Be prepared to help a child through traumatic times

NOTE: Although not related to my usual Baby Boom column, I wrote this piece as part of a story related to childhood grief. Hopefully people will find it helpful if they find themselves in the unfortunate position of needing the insight.

I got down on my hands and knees to peek under my aunt’s bed. The Siamese kitten peered back at me, and I called to lure her out. My best friend eagerly awaited the results of my quest because we both wanted to marvel at how soft her fur was.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open and my aunts walked into the bedroom.

“Sarah,” one of them said. “Your mom died. She’s gone.” She burst into tears and pulled me to her as my other aunt and friend cried quietly nearby.

And I just stood there. I never said a word. I never even made a sound and I was so still, it almost hurt to breathe.

There’s no doubt that my mother’s death from liver cancer would indelibly alter the course of my life forever. It is a constant reference point for me now from my childhood. There was Sarah before Mom died. And there was Sarah afterward.

Looking back now, I see some lessons that could have been helpful then, that I hope can be helpful to other families now. Childhood grief is an extremely powerful force, and most families and support networks are ill equipped to deal with the myriad ways in which a young adult will respond to losing a loved one. Each case is unique, each story precious to the survivor, who must carry the story with them forever.

In my case, my mother’s cancer advanced swiftly, claiming her life in less than a year — and only two months after her 40th birthday. I was 15 years old. She was a single parent, and I had no siblings, so after her prognosis was deemed terminal, I spent the remaining days of her life at her sister’s house or at my grandparents’ home, where my mother received hospice care.

During that time, I pretended as if nothing were happening. It was only real if I acknowledged it, I would tell myself. Maybe I expected a miracle to save her. Maybe my teenage mind just couldn’t comprehend such a harsh reality.

She died the week before final exams for my sophomore year in high school. The thought of returning to school made me nearly hysterical. All I wanted to do was sleep all day, watch TV all night in the dark and eat only when the physical demand became necessary.

They were the classic signs of depression, but I was too young to realize it, and those around me did not know how to help. I was numb. No one really talked to me about what was going on. After all, they were grieving, too, and no one had the right words.

But what would I have wanted them to say? What could they have said that would have helped or broken through the fog of my despair?

Here’s what I would say to the family of that lost 15-year-old, what I hope other families might say to their children:

• Provide support: You don't have to have all the answers; just show them sincere love: “It’s OK that you’re hurting. You loved your mother so much, and I understand how hard this must be for you. Know that I will love and support you and am here for you.”

• Don’t judge: Grief can be quick and intense or long and excruciating — it depends on the individual. As long as he or she seems to be processing the emotions of grief, anger, sadness intermixed with normal behavior, it means they are healing and they need the latitude to do so in their own way.

• Put the child’s needs above your own: This is the ultimate sacrifice, but it is crucial to helping children immersed in grief. It doesn’t mean that you have to completely stifle your emotions, but you have to be careful not to scare the child, which can compound a negative emotional response. Remember, even though you might be hurting as well, you have the benefit of emotional maturity — a child doesn’t.

• Talk about it: This is something that will stay with a child forever. Don’t treat it like a dirty secret that is never to be uttered. Let the child ask questions or express their feelings and make him or her feel safe in doing so. It will relieve a lot of anxiety. Adults, oftentimes, will unknowingly put pressure on children to “move on” or “get past it” or “think happy thoughts.” Let them know that it’s OK to feel sad, because they will — sometimes for the rest of their lives.

• Reach out to school officials and counselors: Even though I returned to school three months after my mother died, it was all anyone talked about for the first week of the new school year and the stares from other students were downright agonizing. Don’t be afraid of being straightforward in asking that teachers and administrators do their best to be sensitive to your child’s delicate emotional process. Find out if there are resources for your child to talk to a school counselor if they have sudden feelings of panic throughout the school day or have trouble focusing. The child should have clear “safe havens” identified in times of emotional crises when you aren’t available.

In June, it will be 20 years since I lost my mother, and the benefit of time, maturity and perspective has helped me cope. But she is never far from my thoughts, and the painful experience of losing her — when we were both too young — affects me in more ways than I can describe. It underscores the need for communities to accept that children process grief, too, and that we need to be ready to help them through it. They are the most precious among us, and we should never let them feel like they are alone during one of the worst moments of their life.

It's incredibly difficult for me to put my story out there, but if it helps one child, one family, navigate the grief more easily, then it is totally worth it.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

In wake of Newtown tragedy, there is hope

I no longer understand the world — not that I ever did.

As I saw the reports continue to roll out regarding the school shooting in Newtown, Conn., on Friday, I felt sick to my stomach. Those poor babies, those poor, innocent people who tried in vain to protect them. The poor family of the perpetrator. It all seems so senseless.

My job didn’t help. You see, it was my job that day to monitor the story, to publish the updates on The Sentinel’s website as they became available and to plan the content for the next day’s paper. But all I wanted to do was run out of the building and drive to my son, pull him out of daycare and hug him until it hurt.

This isn’t the first tragedy I’ve handled as a journalist. I was an editor that had to manage a staff of 30 college students on Sept. 11, 2001; I was the front page designer for a major metro daily the day Pope John Paul II died and when the last shuttle disaster occurred and when Osama bin Laden was killed. It’s just an expected matter of fact when you commit yourself to this job: I take the people’s right to know seriously and do my very best to balance the wants and needs of people to inform them about their world.

But this time was different. This time was the first time I was a mother. And these were children — 6- and 7-year-old children. Before, I could sadly shake my head at the tragic events, quietly say prayers for lives lost or souls hurt. This time I could picture my son at that school. This time it was personal.

I posted a short sentence about my sadness that day on my personal Facebook page, because I felt the urge to say something. But as I watched my news feed, another feeling took hold — a different kind of grief. There were those who immediately called for banning guns. There were those who called for arming teachers. There were those who claimed the slaughter of those innocent lives was attributed to a lack of God in schools. There were those who called for committing all individuals with mental-health problems to institutions, no matter the severity of their illness. There were even those who blamed the media for sensationalizing the story, even though I would argue this event was so unbelievably appalling on its own.

It’s human nature to try to rationalize — to try to search for answers and assign blame. If we can point a finger or identify some neatly packaged solution, it assuages the unnerving sense of uneasiness that we might just not be able to foresee and prevent these things from happening again.

But life isn’t structured like a Paint by Number kit. There is no simple formula for eliminating horrific events from the world. These things will happen as long as humankind walks the Earth.

And someday I will have to explain to my innocent, sweet, little boy why people hurt each other like this. It scares me, because I desperately want to shield him from the atrocities of the world. I want him to believe in goodness, purity, love and kindness. But I know that’s not realistic and that I must allow him to find his way.

In my job, I see, hear and read about the lowest depths of human depravity; the random, freak accidents; the life-changing mistakes people make that affect countless others. I will never feel at ease sending my son to a mall, to a movie theater and, now, to school.

But I have hope. I can’t explain it, but there is this tiny, little light that shines within me. I am determined to love my family and friends as hard as I can in the short time I have with them. I am committed to helping my son navigate this complicated, often treacherous world with an open heart and mind.

And I will continue to hope that we can one day move past the knee-jerk reactions of explaining away these tragedies in order to dismiss them to get on with our lives. We need to start having open, meaningful dialogue with one another to solve a pandemic that is gripping our world. We are so fractured and divided — and so sure that we’re right — that we often don’t even listen to the other person, regardless of the issue.

No, I will never understand the world. But I have hope. It’s the one thing that binds us together, across nations and race, economic status and gender, age and political affiliation. We all hope for better, we all mourn for the lives lost in these senseless tragedies, we all yearn for answers. We just have to be honest with where that leads us and be open to learning tough but hopefully helpful, lasting lessons.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Christmas cheer is in overdrive

Boy, do I have it easy this year — Christmas-wise, I mean.

I can take the baby shopping for his bounty from Santa and he will be none the wiser come Dec. 25. But I know my days are numbered and that, much like a dazzling present under the tree, this experience is a once-in-a-lifetime gift to me.

As my husband and I snaked through the aisles of the local Toys R Us store recently, hunting for age-appropriate gifts, nothing short of the child apocalypse was unfolding before us.

Children were running up and down the aisles, weary parents were going through the motions to keep amped up tots under control, tykes were openly wailing throughout the store — after awhile it sort of became background music.

I’m beginning to understand that the most wonderful time of the year for a child is the most dreaded time for a parent. Between coordinating all the family and friend get-togethers, buying all the presents, cooking all the food and somehow managing to keep your child’s eating and sleeping schedule intact — lest we forget that daycare centers close for the holidays — it’s nothing short of a Christmas miracle that parents survive.

My plan of attack this year is to keep things simple. I established a window of time to accept invitations for events, but I will not schedule more than one event per day on a weekend — and everything is on a first-come, first-served basis. That way, there’s no hard feelings and it gives a sense of normalcy for the little one.

I want to work hard as to not overwhelm an 11-month-old with Christmas cheer. He is teething regularly and just had a third bout with a double ear infection, so the additional stress is unwarranted.

But that doesn’t mean the family is shut out. We will have my husband’s family Christmas party, where the extended family will gather for lunch. And my aunt will drive out from Detroit to spend Christmas with us and my husband’s parents. And meetings with friends are interspersed where this is time, but most of them understand the scheduling issues. After all, it’s been a year since I’ve been operating on the hours of 6-9 p.m. availability (but only with 48 hours notice so I can get a sitter). Sometimes I feel like a doctor’s office.

As my husband and I reached the checkout lane of the toy store, the clerk remarked at how well-behaved our son was.
“He’s taking notes from the others,” I said, motioning to the throng. “I’m counting my blessings before next year.”

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor for The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

’Tis the season to be frantic

One of the perks of having my baby after Christmas was I got to have one more holiday season that was calm and rational.

Oh, how I miss those days.

But because I have a little one now — and especially because it’s his first holiday season — I can’t use the menagerie of excuses that have bought me sweet, sweet peace of mind and stress-free days.

Most people are surprised when I tell them that I’m a Grinch. It’s not that I don’t enjoy buying things for my loved ones or spending time with people. I just don’t like all the hooplah and work. Okay, and spending all the money.

Before kids, I could say, “We just moved into the house, so we’re busy unpacking,” or “I’m pregnant and I shouldn’t carry stuff,” or “I’m eating ice cream and couldn’t be bothered.”

But now we have to have the whole experience.

My husband insisted we cut down a real tree at a farm — suddenly my lifelike artificial tree wasn’t good enough. We must get the first personalized ornament. The stockings must be displayed just so. Everyone wants the wish lists, and my boys aren’t very forthcoming about what they want or need.

And what to do about Santa Claus?

There’s the parades to take in, the cards to be mailed out, the dinners to plan, the presents to buy, the music to play, the first photos on Santa’s lap. And who, oh who, will carve the roast beast?

I suppose it’s a blessing that we get a test run this first Christmas. If we forget something or totally bungle something else, he won’t remember his parents fumbling through the newbie routine.

That’s what makes Christmas so magical, though. To work so hard to create this special time of year for innocent minds and hearts. Knowing that he will have a blast tearing through wrapping paper for the first time. To see the delight on his face as he realizes that he has more things to play with.

That is what I call the most wonderful time of the year.

— Sarah Leach is assistant manager of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com or (616) 546-4278.

Family ties strengthen at holiday time

My husband and I made the trek across the state this weekend to visit my family in the suburbs of Detroit.

And, despite the relaxed pace of the four days we spent there, we were bustling with activity — and I don’t mean just mashing the potatoes.

There was the visit to my grandmother’s place to show the baby off to her friends at the assisted-living center. There was the visit with my aunt’s best friends, who only get to see the baby every six months or so. And then there was the effort to maximize the time with the aunts, uncle and cousins.

I tell ya, for being an only child with six relatives, there are a lot of people to see.

It was during this time that I realized that I have an obligation to these people that I love. I have this 19-pound treasure that toddles all over my living room, but quick snaps on the cellphone or 20-second video clips uploaded to Facebook don’t foster a relationship.

What my loved ones really need is time — time to make an impression with my son, time to learn his expressions and mannerisms and time to make lasting memories.

It is part of my responsibility as his mother to foster these relationships, so he grows up knowing what a wonderful family he has.

I want him to know that Thanksgiving always is at my aunt’s house — and that she always insists that she forgot some part of the meal, even as people praise her for a delicious feast.

I want him to see my grandmother’s look of sheer joy as she relishes the gift of having lived long enough to meet my child and to share in his first milestones.

I want him to feel my other aunt’s kisses on his head and know that the love she shows for him reminds me of when I was a girl and watched her dote on her own young tots.

I want him to remember all the times my young cousin asks about how Baby Ben is doing, and what he’s up to day to day.

I want him to understand the depth of love that constantly emanates from my family, and that he is a big reason why many people on the east side of the state are giving thanks this year.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

This week, I am giving my thanks

It happened without warning. 

I was having a conversation with my husband in our living room, which seemed important at the time, but now I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. I was worked up — a trademark of mine — hands flying for dramatic effect, when suddenly, something amazing happened.

Our son, who only days earlier had turned 10 months old, let go of the baby gate he was holding onto, toddled down the 10-foot hallway, plopped onto his rear and began playing with my shoes.

My husband and I were speechless.

“Did that just happen,” I asked, incredulously.

“Yeah!” he shouted. “Go Peanut!”

The baby, having no idea what all the fuss was about, seemed slightly confused, but not enough to interrupt his chewing one of my shoelaces.

“We need to record this,” I said. “Let’s see if he will do it again.”

But then we discovered a technical problem. My cellphone was full of video and would not allow me to record any more footage — all of the baby, I might add.

So I found the camcorder, but the battery was dead.

“Argh!” I cried.

“Not to worry,” my husband said. “I’ll record it on my phone.”

But every time the baby got moving, it took too long to activate his phone and get the recorder rolling.

Then, an idea hit.

Ten minutes later, my baby was toddling toward his momma in full view of the camera phone — as I held a bottle of milk as incentive. He crossed the kitchen, swiveled around and went back to the starting point.

It is the most incredible thing to watch him walk, as if he has been doing it forever. Only we parents can appreciate all the effort our children put into developing the strength and coordination into achieving this feat.

Yes, this is an amazing milestone for every infant but, for the mother, this is nothing short of a miracle. It is beautiful and joyous and amazing and incredible and all the other superlatives that I can’t list fully.

We slave to give our children the best possible life — the clothes, the food, the toys, the activities — and when moments like this come along, it is a massive sense of validation that our baby is thriving.

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for everyone and everything that I have and I’m sure that’s the ecstatic mom in my talking.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Another loss only makes me appreciate the love more

Our family suffered another lost last week when our cat, Scamp, suddenly was diagnosed with a rapid form of cancer and we had to “let him go.”

It was the second pet death in our family in a month after our elderly dog died in early October — also from cancer.

The hole in my heart cannot be overstated, because these were my four-legged children who gave unconditional love to us for so little in return — but I am known for my soft-heartedness for critters.

It is difficult and painful to move past, but I must and I shall. It is frustrating because I want to properly feel sorry for myself for a week or two, but I have a 10-month-old and it isn’t about me anymore. But when I feel a twinge of sadness because I can’t mourn my pets properly, I realize what a blessing the whirlwind of motherhood can be.

I have a great reason to be distracted from my sadness and I’m laughing and playing with the cutest baby this side of the Mississippi. As he tries to hug our surviving German shepherd and crawls after the two surviving cats down the hall, I am thankful I can teach him how to embrace our furry friends.

It is my firm belief that exposing children to the joys of animals helps them learn the invaluable skills of empathy, sharing, consideration, gentleness, friendship, and — most importantly — love.

It is with those sentiments that I find myself thankful that our elderly and sick pets have passed away before the baby understands that they’re gone. It’s a concept I know I will have to explain one day, but not yet.

Hopefully, we will not experience another loss for a very long time, and the baby can forge lasting friendships with the three remaining pets. And as I sit on the floor watching my little one attempt to throw a ball for the dog, my heart melts. He squeals with delight when the dog brings the toy back and drops it at his pajama feet.

It’s exactly what I wanted for him.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Sweet denial makes for beautiful memories

“Look!” my husband said.

“What?!” I screamed back. By the sound of his voice, I thought my baby had a lobster crawl out of his ear.

“He took a step,” my husband said.

“That's nice,” I said.

Incredulous, my husband, “it's like he started walking.”

“No he didn't,” I sniffed. “Walking is putting one foot in front of the other more than once.”

Now, it's not that I'm dismissing my baby's accomplishments. I just prefer to not recognize these milestones if I don't see them directly. My denial capabilities are epic — I have been pretending that the election season has been over for weeks and it has worked quite nicely.

The thing of it is, I just can't bear to accept the fact that my little boy is growing up, and that he will be having first moments with people other than me. It stirs up the guilt of not being with him at home, like I wish I could be.

So I have turned to situational denial to assuage my fears.

“I know he hasn't started walking, but he's sooo close,” my husband said.

At 10 months, my son is standing — albeit wobbly — and will take a step to bridge between two objects. He has one tooth in his head and, by the looks of it, I better start saving up for orthodontics starting with next week's paycheck.

But the milestones are coming fast and furious now. He is on the cusp of being fully mobile, eating everything we eat and speaking his first word. It's exhilarating to watch, but it is all happening too fast and I wish I could slow time down just a bit to savor each moment with him.

It feels like I'm going to come home from work tomorrow and he's going to ask to borrow the car to take his girlfriend to the movies.

The best I can do is pretend that his “first moments” when I'm with him are the real ones, so I can remember his childhood guilt-free. Or I can just keep having babies to keep reliving and relishing their infancy. … Yeah, denial is way easier.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Watch out, Harvard, here he comes

“Our baby is a genius,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” my husband replied. “Did he figure out the DVR, because I could really use some pointers.”

“No,” I said. “He knows how to talk.”

“Um. ... He’s only 9 months old.”

“I know that,” I said. “But that’s what makes him a genius. He knows that I’m ‘mumma.’”

“I hate to break it to you, but he says that all the time over and over.”

“That just means he’s thinking of me,” I said.

“I’m pretty sure he’s not thinking of you when he’s gnawing on a table leg.”

“Well, what about when he said ‘uh-oh’ the other day?” I shot back. “You can’t deny that that was awesome.”

“He was just mimicking us when we said it to him after he dropped his sippy cup,” my husband said. “He’s just copying what he hears and sees us doing.”

“If that were true, he would be a pro at washing dishes and yelling at the TV during baseball playoffs,” I said. “So my theory still stands at GENIUS.”

“Even if you were right,” he mused. “Do you really think it rises to the level of genius? I mean, saying ‘mumma’ and ‘uh-oh’ isn’t really THAT impressive, is it?”

“How dare you insult our son’s intellect!” I said. “He can hear us right now and you are damaging his self-confidence.”

“He pees in the bathtub for all to see. I’m pretty sure he has all the self-confidence in the world,” he said.

“Well, you could be hurting his feelings,” I said.

“He isn’t crying. He seems fine to me,” my husband said.

“He is internalizing your lowered expectations of him and it will not manifest itself fully until he reaches his teens, but by then it will be too late,” I said.

“He doesn’t understand what we’re saying, honey. Even if he’s a genius, I doubt he has the vocabulary of a 30-year-old.”

I looked deeply into my infant’s big, blue eyes and he smiled at me, showing one crooked tooth.

“Mum-mum-mum-mum ...”

“You’re wrong,” I told my husband. “He just told me with ESP that he’s a genius.”

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Adding a third wheel makes for a bit of a bumpy ride

I walked into the garage and the interior light had been left on.

Now, this might be a random act of forgetfulness on my husband’s part, but to me it was an act of war.

The Battle Royale that has been raging within my household is subtle and nuanced. But it’s there. Oh, it’s there.

After a summer of impatiently waiting for my single motherhood to end, I never expected the aggravation of having to re-acclimate to living with my husband.

“What are we doing for dinner tonight?” my husband asked after two nights back home.

“I dunno,” I answered. “I was just going to polish off that bag of cheese popcorn in the cabinet. But I guess we could get all fancy with real food.”

The next day, he had the nerve to say the sheets needed to be washed.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think they’re fine.”

“There’s enough cat hair on the bedspread to knit a sweater,” he replied.

“I could use a new piece for my fall collection,” I said.

Highlighting my shortcomings is not a good strategy for him, as I take pride in the fact that I did not have a complete nervous breakdown while he was gone. Perhaps while he was away, he forgot the cardinal rule of “Never Criticize Thy Bedraggled Spouse.”

But it’s the habits we each have that have proven to be the real rub.

My husband, with all of his wonderful qualities, is set in his ways. He has a natural walk that I can only describe as a stomp, and manages to do the loudest things he can think of right when the baby drifts off to sleep. He leaves all the lights on in the house, no matter the time of day or the level of natural illumination. He has “a system” to do everything from dishes to laundry to vacuuming, which of course differs from my way.

It’s been a long week of stepping all over each other, especially when getting him adjusted to the baby’s schedule — the most important schedule in the house.

So when I saw that light left on in the garage, I did what any normal, rational person would do. I unscrewed the light bulb.

First hayride!

We went on our first hayride as a family on Sunday. Ben loved the pieces of hay and kept trying to chew on them. After the 15-minute trip around the farmer's fields, we picked out three pumpkins and put them on the porch step. Later that evening, we ordered Ben's first Halloween costume, which will remain under wraps for now.....

The Rule of Three seems to rule my life

“It’s just that this cough he has isn’t going away,” I told the doctor. “He’s still awfully congested and it’s been almost two weeks.”

“Hmmm,” the doctor said. “Well, is he eating well?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeping well?”

“Yes.”

“His temperament is really good, so it’s probably just lingering mucus from an infection.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as the doctor peered into my little one’s ears.

“... Although there is the matter of this ear infection,” she said.

“Huh?” I replied. “Aren’t babies really irritable when they get those? I was told to look for trouble eating and tugging on ears.”

“Well, some babies have a higher pain tolerance than others,” she replied. “Oh dear, there’s an infection in the other one, too. They’re both quite advanced.”

Although the news she was giving me was bad, I had a sliver of pride in the fact that my baby was so good-natured as to not trouble me with his pain and suffering — how thoughtful.

After picking up the antibiotic and getting him comfortable, I resumed with normal daily activity. In my mind, this was the third in a series of bad news events (you know, the scientifically recognized Rule of Three of Doom). My dog had died just the day before, my husband had shipped out West on a last-minute surprise trip for another week, and my baby’s ears were on fire.

Surely this meant the Bad Luck gods would not visit again for a while.

That night I got home, and my German Shepherd was in the driveway to greet me. Apparently, in his newfound solitude in the backyard kennel, he felt the need to pry the metal fastenings away from the frame and squeeze through an opening the size of a walnut.

There also was a note on the door: “Found your dog running around in the street. He almost got hit by a car. I put him back in your kennel.”

“How thoughtful,” I thought. “Only you escaped again, you goon,” I growled at him as he hung his head in shame.

When we got back to the house, I found that my cat had been sick in the living room.

“Argh!” I cried. “Not another round of three!”

The next morning, Peanut turned nine months old. As I got ready, I was mentally preparing for the next bad thing to happen.

I walked into his room and he gave me a big smile, only there was something there that hadn’t been there the night before: two teeth coming through.

What a good baby.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Saying goodbye to sweet Sasha

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning to you,” my husband replied.

“Happy anniversary.”

It is my third wedding anniversary and my hubby, just in the nick of time, arrived from out West to mark the milestone with me.

It will be a difficult day, however.

In the past few weeks, we have learned that our elderly beagle, Sasha, more than likely has a brain tumor and by the time this column publishes, her suffering will be over.

It’s ironic that she will die on our anniversary. She was the first pet we adopted together — on Valentine’s Day, no less.

My husband was insistent on getting a purebred German Shepherd, but I wanted to adopt from the local shelter. We compromised by making the commitment to volunteer at the local animal shelter.

We completed our training and the one day we found the time to volunteer, we came home with a dog.

Sasha was part Labrador Retriever, part beagle. She was black with a barrel-shaped torso, soft, floppy ears and a little Santa beard around her snout. She clearly had been abused at some point in her life and all she wanted was to be petted and loved.

When we brought home a German Shepherd puppy a month later, she took on the role of mama. She nuzzled him while he slept, and even tried to nurse him — although anatomically speaking, that ship had long since sailed.

My husband and I celebrated her quirks, even when they drove us crazy — her incessant digging in the yard and wandering off. We worked through food aggression and the fear of being touched and hugged.

We dressed her up for Halloween and bought her cute bandanas. I even baked her and the Shepherd cupcakes for their birthdays — dog-friendly, of course.

Although she was with us only for three years, she touched our hearts and brought my husband and I closer together.

We worked as a team and problem-solved. We considered another life outside of our own. We gave of ourselves to better a life.

In my sorrow, I take with me this comfort that Sasha helped forge the very marriage I celebrate today as she slips from this life to the next.

Sasha, I wish I could go back and get you as a puppy and prevent all the pain you had. But I thank you from the bottom of my heart for bettering my life and helping me discover love.

Rest in peace, Baby Girl.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

First E.R. trip strengthens motherly resolve

It struck with a vengeance.

“Yes, this is daycare calling,” the sweet woman on the phone said. “It seems your little guy has a bit of a fever.”

“OK,” I replied. “I’m on my way to come get him.”

As I drove, I did the due diligence of calling the pediatrician to see if he needed to be checked out and what measure I could take to make him more comfortable.

I promised myself years ago that I would fight the natural instinct to panic when faced with this very situation.

I walked into the daycare room and saw him — and nearly started crying.

He was in the arms of a caregiver, eyes open dazedly, looking miserable.

“Come on, Peanut,” I said in my best comforting voice. “Let’s get you home.”

But hours later, his temperature spiked to 103 degrees. He was limp in my arms and could barely whimper. And he would not stand for me to put him down for a second.

I made the call to go into urgent care to get him checked.

Sitting in the ER, alone with a silent baby and my thoughts, I couldn’t help but think of my own mother dutifully taking me in every time I had a severe fever or injury.

I did all the things with my son that made me feel better as a child: soothing back rub, soft singing, little kisses.

It made me feel like more of a mother than ever before. Maybe that’s because women tend to be the traditional caregivers of the family.

But I was proud of myself that I staid calm and collected, even at the height of his misery.

Every few hours, he awoke and needed some medicine to manage the fever, a little bit of milk in his tummy and snuggles from his mom.

And after this exhausting weekend, I yearn for being able to have that again for myself.

In the morning, he was smiling and babbling, and his appetite returning to normal. My back aches from holding him, I feel like I haven’t slept for days, and a hot shower was nothing more than a pipe dream for me.

But as I looked into those big, blue eyes and that toothless grin staring up at me, only one thought came to mind: Totally worth it.

— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

The best laid plans often lead to a massive mess

The downside of being in a groove when raising a child is that you don’t see curveballs coming.

I’m not talking about unexpected car maintenance or working late one night — those things I have learned to anticipate at all times. No, I mean the random and often ridiculous situations one finds themselves in within their own home when they least expect it.

I was able to take a half-day last week in order to catch up on a project I need to wrap up for school. I was so stoked and had my whole day planned. First I needed to clean the cat litter boxes or city officials were going to condemn my basement. 

Next, I figured I would shampoo a 10- by 10-foot area of carpet in my living room to remove the dog urine my beagle so lovingly deposited recently. But I never realized how dirty the main walkway of only a year-old carpet could be. Buckets and buckets of brown water later, I had to abandon the project and move onto my homework.

But then I noticed that my other dog, a German shepherd, was crying when he scratched one of his ears. Off to the vet we went, only to find out he had a yeast infection. Where in the heck do those come from? Has he been sneaking into a muffin factory while I sleep at night?

By mid-afternoon, I was finally getting to my schoolwork. That’s when I noticed the funky odor from the baby’s room. Might as well empty the diaper pail, right? After all, the next day was trash day.

But back to homework …

I got myself a cool drink and gathered all my school materials. I only had about an hour to work on my project before I had to pick up the baby and I didn’t need any more distractions. Plus I was all filled up with bodily fluids.

I sat down and no sooner did I get my seat warm, but the shepherd starting whining.

“No!” I said, thinking he wanted to play fetch outside. It pretty much is the only thing on his mind other than pooping and eating and, lately, it often gets pushed down the priority list.

“Lay down,” I said. “I’ll play with you later.”

He took one step forward, leaned down and … he puked at my feet.

Family inspires me to be a better mother, person

Her name is Hannah Mae, and she has captured my heart.

She was born May 18 in the state of Washington, a beautiful, bouncing bundle of joy. Shortly after birth, it was discovered that she had a heart condition and, two months later, she underwent heart surgery.

The procedure was not as successful as was hoped and now this tiny little girl is awaiting a heart transplant.

She has never left the hospital, has never seen her family’s home, was not even held by her parents until this week.

I became aware of Hannah Mae and her family through the wonderful world of Facebook. I just happened to see a posting of my husband’s friend about another friend — Hannah’s mother.

As I read blog of this courageous mother, I started to cry. It made me realize how trivial my problems are. It made me grateful for my healthy baby. It made me painfully aware that any one of us could be in this mother’s position.

Can you imagine what that would be like? All the highs and lows of each medical procedure, weathering all the predictions and prognoses, trying to keep it together for the sake of your other children — they have two sons as well.

And then, to hope beyond hope, that your little angel can get a heart to live, even though you know it will take the death of another child in order to make that happen.

This story might seem hopeless, but it’s not. Hannah Mae is a fighter, having faced the toughest medical challenges and battling back each time. Perhaps she is inspired by her mother, who is strong and gracious during this most trying of times.

Where others would despair, she writes messages of hope. Where others others would think about themselves, she does nothing but thank and appreciate others. This mother has inspired me to be better, do better, think better — love better.

Read their story and you will fall in love with this precious little girl, just as I did: hannahmaeneedsaheart.com/default.html.

The duo that plays together is happy together

My life is in a state of homeostasis — an equilibrium of sorts.

It also is somewhat reminiscent of the film “Groundhog Day.”

At 8 a.m., I get up, get dressed, let the dogs outside and get the baby. He is ravenous when he awakens, so the next order of business it to feed him, feed the dogs, feed myself, then get us both ready for the day.

When I come home from work, we are right on schedule with a fruit serving at about 7:30 p.m., a bath at 8, then bedtime at 8:45.

I have lived this day over and over for about two months, but something different has happened: My baby is fun.

I know what you’re thinking, but before you banish me to the Netherworld of Awful Mothers, know this: I love my baby. I would take a bullet for him. He is the cutest, sweetest, most important person in my life. My sun rises and sets with him. But I have patiently waited for the day when he could interact a little more.

He has learned that I’m “Momma” — although he refuses to say it and laughs hysterically when I suggest it — and seeks me out for comfort. He has started to snuggle when he is tired. He is starting to know what “no” means, and is testing his boundaries. And, best of all, he wants to play.

It’s fascinating to watch him bang a toy on the ground, his eyes squinted in concentration, his little mouth jabbering away. His squeals of delight when I get on all fours and crawl toward him nearly turn me to mush. We even have slow-speed chases, where I crawl down the hallway and he follows me to his room, where I have a few toys waiting.

He also is learning a little bit about independence, and I let him crawl around the living room and simply observe. He chews on the bumpers we put on the tables, he flicks his fingers along the cold air return vent, he pulls himself up on the baby gate and sways back and forth.

It’s incredible to know that, only six weeks ago, he was immobile and completely dependent. Now he is a little boy who is a few months away from walking and wants to break away and discover.

I might only get a few hours with my son each day, but we make the most of it and we are truly enjoying one another.

It might be “Groundhog Day,” but I can’t imagine any other day I would want to repeat.

Babies are a game changer at big events

To bring the baby or not to bring the baby — that is the question.

Major family events bring a host of decisions for the parent of an infant. Is the baby old enough? Will he disrupt any important moments? What about feeding and nap times? Will I have to pump? How do I store the milk?

This summer I’ve handled a plane ride to Florida, a wedding reception and a family reunion.

This past weekend was the big challenge: My husband’s brother was married and my husband and I were in the bridal party. The baby-sitting options were slim, given that my entire support network was either in or attending the wedding.

I opted to import my aunt and cousin from Detroit to watch the baby. They don’t see him very often and it was a way for them to spend some one-on-one time with him.

What I didn’t realize was that I was setting up a guilt-ridden paradox, where I would feel obligated to be in two places at once. I was a bridesmaid — and very honored to be included in that group — so I wanted to make the bride and groom’s special day be perfect.

Conversely, I had my wonderful relatives drive more than three hours just to baby-sit my kid, so I felt obliged to make it be a smooth and enjoyable experience.

Clearly I have guilt issues.

Anyway, the day manifested itself in frantic form, where I raced home after my 8 a.m. hair and makeup session to help my cousin put the baby down for a nap. Then I raced back to the wedding site for the ceremony and pictures.

I drove back home, only to find that my aunt and cousin had taken the baby to the park, so off I went in my bridesmaid dress to meet them. I drew a lot of stares as I walked with two casually dressed women and a baby in a stroller. My bare feet didn’t help the look, as I already was dealing with wedding-shoe blisters.

I raced off to the bridal party dinner and had my aunt and cousin meet me at the reception. By that point, I had a lot of “Where’s the baby?” questions and felt that I needed to provide the child for the oohs and aahs of out-of-town relatives.

I saw him no longer than five minutes before I was off to the bathroom to pump, as he had eaten just prior to arriving.

Then it was toasts and cake cutting, followed by calming the baby down from being passed around to 20 different people.

My evening concluded with me leaving early and mumbling excuses to my mother-in-law for why I needed to leave — and the guilt continues to mount to this day.

In the end, I have to stop trying to please everyone else, because I will please no one. And, as long as my baby is happy and healthy, I’m sure my relatives and friends will understand — or at least be wise enough to not take me to task.

I’m just glad I don't know anyone else who is recently engaged!

Take time to look back at the journey

A friend recently told me, “You always focus on the firsts of things, but you never realize when something happens for the last time.”

It was an interesting concept to ponder. In some ways, I’m glad I don’t realize something is for the last time. I don’t want to feel that punch to the heart when I realize I have rocked my baby to sleep for the last time or that I have breastfed for the last time.

On the other hand, I think it’s important to remember last times when they are evident. Acknowledging these moments helps us appreciate the experiences all the more.

I remember the last day of high school and the exhilarating freedom I felt; I remember the last time I saw my mother and the wrenching heartache in my soul; I remember the last time I kissed my husband as he left for a monthslong sojourn out West.

Sometimes the last-time moments help us appreciate what we have been blessed to have.

I recently had three employees leave The Sentinel because their department was eliminated. It was a painful thing to watch, and in some ways I think I was more affected than they were. I wanted so much to keep things the way they were — us working nights together, laughing at odd news stories, sharing life experiences.

Now they are gone and I miss them terribly, but by missing them, I know how special it was to have them in my life in the first place.

As a new mother, I have been focusing a lot on firsts. Everyone is obsessed with a baby’s progress: “How old is he?” “Is he sitting up yet?” “Is he crawling?” “Any teeth yet?”

But as we constantly look forward, I like to take a little time to look back at the journey.

Focusing on lasts doesn’t have to be sad or depressing, and I think it’s something we shouldn’t fear. I think many of us could benefit on a little reflection and wonder in the joy of life’s long arc — the trials and tribulations it took to where we are today.

And without ends, there would be no beginnings. My friendships with my co-workers is just beginning, even though my working relationship has ended. My baby no longer needs my help to sit, but he’s so close to crawling for the first time.

It comes full circle, and it shouldn’t be any other way.

Single motherhood is here to stay — at least a little longer

Bad news this week. My husband's company, upon finishing its job in Minnesota, will next trek to Oklahoma to finish a job that is partially done.

It means he won't be home at least until the end of September, which usually means even a week or two more, which pushes us into October. I will be lucky if he makes it home for our Oct. 1 anniversary.

Funny, I don't feel lucky. I feel blessed that I have a wonderful baby whom I adore and that we both have jobs and a great home. But I don't feel lucky. By the time Zack gets home, he will have missed more than half of Baby Ben's life.

That makes me sad. Terribly sad.

Development explosion is exhilarating

“How did he get so big?” my husband asked regarding our 6-month-old.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I wish he would slow down a little.”

This past weekend only was the second time my husband has seen the baby in two months. Well, that’s not exactly true, but Skype doesn’t quite pass for the real thing.

The Golden Age of babyhood has passed. My once angelic cherub, who quietly watched the activity in the room and only cried when hungry and tired, has changed. Gone are the days I could run into the kitchen to grab something or turn my back for a few moments at the changing table.

In fact, my baby isn’t much of a baby anymore. He’s becoming a little boy.

In the past month alone, he has learned to roll over both ways, sit up, get onto all fours and stand when grasping a steady base. He’s eating all kinds of veggies and fruits, is babbling up a storm and reaches for anything within a 2-foot radius.

I couldn’t be more proud — or exhausted.

As baby’s needs become more complicated, I won’t always know the answer, which is frightening. I’m a gal who likes to know how to fix things, and there certainly is an established control freak residing within me.

Babies have a way of fixing that.

“Oh, you have a schedule,” they think coyly. “That’s adorable. I have my OWN schedule in mind.”

But regardless of my incessant whining about how challenging my situation is with my husband out of town, I still feel a great sense of fulfillment that I can rise to the occasion. All the things get done. All the baby’s needs are met. All the appointments kept. All the planning organized.

Which is good, because this kid is on a roll, and he’s not slowing down for anything.

And teething is right around the corner. Ugh.

Daycare dilemma rears its ugly head again

Daycare.

We love it for convenience. We hate it because it means others are caring for our children. And until society creates a suitable alternative, we’re stuck with it.

To the outsider, the concept is simple: Call up a daycare, take a look around, drop your baby off Monday morning and go about your business.

The depths to which parents have to plan this process, however, rival those of a NASA lunar landing. There’s the research into licensing, the operating hours, the tours, the waiting lists, the geographical considerations, even the choice between secular and faith-based.

The details are dizzying, and making the right choice is crucial for your baby’s well being and your peace of mind.

I have been in the process of enrolling my son in a new daycare in Grand Haven, because the current facility has had serious staffing issues. I won’t rehash the whole rigmarole, but the end result was to keep him in the current daycare for one more week, then a private sitter will watch him while I work for one month, then he will begin attending his new daycare.

Of course, this WAS the plan until I received a call Sunday evening informing me that my current daycare facility was shutting its doors immediately.

Nothing inspires a panic attack like not knowing what to do with your baby when you’re scheduled to work all week.

I was able to call in every favor of every family member and friend to get through this next week, but it got me to thinking: How do other parents handle the juggernaut of daycare? And, once the children are in daycare, how do parents know the kids are receiving quality care?

I expected the sleepless nights, the erratic schedule of eating and sleeping, the spontaneity of joyful and awful moments, the daily plan changes, even the unexpected purchases.

But I never knew daycare would be such a source of anxiety, and that such drama surrounded such facilities. Behind those sweet smiles are real people who are just like you and me — they don’t like their boss or they wish things were run differently.

Blindly trusting in the institution was naïve on my part. But now I’m more the wiser.

How did food turn into such a fight?

“What’s new with the baby today?” my husband asked on Skype.

“Oh, you know,” I replied. “Everything.”

Between the sitting up, reaching and grasping, rolling over and constant babbling, I’ve had my hands full.

But then there’s the food.

The doctor and the books described this process of transitioning a baby to solids in an almost clinical way: Step 1. Mix a little rice cereal with milk or formula. Step 2. Give a few bites a day, then move on to pureed vegetables and fruits. Add a little dash of patience and voila — instant solid food eater.

Someone did not send the memo to my baby that he was to follow said plan, because the first bite of cereal-milk I put into his mouth invoked a look of pure horror. His brow furrowed, he tongue stuck out, his eyes pleaded with me, “Why did you do this to me?”

I started trying to trick him into laughing as I would sing silly songs and make silly faces, just to get him to open his mouth. Then I would feel like a jerk as his face puckered up at the indignity of having to swallow liquefied peas.

As I sampled the fare myself, I couldn’t really blame the kid. Peas just don’t taste the same when they’re not in their solid state, preferably salted, peppered and slathered in butter. Mmmm, butter. Anyway, the point is that texture certainly plays a role in our food preferences. And, for all my good intentions of buying the premium, organic, nothing-but-the-best-for-my-baby food, it tastes awful.

Then there’s the other part the doctor and book didn’t prepare me for — what happens later. I mean, how am I supposed to know that two bites of sweet potatoes are going to result in washing half my baby’s wardrobe a few hours later? I swear more was on his face than in his mouth, but the effects on the “back end” of the eating process were phenomenal.

The lesson gleaned from this adventure: Promise the kid he can get buttered peas when he gets teeth and invest in a good hazmat suit for laundry day.

Six months has brought a lot of lessons

As the nation celebrates its birthday today, I also am noting a milestone: My son’s half birthday.

That’s right. My baby is six months old and the time has just flown by — partially attributed to sleep-deprived delirium.

Here are some lessons I have learned along the way:

• It’s OK to take your baby to public places: My instincts still fight this concept. I am loath to disrupt a pleasant experience for others by being “the lady with the crying baby.” Most people understand you’re not going to be able to control an infant’s sudden outbursts.

• Avoid travel when possible: Give yourself hours of padding if you are going on long car trips. Just a trip to visit family in Detroit took about five hours. Think about it: The baby only can sleep for so long but needs to eat, be changed and be played with frequently. Think about it — the license plate game originated for a reason. Car trips are boring.

Air travel is no better. With security measures as tight as they are, you are not airport-friendly. Between suntan lotion, ointment, wipes, milk and freezer packs, you have enough liquid to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool. It’s not fun being in the “special inspections” line.

• You are allowed to be a tiger mother: At first, I was apologizing to in-laws, sitters, daycare providers — even my husband — when I wanted things a certain way. I didn’t want people thinking I was a control freak. After about two months of that, you realize you don’t have the time or emotional energy for that. It’s your child, and you have the right to set the standard of care you want. Period.

• Allow yourself to ask for help: I don’t know if it’s the fact that I don’t want to bother anyone or a point of personal pride, but I have a difficult time asking for help.  After all, generations of women have been doing this unassisted. But, if you think about it logically, the world is a different place than it was even 30 years ago. With a full-time job, part-time schooling and having a husband out of state, no one in their right mind should think I could do this all on my own.

• Steal moments: It’s inevitable. Your magnetic pole has shifted so that your baby now is the center of your universe. But try not to take life too seriously: laugh with him, allow yourself to be silly, take a lot of pictures. And don’t forget to take a little time to focus on yourself and your partner. You will thank yourself later.

Debbie wasn’t a downer for this family vacation

“It’s supposed to rain in Florida for the next couple of days,” my husband said.

He was home for the weekend and we were preparing to fly to Tampa to attend his best friend’s wedding.

Saying it was going to rain was like saying there’s a couple of tulips in Holland. The day after we arrived, Tropical Storm Debby bore down on the entire state, whipping rain, wind and debris everywhere.

Having never had a brush with a natural disaster, I was ill prepared for the situation. I mean, come on, how often do you wake up and The Weather Channel is doing a live broadcast from the beach in front of your hotel?

However, I was not nearly as concerned as I would have thought: After the fifth tornado warning is issued for your area, you begin to brush it off.

By day three, we were getting pretty squirrelly holed up in the hotel, so we decided to venture out with another couple. We opted for The Florida Aquarium in downtown Tampa — a water activity seemed fitting.

Through the deluge we drove in a vehicle that, I swear, was so big, could have doubled as a pontoon boat. We watched in awe as we saw the giant wave swells crashing against the concrete barriers along the coast. We marveled at the winds scattering debris across the road. We chuckled at the people who, seemingly enthralled, were dancing around in the rain.

The critters at the aquarium didn’t disappoint, and the entire day became a wonderful adventure that distracted all of us from the fact that we never once saw the sun during our vacation.

But in the end, that didn’t matter. The happy couple ended up having an intimate ceremony, complete with twinkling lights in the background. The bride looked beautiful, the groom looked handsome. The guests cried tears of joy. The children laughed and played.

And all the while, Debby did her worst, and it didn’t stop us for a minute.

Fear of father’s rejection gives me pause

This Father’s Day was the most difficult for me.

My husband still is working in Minnesota and missing his first Father’s Day — although I’m sure he is hurting far more than I am for him.

But it also is on my mind, because I am thinking about my own father more than I have in years past.

You see, my father does not know he has a grandson, and I am sick over deciding whether or not to tell him.

It’s a sordid and complicated tale that involves 34 years of bad blood, but the Cliff’s notes version is my father never wanted a child and didn’t have much interest when life graced him with one. We reconnected in my early 20s for a bit, but alcoholism, depression and something I can only describe as borderline mental health issues put too much strain on an already fragile relationship.

My father has never met my husband, having declined to attend my wedding. And I thought I had put this painful chapter of my life behind me, which is no small feat. But then my beautiful son was born and the issue has been on my mind ever since. Maybe becoming a parent has made me want to mend fences with the one I have left.

Not that I hold out any romantic notions that the knowledge that he has a grandson will create some sort of paternal epiphany and bring all parties together for a tearful reunion — those hopes were dashed years ago through several cycles of a loving relationship that suddenly and unexpectedly would sour for weeks at a time.

But there is this urge within me to make him know that there is this wonderful creature in the world that he is linked to — no matter how tenuously.

My plan is to send some pictures. My hope is he will know that I am doing well and that I am healthy and happy in creating a family of my own. My fear is he will respond with something hurtful, even spiteful, as has been the case in the past.

Why can I not put this issue to rest? Why am I making myself vulnerable to be hurt again? Why isn’t my happiness with my beautiful family enough?

I might never know the answer to these questions, but I believe that God is pushing me to do the right thing, no matter how hard it is.

My father might reject us again, but once the sting again subsides, I will know in my heart I did all I could and held myself to a higher moral code — and that’s the kind of role model I want to be for my son.

Happy Father’s Day to my wonderful husband: I know you will show our children love and acceptance throughout their lives.

Fleeting moments get us through the grind

The day was perfect. The sun was shining, the water was a brilliant shade of blue and the company was near and dear.

As the boat engine revved, the baby’s eyes grew wide with fear and, perhaps, a little excitement?

I visited my family this weekend in Detroit — my first solo trip since the baby was born. My aunts and uncle co-own a boat and it becomes their second home during the summer months. When Holland has a hot, muggy day, I yearn to be back home, floating on the water, sipping an ice cold Coca-Cola.

I gladly introduced baby Ben to the wonderful world of boating, and between his suspicious looks of “Am I OK?” he had a wonderful time. I couldn’t help but melt when I saw him in his little swim trunks falling asleep as the din of the motor and lull of the boat rocked him gently to sleep.

Things haven’t exactly been easy since my husband went out west for work, and I needed this reconnection with family. They all want to hold and cuddle the baby — and even want to change diapers, if you can believe it.

Then the text messages started rolling in: I needed to resend a file for work, the German Shepherd learned how to jump over the kennel fence … and I felt the tug of my responsibilities calling.

I’m glad I could experience that one perfect day and close my eyes and feel the wind in my face. It felt exhilarating to not worry about house chores, work tasks, pets or the baby.

And as I make my way westward, I need to hold onto this wonderful feeling, fleeting as it might be.

Most of us don’t stop to truly live in the moment and appreciate these small but wonderful times. But that truly is what is keeping me going in my new reality of single parenthood for the rest of the summer.

So as I figure out work stuff and go to the hardware store to buy fencing and as I’m taking the baby back to daycare, I will close my eyes and see that beautiful blue water and feel that warm wind in my face.

It was a perfect day.

The hazy, baby days of summer

It’s been one week since my husband left to work out west.

As he puts in 13-hour shifts somewhere in the backcountry of Minnesota, I am putting in 16-hour days of baby time, school time and work time.

It’s an exhausting thought to know this will be the next three months of my life. And it makes me appreciate all those single mothers out there and the additional stresses they deal with day in and day out.

Keeping up with all the chores is hard enough with two of us, but having a 5-month-old makes it downright impossible. He is starting to take fewer and shorter naps, and he is not yet mobile, so he likes lots of eye contact and doesn’t appreciate when you walk away to take care of something briefly.

But I don’t have the time to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I have a little person who is completely dependant on me. And my biggest priority is to maintain a sense of normalcy for him.

Babies don’t know why moms get sad. They just want to eat, poop and play.

The hardest part is not having that extra set of hands. I have to meticulously plan how to vacuum, do laundry, wash dishes and take out the trash. And forget about yard work. We have family helping us with that, thankfully.

That’s great, because I was trying to figure out if I could get little, baby sound-blocking headphones to take him on the John Deere with me.

Surprising through all of this is that my spirits remain intact. My husband, however, is a wreck. He’s just sick over the fact that he is not here with us, and Skype can assuage him so much.

Maybe it’s because I spent most of the spring processing my feelings of anger and self-pity, while he basked in the warmth of denial. Now he realizes how difficult it is to be away from his wife and baby, and I am getting through each day with a happy face for my son.

After all, what choice do I have?

How critical is it to be there for baby’s ‘firsts?’

It was a recent weekday and my son was with a family member versus our normal daycare service.

I was sitting at work and had a few minutes to check my Facebook page. And I was surprised by what I saw.

It was pictures of my 4-month-old son standing in the sand at the beach. There were wide shots and closeups of his little toes and smiles abounded.

But instead of being charmed with his infinite cuteness, I was sad … and a little angry.

I had wanted to share that moment with him — to see the look on his face when he felt the strange warmth and softness of beach sand squishing between his toes. The comments under the photo alluded to the fact that he didn’t care for the prickly sensation of grass under his feet, which just deepened my angst.

I shared my feelings with the family member, saying I wanted to be there for as many first moments as I can.

But where do you draw the line?

My understanding of first moments encompasses developmental things — rolling over, crawling, first tooth, walking, first word — and experiences — swimming, different textures under the feet, petting zoo.

But I am firmly aware that these feelings are driven solely by my selfish need to be there for my own benefit. I know it won’t make much difference to him if I’m there or not.

So how long does a first-time parent keep this up? After the first birthday? After all the firsts I can think of have been exhausted? After someone hosts an intervention and says they are sick of my obsessiveness?

I’m sure the novelty has a natural way of fading away as the realities of life settle in for the next decade. And, let’s face it, there are some firsts I’m dreading — the first potty training accident, the first time he repeats a cuss word someone errantly said.

But, for now, everything he does is precious and I want to see as much of it as I can. I dare someone to stop me!

What to do for three months with baby?

My husband is leaving for three months.

When I got the news, I wanted to cry — the thought of handling the responsibilities of work, school and a baby all on my own was terrifying.

His job is in the construction field and he needs to go where the work is and I need to start accepting the reality of my situation.

He will miss most of the summer, and with it, many milestones in our son’s life.

He won’t see him eat solid food for the first time, his first tooth, or his first attempts at crawling. He won’t see the baby’s reaction to feeling grass under his feet for the first time, or sand at the beach.

Then I worry about the baby remembering his dad — will he recognize him or fear him when he sees him? My heart breaks to even ask the question.

I have a support network rallying behind me, offering to watch the baby while I am at work. Being a second-shifter is not easy when it comes to parenthood as it is. It’s difficult to find daycare options and you always need an army of helpers as a backup plan.

I have one more week and the deal will be done. Then baby and I will be on our own.

I’m sure the time will fly by. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’m sure it won’t cause my son and ill effects and I’m sure my husband will think about us daily.

With all the bright side comments out of the way, I’m mad — steaming mad. I hate this situation and I desperately want to change it. But accepting that fact that the situation now is beyond my control is proving to be most difficult.

But, then again, I always had issues with not getting my way. Maybe this time with my son is exactly what I need in order to focus on what is most important in life.

I will do my best to muddle through, and I hope it will all work out in the end.

Baby boom amongst minority populations

According to new census figures, racial and ethnic minorities now make up more than half the children born in the U.S. It's an important milestone, because it means more ethnic babies are being born stateside rather than immigrating with their parents.

Once of the statistics that most interested me was that births actually have been declining for both whites and minorities as many women postponed having children during the economic slump. One of the reasons I waited until my 30s to have children was because I felt I could not afford a family until I was more financially secure.

Read the article by The Associated Press here.

Child of God

Ben was baptized Sunday, May 13, 2012 — Mother's Day. My grandmother brought the christening gown she handmade for her first child — my mother — for him to wear. That gown was used for all three of her children and for me when I was baptized. It felt so right to have it there for him, knowing he was wrapped up in an entire family history of God and love as his divine life began.

The oil used to anoint the infants smells delicious — like flowers and herbs. It reminded me of the smells you inhale when you walk through a field of wildflowers. I kept smelling Ben's little head and hoped that smell would never go away.

And, of all the babies in the church that day, mine was the only one who didn't cry. What a great experience.

Skip what you hate about parenting

In the wake of the Time magazine cover, one writer says women should never doubt if they are "mom enough."

Read the article here.

Moms just want the simple things this Mother's Day

Mother's Day honors mothers and celebrates motherhood, maternal bonds and the influence of mothers in society — because they are the glue that holds families together.

Although I have been a mother only for four months, it has been rich with lessons and experiences.

For example, I have learned that I can, in fact, take a six-minute shower, or that I can cook dinner, wash dishes and do laundry — all one-handed.

As families honor Mom today, we should remember when and why it all started.

The modern holiday was first celebrated in 1908, when Anna Jarvis had a memorial for her mother, Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis. The elder Jarvis had founded Mothers’ Day Work Clubs. These brave women campaigned to improve sanitary conditions in cities and helped treat wounded soldiers in the Civil War — both Union and Confederate.

Two years after her mother’s death, the younger Jarvis had a “Mother's Day” and adamantly campaigned to have it be a recognized holiday in the United States.

Although she was successful in 1914, she already was disappointed with its commercialization by the 1920s.

I can’t blame her. After all, I would rather be able to relax and enjoy my family’s company — versus running around like a maniac — than receive jewelry or a vacuum cleaner.

Moms don’t need you to spend money. Rather, they want acknowledgement and appreciation for everything they do “behind the scenes.” The want to hear that you love them for who they are and that you want to spend time with them. They want affirmation that all the time and energy they put into making others happy is worth it.

My husband recognizes the importance of my first Mother’s Day.

“I’m been thinking about what to get you and I just don’t know,” he said. “Will you just tell me what you want?”

I thought about it for a few minutes.

“Not to worry,” I said.

He laughed, but I only was half-kidding.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with some older co-workers several years ago.

“The minute you have a child,” one of them said, “a sense of worry settles upon you and it never goes away.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

It’s Mom’s job to worry — about scheduling, nutrition, comfort, organization, preparation — you name it, Mom has thought of it. After all, our end goal is to make our children happy and to forge positive experiences. Whether we work out of the home or stay at home, juggling everyone else’s wants and needs — often at the expense of our own — is no small feat.

And we always doubt ourselves, wishing we could do more, do better, do it all.

So, this Mother’s Day, give Mom what she truly wants: your attention, your affection, your respect. It really is the best gift of all.