Simple milestones usually are the best

The doctor calls with some startling news…

The doorbell rings. Who is that familiar-looking stranger at the door?

A funny thing happened on the way to the store…

Everyone appreciates a good story, and I’m no exception. In fact, you might say I’ve built a career around helping people tell their stories. I love a good tale, from a dynamic opening line, to a leading narrative, to thought-provoking insights and a satisfying conclusion.

A had a whopper of a story last week, when my son was struck ill by a nasty virus that left him unwilling to eat for nearly a week. He even started to refuse liquids and had to take a trip to urgent care to get intravenously rehydrated. I saw more of his personal fluids during that week than I care to admit — let’s just say it was a trying time for all of us.

So it was with great joy that my little guy was back to his normal self and was well enough to return to daycare. The fact that it was Halloween week — my favorite holiday — helped us focus on the upcoming festivities. It also provided me the first opportunity to make something for my son’s “class.”

Now, this was my big moment, so I didn’t want to blow it. I opted to make Jell-O, because, well, no one screws up Jell-O. So it was with great pride on Thursday when I dropped my guy off and brought in two containers of freshly made raspberry and lime gelatin — everyone likes choices.

And I beamed a few hours later when I picked him up to get ready for trick-or-treating. I couldn’t wait to get him into the little prison inmate costume we bought weeks earlier (complete with little tattoo sleeves).

“I wanted to tell you,” his daycare teacher said, “that Ben has a story.”

“Really?” I said excitedly. “What is it big guy?” I directed my attention to my tot who was availing some dinosaur toys with his screams.

He didn’t answer, so I turned back to the teacher.

“We were taking a walk,” she explained, “and a tree branch down the block fell to the sidewalk. And Ben has been telling everyone about it.”

At that moment, my son ran up and said simply, “Big tree broke.”

I’ve read thousands of stories in my life, and I’ll more than likely read thousands more.

This was the best one ever.

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

Critters enrich a family’s happiness

I love animals.

Cats are my people, so to speak. Dogs and I get along for the most part, but they can get smelly. I’ve tried fish a few times, but they always die.

But just because I have an affinity with my four-legged friends doesn’t mean I want to share everything with them. In fact, our pets — at current count one dog and two cats — have some boundary issues.

I wake up in the shape of a crime scene victim every morning with a cat on the legs and one under an arm. I live by the clock of a German shepherd’s bathroom cycle. I am enslaved to kibble, twice yearly shedding and endless kitty litter sifting.

The animals are just a part of our family, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when my son started taking an interest in our critters. It began with a squeal of delight whenever they would enter the room. Then it progressed with approaching them and trying to touch and pet them.

Yesterday I walked into the room with my son sticking his entire hand into our dog’s mouth.

Now, I trust my pooch, but even I’m not naïve enough to think any dog isn’t capable of reaching his breaking point and snapping at a mischievous child.

Now my job as a mom has expanded ever further to mind all my children a little more closely. I need to be vigilant about a dog tail knocking over the kid, the kid chasing the cats, the cats sneaking into the boy’s room and the circle goes on and on.

One bright spot is that all four of my “children” have an affinity for treats, including hot dogs and cheese. So when I am cooking, it’s not unusual to have several sets of eyes peeking through the baby gate trying to see what nibbles potentially await them.

And the best feeling in the world is seeing all of the critters lying in the living room relaxing before bedtime. There is something that just makes me melt when I see a little blond boy using his dog as a pillow and the shepherd slumbering peacefully all the while.

Yes, some days life is just perfect and it’s all because of my four-legged friends.

— Sarah Leach is editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4279 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Injuries highlight true parenting differences

“Could you grab me a paper towel?” my husband called from the baby’s room.

I was annoyed, because I was in the middle of cleaning up the kitchen and he does have arms and legs that function just fine, last time I checked.

My huffy demeanor quickly dissipated, however, when I walked in, paper towel in hand, and my son was bleeding. More specifically, he had a split over his right eye and the beginning of a good shiner.

My husband seemed completely unaffected, smiling away as he dried our son off from bath time and prepped a diaper and pajama outfit. My reaction was just a little different — just a tiny bit.

“What happened?” I cried.

“What? This?” my husband said, as he started dabbing the blood away from the offending cut. “He jumped in the tub, fell and cut his eye.”

I stared at my husband incredulously. He was acting as if this was no big deal.

“You could have said something,” I said. I was trying to get my stomach back to its rightful place after dropping to the floor.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said.

I could have throttled him. Didn’t he know that this was my baby? Didn’t he understand how serious this was?

There’s a distinct difference between men and women in terms of their reaction to injuries. I want to call in the National Guard; he wants to rub some dirt in it and walk it off.

Both approaches are a bit ridiculous, so I can only hope our children will learn to find some middle ground in our extreme approaches.

The following day, the bruise was big, but it didn’t look like our son needed medical attention.

My husband seemed disappointed.

“I was hoping that his first shiner would be a little more noticeable,” he said.

I was just thankful that the yearly daycare pictures were three days earlier.

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

5 ways I sabotage my own happiness

Is it possible to be happy yet completely overwhelmed?

It’s such a juxtaposition that it hardly seems that in one breath you can appreciate all the wondrous experiences with which you have been graced, and in the next want to throw up your hands and run away from it all.

The cold, hard truth is that I have too much on my plate, but when I want to take something off, I feel like a failure or guilty that I should be more grateful for the fact that I’m better off than others.

I imagine many people feel this way, but just don’t want to reveal their innermost demons so publicly. But I’m an over-sharer, so let me just invite you in:

• I work too much: I am at the pinnacle of my career at a surprisingly young age. I put too much pressure on myself to deliver everything to everyone. I’m a woman and 35 years old, ergo I not only have to be competent, but superior in order to prove myself every single day. Anything less gives validation to my critics.

• I care too much: I wish I could take every person I’m at odds with and haul them into a counselor’s office so we could talk about our feelings. I keep convincing myself that if I can just say the right string of words and explain myself in the right way, it will all work out in the end. I keep clinging to the masochistic concept that if I pull off impossible things, I will lead by example and get others to follow.

• I worry too much: We’ve been trying to get pregnant with no luck. That is tough enough, but I’m having abnormal periods — 2 a month for 6 months — and the doctors can’t explain why. I’ve been poked and prodded in some very uncomfortable ways, but the bottom line is I have no answers. And with no answers, I can’t identify a solution. How could I have gotten pregnant so easily only to be mystified the second time around? What if I develop cancer that struck down my mother at such a young age? What if I never have more children? Not knowing leaves me in limbo and limbo leaves me not knowing how to feel about any of it.

• I don’t have a rock: This is not a criticism to those who love me. In fact, I think it’s my fault. I’m so set on not needing to lean on others — to avoid unnecessarily worrying them — that I don’t reach out for the hands that often are extended. I don’t have that perfect person you read about in books or watch in movies who just gets me in most vulnerable hour. Do they even exist in real life?

• I’m not a positive person: I habitually brace for the worst-case scenario, preferring to be pleasantly surprised than horribly disappointed. My life experiences have taught me this coping mechanism. It has served me well at times, but has hardened me in inexplicable ways, where I cannot revel in joy for more than a few moments before doubt and worry creep in.

I can’t do it all, but for some reason I keep trying, like a gerbil in an endless spinning wheel. I don’t know why I don’t give up — and I honestly don’t think I want to. Perhaps the struggle is the journey on which to reflect at the end of the road.

But now, in this moment, the mountain of obstacles seems insurmountable. All I have are these two hands, so I better stop whining and get climbing.

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

Techno wizardry leaves me a bit uneasy

“We're born, we live for a brief instant, and we die. It's been happening for a long time. Technology is not changing it much — if at all.” ― Steve Jobs

Well, not to argue with the father of the iPhone, but technology makes a huge difference in my household. From the bottle warmer to the quick microwavable toddle meals to the books with sounds, technology has allowed me to open up endless possibilities for my son.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and that means monitoring that iPhone pretty closely when you have a toddler running around.

This past week, I was sitting with my son on the couch. He slyly pulled my phone into his hands, thinking he was really getting away with something. I smiled, thinking how cute he was, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t do much harm.

I raised an eyebrow as he flipped the phone on its side. My mouth fell agape when he selected the correct button to light up the smartphone’s display screen. Then I watched in disbelief when he opened and clenched his hand over the phone until his fingers hit the screen just right to unlock the device for use.

How in the world did my 20-month-old learn how to operate a computer?

Part of what separates the babies from the grownups is that adults (in theory) know the ways of the world. Babies depend on us for certain things — food, clothing, stinky diaper disposal — and the adults are expected to provide.

It’s a little unsettling, however, when a child flirts with knowing more than you do. My son hasn’t even started forming sentences yet, and he knows how to take “selfies” with the camera on a cellphone. And just in case you thought this was a fluke, he learned how to unlock my husband’s cellphone, too, using an entirely different unlock mechanism.

Suddenly I don’t feel so secure in my technological superiority, and I’m wondering what else this kid can figure out. For now, the laptop is getting put on a higher shelf, the batteries are coming out of the DVR remote and I’m calling Apple to see if there’s a minimum age for new interns.

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

I’m wishing for another round

Humans are funny in that they can never appreciate what the have — we always want more.

Case in point, I have a husband who finally took a job that keep him home, a job I can’t help but love and a 20-month-old who has me wrapped around his finger.

And yet I want more.

We have been trying to have another baby, but the ease we were blessed with the first time around has not graced us again. In fact, it’s getting pretty frustrating.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You’ve only been trying for a few months, these things take time, you’re still young, yada, yada, yada.”

We’ve been trying for six months and the minutes that are ticking down to my impending 36^th birthday are like war drums. I keep thinking that any minute, God will bless us again, but it looks like that’s not the plan for the immediate.

The doctor says I need to be patient, but that, “given my age,” we’ll take things to the next step if we’re not pregnant by the end of the year. But every month feels like an eternity.

So now, I am hoping and praying I have a little luck left.

Family ties grow stronger with burial

My husband finally met my mother this weekend.

It was short and sweet, and she didn’t say a word, but it meant the world to him.

In 1993, my mother died of liver cancer. She was 40 years old, a single mother, and I was her only child. There are many predictably soul-crushing aspects to this unfortunate life statistic, but I daresay I’m happy with my life.

I met a great guy, who for some reason beyond my comprehension, professed his undying devotion to me and asked for my hand in marriage. We had a zoo of pets that we poured our love into, and when we thought we were ready for a two-legged baby, the good Lord blessed us with a feisty son.

But there was something always bugging my husband.

“When are you going to take me to see your mother’s grave?”

It wasn’t the first time he had asked. In fact, he’s brought it up a few times during our six years together.

My mother is buried in Macomb County, where I grew up. And, even though I have only gone to the cemetery about a dozen times since her burial, I know exactly where the plot is. She is in a beautiful spot, near a large shade tree.

And now, my grandmother is finally with her. We traveled home to finally lay my grandmother to rest and bury her ashes next to her husband and daughter. It was a relief to know that she was at peace with those most precious to her, and it was cathartic to finally show my husband — and son — what was my most hallowed ground.

It was temperate day, with storm clouds threatening. The process was brief — almost anticlimactic — and then it was over. As I stood there, my husband took my son’s little hand and led him over to my mother’s grave.

“Ben,” he said, “this is your grandma. Can you say hello?”

Ben looked down at the gravestone I selected for my mother all those years ago and just stood silent, and I saw my husband grieve for a woman he never met.

Now that’s love, pure and simple, and I know my mother was pleased to finally make their acquaintance.

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

Graduation day makes me wistful

It’s tough to believe that this day has finally come.

My baby is graduating, and I couldn’t be more proud.

He worked really hard on all of his assignments, and his teachers said he always displayed a natural curiosity and precociousness rarely seen for his age.

I worked with his teachers every chance I got in order to have a good relationship with them. I attended every school open house, bought extra school supplies, brought in items from home to help him through his day.

My husband and I worked through work schedules, doctor’s appointments, travel, holiday weekends and our little one’s success is evident.

It’s weird seeing him move on, though, as he reaches toward bigger and better things. My husband and I wonder where the time went, as our little man starts branching out on his own.

It makes me wish I could go back in time and savor some of those milestones moments just a bit more. I should have scheduled more family outings so we had more memories to cherish.

At the very least, it has motivated me to try to make the most of the remaining time we have before he inevitably leaves the nest. My husband thinks I’m being a bit premature, but I am all too aware of how quickly the sands are falling through the hourglass.

And my son has done a great job meeting my expectations in terms of his educational achievement. I always knew he was capable of great things, but it’s a fine line between being wholly supportive of your child and being a little too pushy, which can jeopardize their interest level.

I’m glad the family’s hard work is paying off and I can’t wait for what this next phase brings. There will be challenges, for sure, but we will work together and come out stronger and wiser on the other side.

That’s right, my guy has graduated from the infant room and now is in the toddler room.

Way to go, Peanut. You’re making your dad and me proud.

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

Sleepy time takes on a whole new meaning

My favorite time of day with my son is bedtime. I know that sounds like I can’t wait to get my kid to sleep so I can have some alone time, but it’s not like that at all.

I love the fact that this is the only time of day when he settles down enough for us to sit quietly together and there’s nothing more wonderful than your little one drifting off to sleep on your shoulder.

We have this ritual every single night. I turn off the lights in the living room and kitchen and we sit on the couch with my husband. Sometimes we read a book, sometimes we watch the Tigers. He has some milk to fill up his tummy and I give him his favorite blanket and off we go to his room.

Now, for a long time, the story ends a few minutes later with a sleeping boy in his crib and me happily getting ready for bed myself. What has been the case as of late, however, is a wild animal that somewhat resembles my child, only this creature bucks like a bronco, swings like a boxer and screams like a hyena.

I have developed several strategies for dealing with this creature. Sometimes I can calm him in the rocking chair; other times I can hold him standing up and he settles down. On the worst days, I have to put him in his crib for a few minutes and let him calm down before I’ll pick him back up.

A few days ago, we had a particularly bad night where I had to go through all of the aforementioned techniques. Once he calmed down a bit in the crib — but was still standing up staring at me — I picked him back up to rock him to sleep.

I realized immediately that I had played right into his hand. In an instant, his little arm swung round and locked around my neck. Now, having no formal martial arts training, I was ill equipped with what to do next. I have, however, seen a few MMA bouts on television — thanks, hubby — and recognized the chokehold.

Our cheeks where smooshed together, his head was nuzzled into my neck and I could barely breathe. I started to pull away, but the boa constrictor baby in my arms only took that as a chance to squeeze tighter. I knew my only choices were to suffer a screaming fit or hope for him to succumb to slumber.

Even when he stopped moving and his breathing was deep and even, I couldn’t even pull away enough to break our cheek-to-cheek contact without panicked whimpering.

I’m not really sure what happened after that. After all, I was pretty lightheaded and may or may not have temporarily lost consciousness, but it seemed to all work out in the end because we both survived.

It makes me a little leery now, however, that he has a sound strategy to keep me from leaving his bedroom and putting him down. I suppose I should start brushing up on defensive tactics.

And maybe wear a helmet … yeah, definitely wear a helmet.

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

Toddler gibberish is all Greek to me

I need a translator in my house, for a new language is being bantered about.

At least one of us is fluent, but the others only pick up a word here and there to barely keep the conversation going.

It’s called toddlerese.

The other day, my 19-month-old started saying something to me, quite emphatically. He pointed and said, “Tsat!”

I smiled at him and went back to what I was doing, feeling pretty confident that my parenting skills were on the mark to acknowledge him and move on.

But he wasn’t going to let it go. Apparently he had thrown down the gauntlet and I didn’t get the memo.

He started to say “tsat” over and over. He pointed, he motioned, he increased in volume until he was shouting.

I stared at him blankly. Either I had just stepped into a “Peanuts” comic strip where he was the grownup or my son was trying to tell me something.

Then it hit me. He was saying, “What’s that?” to every object he saw. He wanted to know the name of things.

Once we got that out of the way and I started verbalizing object names, we got along famously for at least the next 15 minutes, but it made me wonder: How many other times had he said what I thought to be gibberish and he was really trying to communicate?

What if he cracked dizzying, complex equations deserving of a snarky off-the-cuff reference by Sheldon on “The Big Bang Theory?” What if he thought of some profound prose eloquent enough to be remembered in the annals of poetic lore? What if he had an astute observation about the human condition?

I’m probably over thinking it. He more than likely is just trying to say he pooped his diaper, but still, it could be all that other stuff.

The point is, I thought when he started talking that I would be able to understand him. I’ve met plenty of moms who beam nearby as their small tot imparts some keen observation to me, only to have to translate for me. Seriously, munchkin voices paired with speech impediments aren’t the clearest to understand.

I figured when my son started to speak, I would just know what he was saying because I’m the mom and I’m supposed to know these things.

Nope. I got nothin.

I sure hope Rosetta Stone has something to offer me.

— Sarah Leach is managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 564-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Motherhood expands my heart and my waistline

Something has been weighing heavy on my heart, er, my stomach actually.

For I have discovered that one of the best kept secrets of motherhood is that it is nearly impossible to be a working mother and effectively manage a healthy weight.

When a woman is pregnant, she has frequent doctor’s visits, and there is one number that determines everything: her weight.

At first, you don’t want to gain too much weight; the majority of the pound packing should come in the last trimester, so my doctor says.

My grandmother, bless her heart, would always inquire about my weight every time we spoke during my pregnancy: “How are you doing with your weight?”

I never took offense, because I knew it was coming from a place of love and motherly concern.

I took some pride in the fact that I gained 35 pounds during my pregnancy and, after my son was born, I was shocked at how quickly the weight melted away. I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight in a matter of six weeks — not that it was a weight worth bragging about in the first place.

Then I was on to breast feeding and managed to maintain my weight for the better part of a year. When the baby was weaned, however, the number on the scale started to creep back up … and up, and up.

Now I have nearly gained all of the pregnancy weight back, and it feels so disheartening. I have a job with long hours sitting behind a desk, and I don’t really have the option of taking a long walk for lunch. If I go shopping after work, I don’t have time to spend with my little one before bedtime — forget about having a good hour to cook something every night.

That leaves a lot of takeout in my belly and a lot of weight in my mid-section. Trying to cut calories when there are so many other things to worry about is nearly impossible and I’m struggling with what to do.

As I buy a larger size of pants and more shirts, I wonder how other women manage to keep their waistlines in check. So, how about it, ladies? Are there tips or tricks you have learned that help you manage your weight while juggling all your motherly duties?

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

Friend’s joy compounds my own

The other day, a friend of mine told me she was expecting her first child with her husband next spring.

I couldn’t help but feel overjoyed, not just for her personal dream realized but I also welcomed a new “couple with children” into my ranks.

Major life events tend to strain friendships in unintended ways. When I first got married, I would have my single girlfriends call on a Friday night asking if I wanted to go out.

They struggled with the concept of me asking my husband what his plans were, and if he minded if I left for a few hours.

“Why do you need to ask him?” they would say. They didn’t know what it was like to no longer be an individual, but part of a unit.

Slowly the single friends drifted away — some drifted back once they became involved in serious relationships or got married.

The same evolution happened when I had a baby, and I grew increasingly out of touch with my single friends — even with my childless friends.

It’s not an intentional thing; it’s more of a natural growth. I couldn’t even start to imagine how I would explain my life now to the 25-year-old version of me. My younger self wouldn’t know the first thing about diapers. She would be horrified at the sight of poop and vomit. She would get the shifty eyes at the mere mention of a toddler’s temper tantrum.

Major life events change who you are: getting married helps you learn how to work as a team, and having a baby helps you learn how to love someone else more than you’ve ever loved yourself.

So it is with great delight that a dear friend of mine will be able to relate and share in the journey of parenthood with me. I already can see a new bundle of joy, a little squeak of a cry and lots of naps — for momma and baby.

But for now she gets to dream, as well she should. And I get to give her all the unsolicited advice she can stand. Hey, is this a great friendship or what?

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

‘Perfection’ not a part of this momma’s vocabulary

Another whirlwind weekend is over and, after all the chores are done and the errands are run, I tend to feel more tired on Sunday than I do on Friday after a long week at work.

The time with my son is flying by. He is a few days shy of 19 months now and he’s growing so fast. And as my husband and I grapple with trying to get anything done, it makes my wonder how others make it look so easy.

I see happy families with multiple children walking down the sidewalk, everyone is perfectly groomed and well-behaved. I find it challenging just to take a shower every day.

How do these people do it? How do they keep impeccable homes, raise impeccable children and bring impeccable homemade dishes to every potluck?

Perhaps I’m not meant to know the secret just yet, but I have found things to focus on that help me take heart:

• I put the unnecessary chores aside (pretty regularly). Sure it’s nice to vacuum every few days, but sometimes I just have to opt for play time.

• I go out to eat. I know this can get expensive, but if I’m smart in my restaurant and menu choices — and if I share my plate with the kiddo — I save the muss and fuss of being away from him while cooking, then having to clean up afterward.

• I let my boy be a helper. My tot is at that mimicking stage, where he wants to copy everyone we do and be involved with everything we do. He wants to touch, pull, push and grab to understand our world. So I ask him to carry things or hold things and it brings a huge smile to his dimpled face.

• I talk to him. Hey, just because he can only say about a dozen words doesn’t mean we can’t carry on a conversation. He understands much more than he can say — he can point to at least six parts of his body on command — and is constantly babbling and pointing to things. I take the time to tell him what things are and listen to him as he babbles. I want him to know that I’m interested in what he has to say.

• Finally, I slow down. I’m always late when I have my son with me, but it’s OK. Because at the end of my life I want to look back and know that I took the time to cherish his little hand inside of mine, that I took the time to laugh when he acts silly and that I snuggle with him every chance I get.

In the end, I won’t be as accomplished and effortless as I want to be, but I can be happy with appreciating all the special, unexpected moments that motherhood brings.

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

Dog days of summer getting me hot under the collar

A dog is supposed to be man’s best friend, as the saying goes.

Whoever said those famous words never met my German shepherd. Tall, lean, beautiful and loyal, Luger is a good boy. He rarely barks, he’s great with my kid and I don’t have to worry about him running away.

And he’s ruining our family.

OK, that might be a bit of an overstatement, but in the past three month alone, he has escaped from his kennel in a desperate attempt to find his pack. He has jumped a fence, ripped chain-link off the frame, tunneled under a gate and hopped through a window into our pole barn.

Every time I turn into the driveway, I hold my breath as to what canine carnage awaits me.

The past four weekends have been spent repairing the kennel fencing over and over, installing an electric fence that subsequently got ripped down and filling a massive hole with concrete.

My husband has been traveling again for his job, as the summer season is the busy time for construction, and my job is demanding as well. So the precious family moments I look forward to on these weekends has been largely diverted to home-improvement store visits.

I’ve been doing my best in the hubby’s absence to exercise our dog. He loves chasing a tennis ball and a Frisbee, but it’s a challenge when you’re on your own to feed and bathe a toddler and still meet his bedtime.

We’ve bemoaned our troubles to just about anyone who will listen. They’ve suggested new fencing alternatives and behavior modification, but nothing seemed to work.

Finally we took Luger to the veterinarian. She explained to us that German shepherds are pack animals, and that he is experiencing separation anxiety because he is lonely — and the incident rate spiked since our other dog died last fall. The vet suggested trying a mild medication that would help with the agitation, but that it could take a month to build up in his system.

In the meantime, I am nervous myself as my husband packs up to head back out on the road this week. And the biggest suggestion I’ve heard from everyone — the vet included — starts to needle me: Get another dog.

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

Persistent rash a bum rap

“You better come in here,” my husband yelled from the bathroom.

Usually this meant one of two things: he wanted me to get the baby out of the tub and get him ready for bed (a sly move, I might add), or he wanted me to check out something regarding our son.

I popped into the bathroom.

“What’s up?”

“Look at his butt,” he said.

Now, my son is 18 months old, so his bum is the size of a postcard — not a lot to see.

I squinted and looked closer.

“I suppose it’s a little red,” I said.

Within two days, that “little red” problem turned into the most vicious case of diaper rash east of the Mississippi. It was red, blotchy and angry.

I called the nurse hotline for advice, which recommended baking soda baths to help with the irritation, an antifungal cream treatment in case it was a yeast-based infection, a larger diaper size and … air drying.

I paused on that last suggestion.

“You mean …,” I trailed off on the phone.

“That’s right,” she said. “Letting him go commando.”

“But, don’t you realize that he has a firehose?” I asked. “I mean, that thing could spray anywhere.”

I started going over how much it would cost to re-carpet the room.

“The longer he air dries, the better the skin can start healing,” the nurse explained.

I was sure she was plotting against me … and my carpet.

It was my husband who came up with the idea of taping towels to the sides of our son’s crib. And for three nights, I dutifully took them down and replaced them and the sheet and washed everything.

And for three nights the diaper rash continued.

Finally, after a week of frustration and the ongoing agony of our little guy, I brought him in for a doctor’s visit.

“Use Bag Balm,” the pediatrician said.

I failed to see how a product originally created to soothe cow udders could help this situation, but I had exhausted all the other over-the-counter options.

What happened over the next two days was nothing short of miraculous.

My son’s puffed up bottom healed quickly and he was back to his old self, implementing his mischievous ways.

But what was even more miraculous is that he gave me what I’ve yearned for since the day he was born: At the age of 18 months and nine days, he said “Mama” for the first time.

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

Fireworks frazzle a mother's nerves

A warm, sunny day. A cookout with family and friends. Explosives.

What could go wrong?

Michigan, in its infinite wisdom, legalized projectile fireworks last year. Nothing makes me feel more safe and secure than the knowledge that lethal explosives are in the hands of people I normally wouldn't trust to hold a glow stick.

My husband and I were gathered at my sister-in-law's sister's house (or is it my brother-in-law's sister-in-law's?) for a family gathering on the Fourth of July. There were several children ranging in age from 4 to 7 months, and it was a great opportunity to let my 18-month-old play with other kids.

There were hotdogs and baked beans, potato salad and corn on the cob. There were children laughing and playing, sidewalk chalk, bubbles and swimming. And I'm sure I would have had a relaxing weekend if my son was not the most inquisitive, energetic child to walk the earth.

All that being said, what sets the Fourth apart from any other summer weekend is fireworks. I get all excited for any kind of fireworks. Perhaps it harkens back to the days when I was a kid and my grandpa would set off bottle rockets from the house to scare the geese off his lakefront property in Waterford. Or maybe I was so dazzled as a child by the fireworks display over the Detroit River — a joint production between Detroit and Windsor — that I get amped for more.

There's something about fireworks that makes you sit back in awe and smile at the splendor that is streaking across the night sky.

Until you have a toddler, of course.

What once was a guilty pleasure has become an anxious experience as I fretted over my little guy. Would he get too close? Would he try to touch something?

I held him in my lap as the show went off without a hitch. I started to relax as the seemingly tame sparks gently spilled out of the candle and never posed a threat. It was going much better than planned. I really was worried over nothing.

The family friend who was our fireworks engineer said it was time to light the last of the arsenal he brought. We all gathered one last time for another benign display.

The first projectile stunned most of us, shooting 15 feet into the tree above the sidewalk from which it was launched. It exploded and sent sparks whizzing throughout the branches, sending chunks of leaves and other debris onto the crowd below.

The womenfolk, seemingly startled out of their stunned silence, started screaming and running for cover, grabbing their respective children and hauling tail out of the "danger zone." Several blasts — and one long held breath by me — later, it finally was over.

At the end of the day, we survived and my frazzled nerves have another year to settle back down and I will have to force myself to bring my baby back for another "fun" display. If I had only known how stressful that was for my mother at one point, I never would have put her through it.

Happy Independence Day to me.

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

I live in fear of temper tantrums

I knew that when I had children, my life would revolve around them.

It's just when the revolutions turn into a merry-go-round of chaos that I have a problem.

Just this past weekend, my son fell asleep as we were coming back from breakfast — a full two hours ahead of schedule. Taking him out of the car only would have interrupted his restful slumber, so I found myself sitting in the air-conditioned car in our driving playing Words with Friends on my phone.

Sure I could make him adjust to what I want to do, but I would pay for it down the road in the manifestation of a tiny terrorizing tot.

Daytrips now rely on my ability to plan impeccably.

"I need to go to the store," my husband said.

"For what?" I asked, because this is the opening salvo in rigorous negotiations.

"I need to get some string for the weed whacker."

I assessed my son, who at that moment was running with a stick held high over his head, looking up at the summer sky, mouth stretched wide open in a high-pitched squeal.

I started the mental calendar:

• When did he last eat?

• Do I need to pack some food?

• When did he last wake up?

• Should I plan on another nap?

• Are there enough toys in the car?

• Does he need a hat or sunscreen?

• When was his diaper last changed?

• What is the weather like now? Will that change in a couple of hours?

Ten minutes later, my husband was impatiently waiting in the car while I amassed two steamer trunks of gear for any potential pitfalls we could encounter.

It's moments like those where I wonder how I went from semi-accomplished professional to pack mule.

When we arrive at our planned destination, now my role evolves into toddler management. If he is confined, keep him occupied. If he is unconfined, keep him out of trouble.

Because, above all else, I leave in mortal feel of the toddler tantrum. I'm not so much worried about his emotional state — I'm sure he can walk it off — but more so that of other patrons or passersby. I don't want to ruin some nice family's dinner in a restaurant or interrupt someone's important phone call.

Basically, I just hate to be a bother.

I know all parents feel that anxiety at some point or another, and it's just something that comes along with the territory, but it's intense and palpable in the moments that it strikes.

Perhaps if I was able to eat every two hours and take two naps a day, my mental state would be a little less chaotic.

— Sarah Leach is content editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278.

Baby books too detailed to complete

I am a mother on a mission.

Before my son was born, I bought his baby book with the dream of completing it. I imagine him sitting down at a kitchen table sometime in the 2040s with his lovely wife. I can hear her cooing over how cute my son was as a baby and laughing over the special moments I have shared with him in his infancy.

I even took a week's vacation to take the time to update this book (amongst other household chores that needed tending). I dutifully downloaded, categorized and archived all the images and video from two cellphones, a camera and a video camera. I visited the local pharmacy and made digital prints.

I sorted, cut, pasted and documented and still there was more. There's all the moments the book expects me to recall — as if, after nine months of raising a baby I remember the day and hour that his first tooth popped through. Frankly, I was just relieved that we had confirmation that he would, in fact, have teeth.

Then there's the litany of medical records I'm expected to hand-write and record … on one page. My son had more than a dozen ear infections between 7 months and 15 months. There isn't enough ink in my pen and enough muscle strength in my hand to record every time he visited the doctor's office.

And yet, I am not giving up.

There's the strange dimensions of photographs the book calls for — seriously, no photo place prints 2-inch by 2-inch squares — that have made the photo aspect of this journey difficult. Unless someone has an old Polaroid I can borrow, I am forced to blow up, shrink down or cut up other perfectly usable images.

Not that I had all the images I needed anyway. When I went to find the pictures from my son's first birthday party on my camera, I was horrified that they weren't there. It turns out I was using our video camera that day and was planning on getting still pictures from everyone else — then never followed up with anyone.

I didn't have pictures from my baby shower or from the hospital the day my son was born. I mean, think about it: I was the one opening the presents and giving birth. I couldn't possibly be chronicling it all at the same time!

I'm beginning to realize why mothers eventually give up on baby books. They're nice to have, but the fact of the matter is that life happens in the meantime. There are feedings to give, naps to regulate, work and cleaning to be done, activities to organize, diaper changes and baths to give, visits with family and friends to keep up.

And at the end of the day, all those things build a bond with my family that is more important than any snippet I file away in a book.

I'm still going to give it the old college try, to give my son and his future family a snapshot into our lives in 2012-13. But it's turning into Mission: Impossible.

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

Fathers are more than grunt workers

A mother’s role in the life of her children is ingrained in us.

Sure, us gals often bemoan the fact that we feel overworked and unappreciated, but the fathers often have the shorter end of the stick.

Think about it: What is the role of dads in our society? They often are dismissed or unacknowledged as caregivers. They often are the secondary contact for pediatricians, daycares and schools. They have become a punchline in television commercial as bumbling oafs.

The fact is dads play a much more integral role in our children’s lives than we realize. Sure they get the grunt work of taking out the trash, mowing the lawn and any task that involves power tools. But I think we shortchange ourselves by boiling down a father’s contribution when it comes to the development of children.

I was a child who grew up without a steady father figure. It was not as hard luck as it sounds, because I had a relatively happy childhood, got good grades in school and was socially well-adjusted. I never was aware that I was missing something.

But as I see my husband with my son, I realize what a dad brings to the table. My toddler already idolizes his dad, following him around the house and taking in all the things he does and says. My son mimics his dad’s mannerisms, tries to “help” him in whatever task he is performing and babbles and points at things as if they already have a secret club.

I watch in awe as, after 10 minutes of trying in vain to get the little one to eat, my husband tries a forkful and my son will eat off it.

Let’s face it: Dad is different. He is my son’s alpha and omega.

It makes my heart swell with love and pride that I have a man who is not only interested in his child, but also invested in his commitment to the success of our family.

It makes me slightly wistful that I was not able to have that in my own life, but the past cannot be changed, only the present is up for grabs. And knowing that I have a devoted father in my son’s life is all I need … and maybe some chocolate.

Happy Father’s Day, honey.

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

I’ve got the goo baby blues

On a recent weekday morning, I went into my son’s room to wake him for the day.

I followed my normal routine of singing the “Good Morning to You” song, carried him to the living room for his morning milk and cuddled him for a bit afterward. He ran sprightly to his bedroom and made me “chase” him around the rocking chair in his room. I successfully caught him and set him down on his changing table, and that’s when I saw it.

Goo. Brown goo. In his ear. Plastered on the side of his face. Sticking wads of hair together.
I emitted a silent shriek, yet somehow managed to keep a giant smile on my face. I often wonder what kids think of adults who try to smile through surprise or fear so as to not alarm them. I imagine we look like psychotic clowns, and probably just as scary.

Now, the ears, nose and throat doctor warned that there would be drainage associated with the tubes that were surgically implanted in my son’s ears. He said it would look be dark brown in color, much like that of ear wax.

What I was not prepared for was the consistency and volume of said discharge. No one told me a small bucket-full was going to flush out at night.

Someone also failed to mention that it is pretty watery in consistency when first discharged, but then firms up to be the consistency of peanut brittle on his delicate skin.

The ear tubes are like the sump pumps of wax. You never know when or where a discharge is going to happen, but when it does, some might mistake what is going on for a scene out of “The Wrath of Khan.”
Baby wipes help if the ooze still is in its liquid form, but I rarely have the benefit of that. Now I keep a small jackhammer at his changing table station, just in case a layer of brittle has formed overnight.

Just as I thought I had a handle on it, eye goo started to appear. Seriously, my pediatrician and I are on a first-name basis.

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

The man cave pull is far too powerful

I asked my husband to do two things this past weekend: mow the yard and trim the weeds around the trees.

Saturday started off pretty promising. He traipsed out to the pole barn, where all the necessary tools and devices were in order for him to complete his assignment. He even offered to take our 1-year-old with him to allow me to get some work done inside the house.

A few hours later, I went searching for my guys, only to find that, not only did none of the yard work even get started, but that my father-in-law was in the barn as well and that the trio was "cleaning" the barn.

What is it about the "man cave" that creates a black hole of productivity and usefulness?

Despite their best efforts — and to be fair, the toddler isn't speaking sentences yet, so he didn't provide much backup — my husband and his dad could not convince me that anything had improved in the barn.

Sure the socket wrenches were shined up, but there are piles of junk everywhere. Wire fencing sits outside the barn, rusting away. There's enough tree trunks next to the structure — now two years running — to re-create Abe Lincoln's childhood home.

As I found myself mowing the lawn later that evening, I wondered about the allure of the man cave, and I wondered if there is a female equivalent and failed to come up with one. I'm too busy working, cooking, cleaning and chauffeuring to get sucked into a vortex of feminine fun. Even if I were to offer up cooking or shopping as stereotypical female "pastimes," I still manage to have a finished product or service at the end of that rainbow.

My son is quickly following in his dad's footsteps. He insists in handling every tool within reach and keeps trying to climb the riding mower so he can pretend drive, "Brrm! Brrm!" Every time I try to lure him out of the barn, my efforts were met with royal temper tantrums. I finally was able to get him in the house using goldfish crackers as bait.

But as soon as his nap was over, he ran to the door, grabbed his coat and sunhat and handed them to me with the expectant look of "suit me up for more outdoor fun, Servant!"

Sunday came with the promise of finishing up the trimming, but more "barn work" with friends ensued and only a little trimming was done. So now, as I look at the weeds still thriving around my trees, I am contemplating what it will take to get this yard work done.

Perhaps changing the locks to the pole barn would do the trick …

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

Surgery hurts me more than son

As I carried my son into the hospital, I had a feeling of dread.

"What if something goes wrong?" I asked myself. "What if I don't know what to do?"

It was ear tube surgery day — what, hopefully, was to be the last segment of a long, torturous journey of illness for my 16-month-old that began last August. He has had almost 10 ear infections during this past cold and flu season — I lost count somewhere around seven — and it was time to take the step of long-term medical intervention.

It is a five-minute procedure, where the doctor makes a tiny incision in the ear drum and inserts a semi-permanent tube that allows fluid within the ear canal to drain properly. Although it is fast and, from what I'm told, relatively painless, the child does have to be put under general anesthesia because they need to sit perfectly still.

My brain knew and understood all of this medical logic and reason. My heart, on the other hand, was convinced that I would never see my baby again.

It's difficult to articulate "mother's fear," that irrational, basic instinct to protect one's young at all costs. It doesn't matter that this procedure was going to benefit his long-term health and development. What mattered was that he was going to get an "owie" without me being there, and that was just not acceptable.

Of course, like most other mothers, I keep these thoughts to myself, as I didn't want to display erratic, irrational behavior at a place where I'm sure white, strapped jackets are ready nearby. No, instead, I paced up and down the hall. I organized his bag. I made sure his snacks were ready. I texted and Facebooked about the status of the surgery. I got my husband something to eat.

Finally, blissfully, the door to the surgical unit opened, and a nurse came out holding my groggy tot. He had his favorite blanket with him and looked as if he were about the cry. As the nurse started to explain the necessary after-care instructions, I opened my arms wide, and he whimpered as he snuggled into my shoulder.

He never cried. He never whined. He never even misbehaved that day. He is perfectly fine — I'm the one who is a wreck.

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

All boy and no cuddles make me a dull mama

I have a bone to pick with some of the people who gave me parental advice when I was expecting.

My husband and I wanted to be surprised as to our baby’s gender. I viewed it as one of the few remaining miracles of life, and wanted the nervous delight in speculating whether we would have a boy or a girl.

I had a sneaking suspicion that it was a boy — just a feeling I had.

“It’s fine,” they said. “Boys are easier anyway.”

False, I say.

My bouncing bundle of joy is every ounce of rough and tumble boy. He screams as he runs down the hallway; he tackles people, furniture and pets with gusto; he prefers the outdoors, dirt, sticks, snips, snails and puppy dog tails.

And, keeping with the macho male tradition, he does not have much use for cuddles with his mother.

I try to be a good sport and let him climb all over me. I try to play the shouting game with him and settle for tickle fight squeals over real hugs. But it’s just not the same as when you get a true bear hug from your toddler.

He is much more interested in helping his dad load tree branches into the wagon or dragging a shovel over to help plant my new rosebushes.

There is one true need my son has for me, however. It’s called the boo-boo.

Every rough tumble, scraped shin or pinched finger is my cue. My baby’s eyes fill with tears and the arms open wide and my place in his world is reaffirmed again. I give him a huge hug and whisper comforting things in his ear. I tell him everything will be all right and rock him back calm.

I dry his tears and wipe his nose and give him kisses on the cheek. And when I think he is ready, I gently lower him back down to stand on his own again. He looks at me, smiles broadly and gives a nice, big sigh.

And then he pivots and runs off to find his dad again.

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

Motherhood an exhausting, awesome time

I look forward to Mother’s Day more than any other holiday. It ranks higher than Christmas, Thanksgiving and my birthday combined.

I think it’s because I have glorified my own mother for so long and that my lifelong dream of becoming a mother finally has been fulfilled. It was to the point where I found it hard to sleep on Mother’s Day Eve.

When I woke up, it was to my 16-month-old babbling in his room. I got up and got his morning milk ready. Then came diapers and feeding and crying and soothing — just like any other day. I emptied the dishwasher and did a few loads of laundry — just like any other weekend.

And you know what? I didn’t mind.

Maybe a day off would be fun, but I don’t think it ever would feel right. I keep this family unit humming along and, even though this day is about celebrating motherhood, it doesn’t mean I want to depart from it.

Sure I’m frazzled and tired — just as much as the next mother. I wish there was more time in the day. I wish I could spend more time with my kid. I wish clothes washed themselves and that the dog could feed himself and that the cats knew how to use a toilet — that would be miraculous.

But the truth is I have my role in this house and it is important, vital even, to our family. And I like it that way. I like being needed. I like knowing, at the end of an exhausting day, that I did something important to benefit my family — to further our prosperity.

It allows me further insight into my own mother’s life and my grandmother before her. There was a strength in these women that was palpable, but I saw them give of themselves more than they should. For a long time, I thought this wasn’t right — that others should help them, that society should be more accommodating, that recognition of their efforts should be more pronounced beyond a single day.

But now I know that they gave so much of themselves because they wanted to — no, because they needed to. The fulfillment I experience from giving completely of myself is indescribable.

Yes, it’s hard, and some days I am not so magnanimous about my life’s duties. But today, on this wonderful, glorious day, I celebrate my mother and grandmothers as well as the immeasurable joy of being a mother myself.

Yes, it’s so worth it.

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

A mother tries to protect all her babies

I long have been known as an “animal person.” Well, maybe that’s how I see it. Perhaps others would label me as a “crazy cat lady” or a “zoo keeper.”

I hit a difficult point late last summer when I lost a dog and a cat in just six short weeks. Since then, however, things have stabilized and we have a much more manageable number of one dog and two cats.

I think pets are great for children. It gives them exposure to living creatures and helps them understand and respect all forms of life.

It was cute when my son was an infant just learning to crawl. He would slink over to our German shepherd and just lay on him. It was so cute, I thought I would melt into a puddle of mush.

But lately my harmless infant-turned tiny toddler terror is seriously testing my dog’s patience. Despite my best efforts to get him to use “soft hands” and “be nice,” there still are full run impacts, aggressive bear hugs and full-weight belly flops onto my saint-like puppy.

My living room has gone from a sanctuary for my pets into a WWE cage ring.

I never realized — being a first time parent — that the tenacity of a toddler should never be underestimated. The child can be playing for 45 minutes quietly in the living room as the dog sleep peacefully nearby. I will get up for three minutes to get him a sippy cup of milk and will return to discover him using my unsuspecting puppy as a stepstool to get onto the couch.

Of course, the dog isn’t a total martyr. There’s incentive for him to tolerate the terrible toddlerhood years: food. My son, with his not-yet-fine-tuned motor skills is pretty clumsy when it comes to shoveling things into his mouth — and the dog knows it. He quietly sits near my son’s highchair, eagerly awaiting everything from chicken nuggets to goldfish crackers to spaghetti to fall from the sky.

It’s a literal smorgasbord for the dog, as long as he is patient. And patient he is. Every time I have to gently discipline the baby for being too rough, I have a sharp pang of guilt for the veritable torture I’m putting my dog through.

Maybe it’s because I know he will have to go through this all over again in the next couple of years.

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

Age is but a number for me, a very, very high number

There are few epiphanic moments in one’s life for a reason — if they were more commonplace, they wouldn’t be as powerful.

They usually follow along the predictable major life moments: when you finally strike out on your own after college, when you get married, when you have children. Or, in my case this weekend, when I realized I am old.

I attended an event at my alma mater this past weekend. My adviser, who came into the job when I was a college junior, is retiring. As a surprise for his retirement party, several of the school’s top graduates came back to help him celebrate his academic career.

I’m not sure when the geriatric feeling started coming over me. Maybe it was when I rolled into town in my sweet minivan and, as I passed the fraternities and sororities, students started yelling at me directions to the local Wal-Mart.

Or perhaps it was when the students who succeeded my time at school starting making the pre-event drinking plans and the post-event drinking plans before we even had the event plan in place.

Maybe it was the moment last week when I realized I will be well past 50 when my son graduates from high school.

Or it could have been when I thought I woke up with dirt on my face the other day and all it really turned out to be was chin whiskers.

Maybe it’s the cultural references I make at work and anything pre-1985 is treated as practically prehistoric.

Or when I find myself looking at the plastic rain hat my grandmother used and thinking that it’s a brilliant idea for me to try. Hey, I could rock it. Sort of.

Sure I’m only 35 and I have every reason to think I have just as many years left, but it’s a sobering thought when you process the fact that you put more value on nightly sleep and vitamins versus changing the world and achieving ideals.

If anyone has any advice as to how to keep that “youthful spirit” alive, I’m all ears. Yesterday, I was looking at doilies and thought they would be great in my living room. I need help — fast.

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

It’s time to have the tube talk

Well, I gave it the ole’ college try, but it’s time to bite the bullet. It’s time to have the “tube talk” with the pediatrician.

After nearly 10 infections this cold and flu season, my 15-month-old’s tiny ear canals clearly need medical intervention. The tug-of-war I’ve been engaged with the bacteria that plagues his head was elevated to a whole new level recently when my tot had to get a series of daily antibiotic injections — which, I’m told, is the strongest dose he can receive.

This was supposed to be the pediatrician’s last stand before referring us to an ear, nose and throat specialist. It also was supposed to buy me some peace of mind at least for a couple of weeks.

Boy, was I wrong.

The morning he was to receive his last of three injections, he woke up terribly sick — norovirus had struck again. The fever, the vomiting, the irritability were piled on top of recovering from clogged ear canals. I held my breath through the subsequent weekend, but more illness followed the next week.

After another last-minute pediatric appointment, another series of three daily injections was scheduled and we had our ENT referral.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too terribly worried. After all, thousands of children every year undergo this routine procedure, but I can’t help but dread it. Not knowing what is going to happen next is nerve-wracking.

Will they remove his tonsils? What about the adenoids? Will the procedure be successful? What if his hearing is damaged? Will he be in pain?

Not knowing these answers makes me want to lock him in the house and never let him out. If he didn’t go to daycare, maybe he wouldn’t be sick all the time. And if he weren’t sick all the time, he wouldn’t have to go to the doctor all the time, let alone have to have surgery.

Better yet, maybe I should put him in a plastic bubble, like they make for gerbils. Then I would need to stay home in order to make sure he doesn’t knock over any lamps or run over a cat. That would mean I would have to stay home all the time, because, what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t stay home with my bubble-wrapped son?

*Sigh*

A girl can dream, can’t she?

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

Great builders are the truly special ones

I often feel unappreciated in most everything that I do. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother, maybe it’s because I take on too much, or maybe it’s just the way life is supposed to be.

While trolling through Facebook recently, an interesting post caught my eye. It was titled “Invisible Mother,” and I just had to read it. The woman described how she often felt like she wasn’t human, but more like a GPS system for her husband’s lost keys or a taxi service for her children’s activities.

I can relate.

But what began as empathy evolved into an epiphany as the author likened her life to that of one of the “great builders.” When people look at an ancient cathedral, she said, no one remembers who built it, not to mention that it took thousands of people to complete. The architects of such great structures never even lived to see their dream realized and yet they pursued those visions passionately and tirelessly.

She said that once she reframed her perspective to that of a “great builder,” it was easier to make peace with the lack of acknowledgement for all her hard work being a wife and mother.

I have always wanted to be a part of a greater legacy, perhaps something involved with civic service, but I have never been able to find the time. I’m so busy being busy, I never have made good on my goal to volunteer time to the community.  And that’s when the opportunity to make good on that goal presented itself.

At an event this past weekend, I joined former professional colleagues to remember a man who was one of my mentors. Andy Angelo, the former news editor at The Grand Rapids Press, was an amazing man who respected everyone, was completely giving of himself to others and had the patience of a saint. Believe me, this man “walked the walk.”

In his honor, Habitat for Humanity is building a home, called The House That Andy Built. It is a fitting tribute to a soft-spoken man, who, by just about everyone’s estimation, was one of the “great builders” of West Michigan newspapering.

This mother and this man motivate me to be a great builder, too. It’s comforting to know that personally and professionally I am part of a continuous storyline — and it’s easier to accept setbacks when I see myself as a chapter in the story, not the conclusion.

I don’t need to get credit for what I do; I just need to remember that I am part of something that is bigger than myself. I’m helping to raise a great kid and to build a tangible structure with an honorable heritage. What’s better than that?

If you would like to know more about The House Than Andy Built, please visit facebook.com/TheHouseThatAndyBuilt.

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

The plague looms large in a little boy's ears

There is a monster in my house. It lurks around every corner, hides in the dark crevices of the shadows. It constantly waits for me to let down my guard, and BAM! the baby has another ear infection.

Ever since my bouncing baby boy reached the tender age of 7 months, he has been struck down by not one, not two, but seven ear infections. I see his pediatrician more often than I see my husband.

Each time, antibiotics are prescribed — sometimes refilled — and the infection clears. This seems to be some sort of germ trickery, as it has convinced both the pediatrician and myself that if we can just keep him healthy into the summer months, the infections finally will cease.

And each time we think we have it licked, we are wrong.

Every time my tot catches a cold — a nearly biweekly occurrence for a child in day care — it manifests in an ear infection. If he drinks fluids while reclined too far, ear infection. If I look at him cross-eyed between the hours of 3 and 4 p.m. on the second Tuesday of the month, ear infection.

Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and have tubes put in his ears. But I keep thinking if he can just make it a few more months, the ears will develop enough to drain the fluid properly. It's frustrating, because I want to do what is best for my baby's health, but when you're just not sure if it's totally necessary, it's difficult to make a decision like this.

All I know is the warm weather can't get here fast enough, with its wonderful humidity that prevents cold viruses from spreading like wildfire. And I'm thinking of deploying a vitamin C bomb at his school in order to keep all the nuggets healthy through the remainder of spring.

We've had so many colds move through our house, I should buy stock in Kleenex. It's nearly to the stage of a pox on our house, but I suppose there's no need to get biblical.

This, too, shall pass and a solution will be found one way or another. But each time I open the door, the trepidation is nearly too much to bear. Perhaps I could put him in a bubble? Not long, though, only until he's 21.

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

The words cometh, just not as easily as I thought

The frantic babbling that fills my house is becoming a little more pointed. What once was "dah!" is now "doh!" He squeals in delight as he points at our German shepherd and tries to get the word out.

Then there is what is vaguely recognized as the sound for "hi" as he opens and closes his hand at you — it passes for a wave as far as I'm concerned.

Yes, progress is happening in our house, and I'm breathing a sigh of relief.

It's not that I expected things to go any differently, but the seed of worry had been planted.

At my son's 14-month checkup, the doctor asked a fairly benign question: "Does he have any words yet?"

"Nope," I replied. "But he is a talking fool. He's saying lots of different syllables — they just don't string together in any coherent fashion."

"Oh," the doctor said, rather disappointedly. "Well, he should have about five words by the time he's 18 months, or we're going to have to talk about speech therapy."

I was stunned. Was his development that far behind his peers? Was I not doing enough to encourage his speech? Was I the absolute worst mother in the world?

I know, I'm a little reactionary, but this had me concerned. My friends told me to shrug it off. My family told me the doctor was worrying me over nothing. My co-workers commiserated with me in my frustration over what was a legitimate worry when it comes to child development.

But at the end of the day, the seed had been planted. I started to hover a bit more and say words to him emphatically. "DOG," I would say. "Dah!" he replied. Of course, "day!" meant everything from the cat to his water bottle.

I was envisioning his 18-month checkup like a court sentence. What would I say to explain why I failed to meet the quota of five words by the deadline?

And then it happened. On Easter Sunday, my baby boy opened his mouth and said "hi" and waved his little hand at me. It was one of the most precious moments of my life and truly a sign that he's developing just fine.

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

A vicious virus can wreck a perfect weekend

An ugly bug has reared its head in my life. On Friday, I was introduced to norovirus, a lovely collection of viruses that can be quite serious to vulnerable populations, such as the 1-year-old in my home.

It started with vomiting, then the loss of appetite, followed by a runny nose and then the irritability.

Yup, my son was down for the count.

I scrapped any hopes of it being a productive weekend and put on my mommy cap and went to work making my Peanut as comfortable as possible. Naps were encouraged, blankets were on the couches and floor, sippy cups with fluids were as far as the eye could see.

I've heard horror stories from other parents who go on sleepless sojourns when they're children are ill.

I've heard about the messes in beds and the extreme situations that land you in the emergency room.

Thankfully, my recent situation was not in that league.

My son slept through the night and faithfully took all his regular naps. By day three, I managed to coax him into eating some applesauce and carrots in addition to the fluids and crackers on which he had been subsisting.

My husband was busy assisting me, making sure we had all the supplies we needed, from buying medications to finding the thermometer, from filling the humidifier to fixing the CD player.

After three days of baby funk, we were firing on all cylinders and were managing his symptoms quite well. He seemed to perk up a little and was quietly playing with his toys. I was able to read to him (normally he is a wiggle worm) and I was getting big hugs and regular snuggles.

So, it was not surprising when he toddled up to me in the living room, threw a leg over to sit in my lap and snuggled into me. He started to cry a bit and I tried to soothe him.

I was proud of myself for keeping everything humming along smoothly.

He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back as my heart melted.

Then he vomited on my shirt.

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