‘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.