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.