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.

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Run, Sarah, Run!

If you had asked me anytime from 1996 to 2004 - the formative years I was a student at Queen's University and a new reporter at The Kingston Whig-Standard - I would have boasted that I loved smoking and I never regretted indulging in my habit.

I smoked off and on from the time I was 14 years old until the time I was 27.

I quit for good about two and a half years ago.

But when I was a smoker, especially when I was in my young 20s, I'd drive past (because I was a smoker I always drove, never walked) people running in their snazzy leggings and running jackets and would always secretly wish that I could run, too.

I would never have said it out loud but I secretly longed to be able to go back to those days in high school when the insecure part of me chose to take up hardcore smoking instead of pursuing team sports that I'd played all my life. Something in me back then thought it would be much cooler to be a party girl than an athlete.

And I never looked back.

Until my 20s when I lived in Kingston.

The thing about Kingston is that there are bloody runners everywhere. Runners around Queen's. Runners downtown. Runners in Portsmouth Village. Runners on Bath Road. Runners. Runners. Runners.

I tried running once when I was a super smoker. The very athletic ex-boyfriend could attest to the fact that I was a sad sack of poo that day just trying to run around the block. He ran behind me, singing Jennifer Lopez songs, trying to propel my fat ass up the hill. By the time I got home, I was wheezing so hard, I thought my lungs were going to implode or explode - basically disintegrate.

I'd decided over the past few years that I could be a nonsmoker but I was never going to be in shape. I could be a skinny size 10 but in shape? Not going to happen.

Then I got pregnant and gave birth.

Once you give birth - yes, it is miraculous - everything else seems unbelievably easy. Run a half marathon, you say? Hah! Bring it on.

I also decided I wanted the best for my baby and that means eating well and exercising so that when he is five, 10, 15 years old, he will also eat well and exercise. I want him to live the fullest, happiest and healthiest life he can.

I started running in the beginning of January with Tracie Smith-Beyak's Learn to Run group. Her company, Body Now 4 Mums, gets new mommies going - and going hard. We run seven or eight kilometres every week together.

And now the big news: Today, without the support of my running mamas, I took to the streets in Kingston's Twosome 5K race. It was the first time I've ever pinned a number to my chest. It's a high.

I had three goals today:

1) Not to come in last place;
2) To run in less than 35 minutes. Two weeks ago, I ran five kilometres in 36 minutes so I was hoping to shave off a minute;
3) To run, not walk once.

I can proudly say, today was a great day in my life - no, not nearly as exciting as giving birth, but nothing will ever top that. With just half a kilometre to go, I picked up the pace and passed a couple of people. I didn't come last.

I ran a good 33-minute race - two minutes less than I was hoping for.

And, I ran the entire thing.

Sure, I got my butt kicked by 99 per cent of the runners but I still did it.

Today, I was not that out-of-shape smoker staring at the runners from my car.

I was (am) a runner.

Next race: The 10-kilometre run in April.

And then maybe the half marathon this fall.

I know many of you don't actually believe I did it: So click here and check out number 123.

It's the new weight-loss-fitness secret no one has ever written about: Have a baby.

(Thanks, Little Man.)

There might be more(or not)

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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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)

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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