Monday, June 24, 2013

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.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

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.


Monday, June 3, 2013

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.