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.