at what my life had become.
A few weeks earlier, my live-in boyfriend had left our “love nest” and me. About half a day later he had a new girlfriend. The one-two punch gutted me. The days that followed were about survival. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Cry. Eat dinner. (The only thing I could eat that didn’t make me throw up was refried beans and Diet Coke.) Cry. Go to sleep.
My friend lovingly scolded me and told me it was time to pick myself up and get outside and do something.
“Yes!” I told her.
“I’m going to go do something!”
After she left my home, I had an epiphany: I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.
I lost myself in that relationship. I did what too many girls do: I made myself all about my relationship and I’d become one-dimensional.
I did really need something to do – but what? When I wasn’t working, I’d been a girlfriend and now that I wasn’t a girlfriend, I had nothing to do when I wasn’t working.
I stood on my apartment balcony and looked out at Kingston. The sky was licorice black that night and the stars were sparkling. And in that night sky, I saw it. I saw a sign. It was a sign from the heavens.
OK, it was actually a sign from Blockbuster.
I lived just a few steps from the downtown video store on Queen Street. It was there I found something to pick myself up. It was there I found four new friends. It was there I found Sex and the City on DVD.
I didn’t get HBO so I’d only seen bits and pieces of the cable show when I was visiting my parents’ house but every time I turned it on there, one of the show’s star’s breasts were on display and I didn’t want my parents to think I was into porn, so I always quickly turned the show off.
Here, in the comfort of my own pigsty, I could watch the sordid adventures/affairs of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte without feeling guilty. In fact, I could watch the episodes over and over and over again.
Soon, my routine changed. For the better. Wake up. Shower. Go to work. Come home from work. Watch Sex and the City. Eat dinner. (I started buying my dinners at Blockbuster when I picked up the DVDs – convenient or what? – so I was now on to nacho chips and the bright orange plastic cheese nacho cheese dip and Diet Coke.) Watch Sex and the City. Go to sleep.
Truly, I credit the show for pulling me out of my slump.
These four friends did cool things: Charlotte hung out in art galleries. Miranda ran a marathon. Samantha did yoga. Carrie wrote newspaper columns – for a living.
Like millions of women, I’m dying to reunite with my girls now that Sex and the City: The Movie is in theatres.
Carrie and company always celebrated with Cosmopolitans.
I’ll have a Diet Coke and maybe some nachos.
For old times’ sake.

(This column appeared in the May 31 edition of The Ticket, inside The Kingston Whig-Standard)

And here is the rest of it.

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I now pronounce you ... who?

It's a wonderful thing to be a teenager and a 20-something and know everything.

I vowed as a young girl that I would never, ever have a baby. I was a career woman.

My mother would tell me that one day, when I was older, when I met the right man, I would change my mind.

"Never!" I swore.

Well, OK, she won that one. I do have a babe now. I think it's a good way to tell if you're with the right man or not. If you meet him and instantly want his baby, it's a good sign. I have lots of girlfriends who said they weren't sure they could call their honeys their soulmates, or they weren't sure they wanted to marry them, but they were sure, 100 per cent, that they wanted these men to father their children.

But now comes yet another dilemma that one reaches when you're 30 and engaged.

To change your name or not to change your name. That is the question.

The feminist in me wants to keep my name.
The romantic in me wants to change my name. There's something wonderfully romantic, sweet and dedicated about having the same name as your man.

So, what to do?

I know women who changed their maiden names to their husband's name and then, years later, after spending a lifetime regretting it, changed it back.

I also know a couple of women who decided not to change their names when they got married and then, years after being married, decided they wanted the same name as their husband and children and so they took their husband's name years into their marriage.

Hyphenation seems to be the hot style these days but I'm just not into it, purely for aesthetic reasons. If I had the kind of last name that rolled off the tongue when paired with another, then maybe, but I don't. So that option is out.

Of course, I could take his name and have a professional name and a personal name.

At work, I'd go by Sarah Crosbie.
In the grocery store, I'd go by Sarah MacBarah.*

Oh, decisions, decisions.

What to do?

* Name has been changed to a silly name that rhymes with "Sarah" mostly for fun, but also not to out the Fiance totally. :)

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Was it a lovefest?

So, it's Sunday night. Almost time to get ready for the new week to begin, which means that your man has run out of time to right his wrong of forgetting to call you on Valentine's Day, send you flowers, take you out for dinner, or surprise you with a little mirrorball hanging above your bed so that your world is full of stars.

To give you hope that there are romantic men out there, I thought I'd share the card the BF got me for Valentine's Day.

"When I met you, I wasn't planning on falling in love. I wasn't planning on feeling so attracted to someone ..."

You know what? This is too hot and heavy. Click on the link below and I'll let you read the rest.

Sorry guys. In the end, I decided the card was too XXX-rated for the blogworld to see. You'll just have to trust me, it got a 10/10. I do suggest however that if you royally screwed up, you make this Wednesday Valentine's Day instead. Can I give you a suggestion? Play James Blunt's Goodbye My Lover and dance with her in the livingroom. She'll love it. I promise.

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Yes, they're real

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

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

Are you lovin' it?

Here he is! The BF in his full glory.

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

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

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

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

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

After all, they're free!

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Halloween.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would, could our little display weather the storm?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would our lives be without you?

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