Avalanche of ‘stuff’ has me anxious to purge

Ah, it’s the winter holiday season again, you know what that means.

It’s time to clean my house from top to bottom, prepare to host the family for the annual holiday gathering, face the most stressful weeks of the year at work and prepare for my son’s impending birthday party (because I had the awesome foresight and planning skills to have a baby 10 days after Christmas).

Be that as it may, this year was not nearly as daunting as Christmases past. I was kinder to myself and didn’t hold myself to impossible standards. Quick, simple recipes allowed me to socialize more with my guests and shoving piles of unsightly junk from my house in an unused room was a major win.

Of course, after the big get together, the junk around my house was still staring me in the face, taunting me with its giant piles of miscellaneous objects. Seriously, my living room looks like a tsunami of packaging, toys and clothes struck unannounced over the weekend.

I keep trying to find places for the things, only for more to appear (where do I put 10 pounds of chocolate and candy we received from well-meaning loved ones?)

This is the time of year where I start getting squirrely about how disorganized my house is and every New Year’s Eve I make the resolution to clean up the crap. And, sadly, each year I fail.

I suppose I can call myself somewhat successful in that I seem to be managing the chaos. No one in my friends or family group has called “Hoarding: Buried Alive” yet, so I have that going for me.

But when you have a toddler who is constantly growing and has a voracious appetite for books and other toys, you constantly have an influx of “stuff” into your home.

Despite the urge to want to break out in hives each time I survey the crap strewn across my house, it softens the blow somewhat to see my nearly 3-year-old delighted with life. His favorite toy he got this year? … A simple flashlight from his aunt and uncle.

As I watch him tread slowly down the darkened hallway with his newfound treasure in search of slaying monsters, I let myself relax a bit … at least for a week or so.

— Sarah Leach is editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com or on Twitter @SentinelLeach.

Toddler brain is tiny, but terrifying at times

“ROOOOOAAAR!!!!”

“Honey, please don’t scream in my face,” I said.

My 2-year-old reared his head back and threw up his arms in his best Tyrannosaurus Rex pose and screamed — louder this time — an inch from my nose.

It’s not the first time he has displayed some sort of new, unwanted behavior. In fact, we’ve been through pushing, biting, hitting, roaring and fibbing phases — sometimes simultaneously.

When I try to curb unwanted behavior, such as pushing, the shutters come down over those cute baby blues and a scowl that could slay a dragon appears. Once, as I calmly tried to say, “We don’t push our friends,” I barely had the last word out before that dreaded toddler response was screamed at me.

“NO!”

 Ah, independence. Ya gotta love it.

“Honey,” I said gently, “You need to listen to Mama.”

“NO!”

I read somewhere that as brain growth in toddlers is exploding, so is emotional development. That means these little guys are not only learning colors, numbers, letters and the like, but they are experiencing new emotions, such as frustration, fear, anger and disappointment.

The only problem is that they don’t have the self-regulation to control these emotions yet, so their baser instincts usually get the best of them.

One child psychologist wrote that this is why “toddlers are the opposite of civilized human beings.”

That would explain the sudden temper tantrums over seemingly benign things. And why sometimes I’m convinced demon possession is at play.

But how do I make his toddler brain understand that these behaviors are wrong?

Here are some useful tips I found on Parenting.com:

• Pick your battles: If you’re always saying no, the child will tune out your priorities

• Know your child’s triggers and remove temptations for unwanted behavior

• Be consistent in your reactions to avoid confusing the child

• Don’t get emotional: If you get angry, that’s all the child will see versus your message

• Keep it short and simple: Speak in short phrases so the child will understand (i.e., “No hitting.”)

• Give a time out: After repeated reprimands, put the child in a time out space for one minute per age

— Sarah Leach is editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com or @SentinelLeach #babyboom.

No needle is getting in the way of my dream

I am terrified by needles. Like sweaty palms, shallow breathing, I’d-rather-eat-shards-of-glass terrified of needles.

One time when my mother had to take me to urgent care, it took two orderlies to hold down my legs for them to get a blood sample so I didn’t buck myself right off the bed.

Now I put on a good show; I’m even able to carry on a conversation with a phlebotomist like a champ as she takes a sample. I, of course, have to avert my eyes and think of every distraction technique known to man in order not to freak out. Lately I’ve been trying to name all the NHL teams (I’m getting pretty good at it).

So when my fertility treatments recently advanced to the stage of giving myself daily injections, it was a bit of a concern, to say the least.

My doctor and the pharmacist gave me pamphlets and video links and all the things one needs to supposedly feel comfortable with this sort of thing. But, come on, who EVER feels comfortable sticking themselves with a needle?

So it was with barely contained panic when I had to give myself that first injection. I held it over my stomach and froze.

My poor husband, who is even worse than me when it comes to this type of thing (seriously, if this isn’t already a classified phobia, it should be named after him), looked green.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, as I stared at the would-be injection site. “You might need to help me.”

He swallowed down what I can only imagine was a blood-curdling scream and said, “I will do it if you absolutely need me to.”

There was a moment then as I continued to stare at the needle, hovering inches above my skin. Could I do this? Could I overcome 36 years of terror? It’s not like I am diabetic and my life depends on this. But then another thought came: My life does depend on this.

I already know what I would do for my son, all the way up to taking a bullet for him. The thought of holding another baby in my arms is something I would go to the ends of the earth for.

And then I had my answer. I am capable of great strength, and this was no time to chicken out.

“This is for Baby, right?” I whispered, and poked the needle in.

And you know what? It didn’t hurt. At all. As in, I’m not deluding myself into thinking it didn’t hurt. It really didn’t. And I couldn’t have been prouder of myself. Suddenly all the doctor visits, blood draws, ultrasounds and injections don’t seem all that scary.

I can do this. I WILL do this and once I get that baby in my arms, every hurt in the world will have been worth it.

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

Tricks, treats all part of Halloween lore

The magic of Halloween never ceases to amaze me.

It’s the one night each year where you can transform yourself, and the creative choices are limited only by our imaginations.

When I was a girl, my mother and I, along with my stepbrothers, would canvas our subdivision on a quest to fill our pillowcases full of candy booty. We eagerly anticipated the spooky decorations our neighbors would conceive and it was an added pleasure when said neighbors couldn’t identify us — that meant our costumes were awesome.

Even the parents got into the Halloween spirit — they fretted over costume ideas just as much as us kids. I distinctly remember my mother accompanying us one year in 6-inch heels, fishnet stockings and a wig that perfectly completed her Tina Turner look. She nearly froze to death, but that’s the sacrifice one makes for one’s art on this one night a year.

When we would return home, the candy audit was enacted with flourish. Piles of candy were dumped on the living room floor, and our parents carefully inspected our haul, occasionally deeming one piece or another “not meeting muster” and confiscating the offending treats.

Once we were back to our human selves, we packed up the car and drove to my grandparents’ house, where trick-or-treating was still in full swing. As we drove down the street every year, it always seemed to be the spookiest night of the year. The leaves were gone from the trees that lined the narrow street, and the branches from each side seemed to reach overhead, creating a tree tunnel that set the perfect tenor for the holiday.

Grandma and Grandpa, instead of passing out chocolate or candy delights, opted instead to hand out nickels. I thought that strange at the time — I mean who wants boring money over culinary delights — but now I recognize its brilliance (no wonder their house was one of the most popular on the block).

 Yes, Halloween is a holiday that is steeped in tradition, and these are treasured experiences I want my son, who is now nearing 3 years old, to have. I will make sure he has a costume each year, and I will dress up as well in a show of solidarity. All I ask is a candy commission.

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

A simple meal can make a tradition

Ever since I can remember, there was Sunday breakfast.

Some of my earliest memories are from the small Greek-American restaurant we faithfully visited every Sunday as a way for our family to reconnect.

There was the time I was 9 and tried ketchup on my scrambled eggs for the first time, mirroring the tastes of my stepfather. It turned into an intense, if short-lived, obsession.

Or the time when I was 7 and my mother discovered I was stealing coffee creamer and drinking the little cups in the bathroom.

Then there was the time I befriended a lovely elderly couple, the Parkses, who looked forward to my visit to their table every week so much that they gifted me with a quarter regularly.

After a decade, we branched out and began to try new eateries, but the core mission was still in tact: keeping the family in touch, regardless of how crazy life gets.

But a three-hour drive sort of puts the kibosh on my ability to regularly attend Sunday breakfast with the family, and it saddens me that my son will not be exposed to the same beloved tradition.

Then something amazing happened: My in-laws suddenly proposed to start up a Sunday breakfast tradition of our own. For the past few weekends, we have been getting together, taking turns to host at the three households that comprise my West Michigan family, and make breakfast for all seven of us.

It’s a new twist on my former habits, but it’s such a welcome addition to our lives, and I know it’s nothing but a great thing for my boy.

In a world where we all get caught up in hectic nature of work, school, house projects, etc., it’s amazing when a group of this size can coordinate some time to sit with one another, eat great food and talk about our lives.

This is an ideal that often is promoted in television shows, but something reality rarely lives up to. But, with a little bit of effort in making some time for each other, my son has a great shot at having many of his first memories much the same way I did — surrounded by people he loves, sharing in his highs and lows — one week at a time.

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

Seeds of bad habits can be planted early

“I smokin’.”

I looked up from the laundry bin I was putting clothes into as my 2-year-old came into the bedroom.

“I smokin’,” he repeated.

He had a giant plastic bolt — far too big to be a choking hazard — sticking out of his mouth. I watched in horror as he breathed in deeply, removed the toy from his mouth and blew out into the air.

“Where did you learn that?” I cried, but he was already running out of the room, oblivious to my panic.

I racked my brain to try to figure out just where he would have been exposed to people smoking.

No one in our families smoke, he spends his daytime hours in the comfort of a completely smoke-free daycare and smoking in businesses and restaurants has never been legal in this state for his entire life.

So … it begs the question: Where did he get exposed to smoking? And not only that, but how did he know what it was called and know enough to imitate it?

The only conclusion we could come to was media exposure, and we are now being more vigilant than ever about what he sees on television. But what else has he seen — that I would rather he not — that he isn’t verbalizing yet?

It’s terrifying to think about what else he’s picking up as he studies the world around him, absorbing so much along the way. And it’s impossible to know what lessons or truths he is taking away with those observations.

For example, when I was a girl, I had a grandfather who smoked heavily. I didn’t know him to be any other way. In my late teens, I took up smoking; I’m sure, in part, it was the early exposure to it and the fact that seeing someone I loved do it made it somewhat permissible.

Then again, I had a cousin who also shared this grandfather, and it had the opposite effect. The boy asked grandpa repeatedly to quit and even went so far as to having no-smoking signs attached to his bedroom door (I gotta hand it to the kid — he was committed).

I’ve been smoke-free for nearly a decade, and haven’t really even though about it just as long. I thought when we started our family that it was enough to keep my kiddo away from direct exposure to cigarettes, but now I realize that exposure can be much more subtle and still very effective.

Even commercials on television nowadays features adult themes — even under the guise of tongue-in-cheek humor — we never saw 30 years ago.

There’s still no way to know what is going on in that little, beautiful brain of his. I will start by reinforcing that smoking is yucky, and do everything I can to influence him into healthy habits, but honestly I never imagined I would be having this talk with a toddler.

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

Parent’s curse amusing, if not exasperating

“You will be destined to have at least one child exactly like you.”

I can’t remember the first time I heard what my grandmother teasingly dubbed “the parent’s curse,” but I know it was mentioned several times during my childhood.

It wasn’t something I paid much mind to back in those times. It was funny to think about eventually having a son or daughter that was just like me: nerdy, verbal and, above all, excruciatingly sensitive. It was so comical, in fact, that I dismissed the notion for decades, for surely such talk was nothing more than an old wives’ tale.

Fast forward to present day with my darling 2-year-old.

Now, there’s no way to know yet if he inherited my nerd gene, and although he is extremely vocal, his vocabulary is still quite limited. But one thing is for certain: He is sensitive — boy howdy is he sensitive.

It can be a look of disapproval that sends him into a 10-minute tailspin — only to have him snap out of it when something else diverts his attention.

The mercurial nature of such creatures is not to be underestimated. I find myself having bizarre conversations, trying to explain things to a mind that can’t even grasp the use of conjunctions and articulation.

A few days ago, we were quietly watching television and a commercial came on for a chain of restaurants that offered breakfast sandwiches.

Son: “I want have breakfast sammich.”

Me: “No, honey. It’s 10 minutes to bedtime and you already ate.”

Son: “I want have breakfast sammich!”

Me: “Sweetie, we don’t have breakfast sandwiches.”

Son: “Breakfast sammich! Aaaaaahhhhh!”

Me: “We’ll go to the store and get some this weekend.”

Seriously? Like my 2-year-old, who just had the feral instincts of a jungle cat for that sausage sandwich is going to appreciate the nature of time, space and grocery list planning in order to calmly accept the fact that he won’t get what he wants?

I’m only beginning to grasp what I put my poor mother through with my similar tendencies as a tot — the stories of my moody nature are legendary around the Thanksgiving Day table.

I’m sure she’s smiling down, knowing that now I get to contend with my perfect, little capricious clone.

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

Taming the dreaded toilet training

When I first became a mother, I couldn’t wait for several milestones. I watched with wonder as the developmental hurdles kept coming, and I couldn’t have been happier.

But I never thought I would get hung up on one milestone in particular — the milestone all parents must start pining for right around the time their child reaches the 2-and-a-half-year mark: When will the never-ending parade of diapers end?

I think human development is structured in a way where we become potty-trained right around the time our parents approach the point of snapping if they have to empty a dirty diaper bin one more time.

If biology didn’t work with such synchronicity, we probably would have some sort of syndrome named for parents who curl up into little balls at the mere thought of having to change one more stinking diaper.

I feel the Diaper Craze gripping me now.

And, as if the diaper-changing gods heard my unspoken prayers, my son finally took interest.

“Momma, I wanna do poop on the potty!”

Now, my son has said many things to me in his short life that have made my heart nearly burst at the seams with love. When he first said, “Momma,” I thought my rib cage would break with love. When he could finally say, “I love you,” it was an amazing day.

But I have to admit that him expressing interest in the glorious workings of the toilet makes the top five. In fact, I’ve never looked more forward to a poop in my life.

And I gave him his just reward: A Sour Patch Kids. He quickly realized the incentive-based system could be very beneficial for his sweet tooth. For the past week, we have had great success.

Now, we’re not there yet, and it will take time to get the training fully implemented, but this milestone is one that I will be celebrating in perpetuity.

— Sarah Leach is editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (6161) 546-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Helping ring in a special moment

I woke up with steely determination.

As I was brushing my teeth, I gazed at the formal outfit hanging behind me, going over in my mind what we needed to do.

We had rehearsed the routine and six months of preparation had led to this one, special day. “We are ready,” I told myself.

Getting the outfit on was a bit of a chore, mostly because of all the little buttons involved. And I experimented with three different hairstyles before settling on just the right one for the occasion.

But all the preparation was worth it by the time we arrived at the venue.

A perfect day was upon us, with brilliant blue skies, puffy white clouds and warm temperatures. It was the best kind of day for a wedding.

We greeted family and friends as they arrived. A smile was on everyone’s face as we starting shuffling to our seats. I found my spot with just the right vantage point and went over the routine one more time in my head.

Had I thought of everything? Did I have an escape route if things went wrong? Did I have all the tools I needed?

“Yes,” I told myself. “It’s going to be great. This is going to be awesome. It’s go time.”

The flute music drifted beautifully across the lush grass as the bridesmaids and their groomsmen slowly made their way down the aisle. The groom — my cousin — looked so dapper and handsome as he awaited his lovely bride.

And then the moment finally came.

My 2-year-old son stepped into view, clutching a little pillow. His miniature teal bowtie and suspenders perfectly matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, and his newsboy cap made him look like the man I know he will one day become.

I held my breath for a few moments, praying that he would make it to his mark. As I heard the “awws” from the crowd, I knew he had done his job — to charm the pants off of everyone. He beamed from ear to ear as he slowly made his way to my open arms, and I smothered him with kisses in appreciation for his perfect performance.

His reward was a small handful of Skittles and his favorite blanket, and my tot sat peacefully on my lap for the rest of the ceremony. We watched as the couple promised to love and cherish one another forever, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Twenty minutes later, his outfit had grass stains. He was covered in sweat from finally being free to run, his disheveled appearance a true testament to the boy he is becoming.

Yes, it was perfect, and I couldn’t ask for a better ring bearer on such a special day.

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

Out of the mouths of babes

“Oh s---.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

My 2-year-old stared at me for a solid 10 seconds before glancing around the room, his eyes finally resting on a far-away wall.

“Pictures!” he said, pointing at a collage of images documenting his first year of life.

I wasn’t buying it.

“Buddy, what did you say?” I asked.

He hesitated, then repeated what I had feared he said.

I sighed, knowing this day would come sooner than I wanted. I would love to claim that I have never uttered that phrase in front of my son, but sadly, I am no innocent. What’s worse is his father doesn’t seem to have the self awareness that he often swears like a sailor.

So now it was time to face the music.

“Buddy, that’s a bad word and you’re not supposed to say that word. It hurts people’s feelings,” I said.

He looked at me intently for several moments. Then … tears, lots of them. After all, I had shamed him for saying something, for the first time in his little life. I felt terrible, too, because we were directly responsible for him ever hearing that word in the first place.

“It’s OK,” I said softly, letting him climb into my lap and giving him hugs and kisses. “I’m sorry because Mama and Papa shouldn’t say that word either.”

Later that day, I recounted the story. What I found as a harrowing parental moment, my husband found hilarious.

“Come on,” he said, “you’ve got to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“No,” I said, seething. “I don’t want to have ‘that kid’ who says whatever he wants. We have to have limits and rules and I wish you would take this more seriously.”

He brushed it off, saying I was taking the situation too seriously.

Until a week later when our son came home from daycare with a note from the staff. It said our son had a “bad day” and was pushing the other children in his class. I suspected that all the roughhouse play my husband instigated with our toddler might have had far-reaching influence.

“You have to understand that what you say and do with a kid matters,” I said. “He takes what he learns from us and re-enacts things with the other children.”

My husband seemed a bit more contrite this time. He put his arm around our tot and gave him a big hug and said, “Buddy, we have to not roughhouse as much, OK?”

Our son gave his best wide-eyed look at his dad, thought considerably for a few moments, then jumped on him for a tickle fight.

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

Sudden ailment helps bring things into focus

It’s a feeling every working mother knows all too well.

When the incoming phone number registers as your daycare facility, you know it’s not a good sign.

“We are calling to inform you that your son had a fall,” the woman said. “He is holding his arm close to his body and seems distraught.”

“Do you think he broke something?” I asked, terrified she would say yes.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “In my experience, when kids break a bone, they are screaming pretty consistently.”

I was not convinced. My cousin fell off a couch at the age of 2 — onto carpet — and never freaked out. But consistent low-grade whining days later led to an X-ray that revealed a broken elbow.

“Do you think I need to come get him?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. We will watch him closely, but I think he will be OK in a little bit,” she said.
That was an immense relief. My day was packed with work meetings and other tasks I just couldn’t put off.

But the peace didn’t last long. Not even 30 minutes later, another call came in.

This time, the woman said my son had not calmed down and would not move his arm at all. It was that moment where my primary consideration instantly clicked into place.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

When I walked into his daycare room, he was lying down, and tearfully said, “Momma get me. Doctor.”

It ripped my heart out to hear it. I gingerly put him in the car, as he whined any time his right arm moved. As we drove to the doctor, he kept rubbing his favorite blanket gently on his arm, saying it was “kissing ouchy.”

After about two hours of exams and an X-ray, we found out he had a partially dislocated elbow. Once the doctor manipulated it back into place, he was back to his old, precocious self.

And I was able to breathe again.

It’s these moments where your priorities crystallize. Suddenly the meetings that just couldn’t be postponed and the work tasks that just couldn’t be put off seemed so silly and trite.

My son needed me, and it was a good reminder that I’m a mom first and a journalist second — and that’s fine with me.

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

Yearning for a softer side of parenting

“You have a clone,” I said to my husband.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Behind you,” I answered.

My husband turned around to see our 2-year-old wearing his dad’s cowboy hat and sunglasses, beaming from ear to ear.

“I’m cowboy!” he yelled.

And that he is.

Whether it’s tractors, trucks or bugs, I have a dude’s dude on my hands.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing — he tends to be easily entertained — but it definitely has doubled the testosterone in the house, meaning lots of little boy shouting and rough play.

My poor shins look like they’ve been to war, the signs of little shoes trying to scramble up into my lap, and the other day he head butted my chin so hard (accidentally) I saw stars.

And then there’s the fascination that boys have with their, ahem, personal areas. In some sort of leftover ancestral instinct he points at it, identifies it and pulls at it every chance he gets.

It’s a little bewildering for a first-time mom (this isn’t exactly covered in the baby books I read). I’m told that it’s a natural extension of developing boys, but I can’t help but cringe when he starts thrusting his pelvis under the faucet during his bath.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys. We even have a male dog and two male cats. It’s just, well, I’m outnumbered.

I want to share some of the more feminine interests with my son, but so far, he’s not really interested unless dinosaurs or tools are involved. I want him to learn how to cook (a lost art for many men), to read (and not just car maintenance manuals) and to appreciate the arts (beyond “Sesame Street”).

Hopefully, our road to Baby No. 2 isn’t too much longer — a need a girl to balance this house out.

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

Kitchen calling helps me cope

I’m a huge fan of cooking.

Food is so central to the American family — and there are so many delicious things to eat. It’s my mission in life to try every recipe I can get my hands on. I watch the Food Network religiously, scour websites for recipe ideas — I even downloaded a couple of phone apps to help me plan my grocery shopping.

Every weekend, I carefully select my culinary quests and make my list. I like to craft make-ahead meals for the entire week, so I need four to five dishes. Then I forge my plan of attack at the store to see how quickly I can get in and out (22 minutes is my current record).

I battle each weekend to carve out the time to prepare all these dishes and, with a 2-year-old, that isn’t very easy. At the end of these days, my feet ache from standing and my brow is sweaty from being over a stovetop for hours.

But the feeling it gives me is euphoric.

Nothing beats the complete satisfaction of making food for other people. The looks on their faces when they eat a perfect bite produce an amazing feeling for me as a cook. And I never feel more maternal than when I can make food for my son.

Cooking also gives me an escape from the stresses of life. When I’m focused on a recipe, I’m not worrying about work or the bills or the laundry. All I can see is the onion I’m chopping or the sauce I’m stirring.

It helps me cope with setbacks as well. After more than a year of trying to get pregnant, my optimism that it will ever happen is beginning to falter. The short story is that my ovaries are not releasing those precious eggs in order to get the process started. The long question is whether doctors will be able to overcome this challenge.

It’s frustrating and defeating, but I am a working professional, a wife and a mom so, like countless other women in my position, I simply don’t have time to have the emotional breakdown I’m entitled to.

So I find myself in my kitchen — just me and the pans mixing it up. We travel to places all over the world: China, Mexico, Italy, India, even Spain. When I’m on a culinary journey, the only eggs I think about are the ones in my frying pan and the only crying is when I labor over chopping onions a little too long.

Sometimes my preparations are brilliant, sometimes they’re barely tolerable, but the more important thing is that cooking helps me keep my sanity.

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

Listen, honey, it’s all part of the plan

There’s a video making the usual viral rounds of YouTube right now where a precocious toddler, named Matteo, makes his case for getting cupcakes.

But the reason why this video, in particular, has received nearly 12 million hits is not just another heart-melting moment of a child doing something innocently inept to charm us. No, Matteo knows exactly what he wants and he’s not afraid to say it.

In fact, the 3-year-old calls his mother by her given name (Linda) and gently patronizes her for not seeing the obvious myriad reasons he should have a tasty treat. Once I heard him say, “Linda, listen. Listen, honey,” I instantly connected on a deep level with this woman behind the camera.

I find that most of my time at home is spent either explaining something to my 2-year-old son or arguing with him. Toddlers seem to have endless energy and once they start stringing sentences together, coupled with the sharpened skill of manipulating your emotions, it’s not difficult at all for me to believe I will have a Matteo moment of my own pretty soon.

My son continues to become emboldened with his independence. He wants to help me do every task, from watering the plants to vacuuming to folding the laundry. Now, his “helpfulness” usually results in water going all over the floor, the vacuum turning on and off 17 times during a living room sweep and my laundry getting strewn about the floor, but I suppose it’s all par for the course.

One day I know that this independence will serve him well. He’ll need it to navigate that great, big world out there when he leaves home. At the moment, however, it is quite the challenge to manage it.

I always feel the frustration of wanting to say “because I said so!” simmering beneath the surface. Some days I win that battle, some days I don’t. But I think any parent knows that for the countless moments we have where we struggle with the rebellious nature of our kids, there are Matteo moments that make us laugh — and make us realize that it’s all worth it.

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

Toddler tantrums have me wanting to lose it

As a rule of thumb, I do not negotiate with terrorist.

It usually just leads to more trouble and they are not trustworthy enough to hold up their end of the bargain.

But then I had a kid and now that he’s been formally introduced to his independent streak, negotiations have become a major component to my day.

Back in 2008 B.C. (before children), I used to daydream about what parenthood would be. I would quit my job and home school them — because any children that I had were bound to be the next Albert Einstein or Steve Jobs — and their education could not be left to chance.

I would feed them only whole grains, organic greens and lean meats to ensure the best nutrition.

And I would never even think about spanking and would use my elevated reasoning and verbal skills to educate my young on the lessons of life.

Then I had a son and all that flew out the window.

Now I hear him say words that I really wish he didn’t know (thank, hubby), French fries are his favorite food and I do more convincing and enticing than a vice cop.

This is all because of the toddler tantrum, which can strike at any moment in any setting.

There are many shades of the tantrum: among them there’s the “I can’t get what I want” wail, there’s the “why did mom leave the room” rant and, my personal favorite, the “the sudden shriek for no reason.”

Usually I’m blessed with a decent “cool down” period, where the tantrums are spaced out a few hours, but then one recent morning, there were three in 45 minutes.

It started when I had the audacity to hand him his sippy cup rather than let him grab it (in my defense, he did not let me know his wishes pre-tantrum). And that was all it took for a five-minute screaming fit.

Ten minutes later, I was attempting to brush his teeth and he wouldn’t open his mouth. I tried motivating him with a treat, I tried asking very nicely, I tried the stern warning to comply — nothing worked. He hollered when I tried to overrule his stubbornness and kicked me as I tried to hold his chin still.

Then came time to get into the car, which I liken to trying to wrestle a piglet into a mud pen (complete with blood-curdling screams).

The only thing that prevents me from wanting to kill him is 10 minutes after the meltdown, he will do something that I’m convinced is the most adorable thing a child has ever done.

Yes, cuteness definitely is this child’s weapon of choice, and I think he’s winning the war.

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

Everywhere I went, the lamb was sure to go

When I was a little girl, I had a little lamb and her fleece was as white as snow.

Her name was Lamby, and she lived at my grandma’s house. Whenever I visited, everywhere I went, Lamby was sure to go. She went to sleep with me and was my friend through countless adventures.

She was washed hundreds of times, and it wasn’t long before Lamby’s wool was more of a dingy yellow. She became matted and worn, but I didn’t care. Even when I was a teenager, grandma left Lamby on the bed all the grandchildren used and I found an amazing childlike comfort in having that familiar friend’s company one more time.

Grandma was pretty intuitive like that, sensing that a simple gesture such as preserving my favorite childhood toy, would bring me joy. It was that intuition that also led her to buy another lamb for my little one. Now, I appreciate every gift my friends and family gave for our baby shower — but this lamb was special.

I teared up at the sight of the bright white, soft fur. I looked at my grandma, who sat contently across the room. I went over to hug and kiss her, hoping that she knew how much this gesture had touched me. She wasn’t one to make too much of a fuss — where I like to fawn over and gush, grandma preferred a knowing look.

I knew the tradition of Lamby would go on.

But then something happened that I wasn’t counting on. My son didn’t have an interest. The lamb has been in his crib since he came home from the hospital — he’s now 2 — and still nothing. I occasionally would remind him that the lamb was there and offer it to him, but no nibbles. He’s more of a blanket guy.

It saddened me, but it’s something that you can’t force to happen.

Then one day last week, things changed.

I walked into his bedroom to get him up for the day and there he was, sucking on his blanket, holding the lamb tightly in his arms.

“Lamby,” he said, and my heart exploded with joy.

Lamby had to go to the changing table with him. Then she needed to be buckled with him in his car seat. He insisted on taking her into daycare and refused to let me take her out. He hasn’t even done that with his beloved blanket, named “Bob.”

It was a fantastic feeling, knowing that “Lamby” will live on. May her fur matt with memories and may she gracefully age into a dingy state of loveliness.

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

A mighty voice is developing

I was getting my son ready for daycare the other day when I made a shocking discovery.

I rooted around in the shirt drawer of his dresser and pulled out one of my favorites.

“No,” came a little voice from the changing table.

I looked at him quizzically.

“No what, baby?” I asked.

“No blue shirt,” he replied.

I looked down at the garment in my hand. It was light blue with three raccoons on it and said “Little Rascal Gang.” It was just the cutest, but I guess this day it didn’t make the cut.

“OK, then,” I said. “What about the dinosaur shirt?”

“Dinonaurs,” he said.

I took a step toward him.

“No dinonaurs!” he wailed.

“Oh, OK,” I said. “What about trucks?”

“Trucks,” he said.

I was fairly certain we had a winner.

“No trucks!” he cried.

“You just picked this one!” I said, growing frustrated. “Why did you tell me you wanted this one when you didn’t want it?”

Then I realized I just asked a 14-word question of a 2-year-old. I might as well have asked him to solve a Rubik’s cube.

I opted to go back to my original choice. If he was going to fuss, he should look cute doing it.

Yes, my toddler recently discovered his independence, but he still doesn’t know what to do with it.

If I try to give him a bite off my plate, he cries because he didn’t get to lift the fork. When he throws the dog’s toy and our shepherd gives chase, he cries because now it’s “my ball.” When I bring up the laundry, no fewer than three crying fits occur — one when I abandon him to go to the basement, one when I bring up the basket and don’t allow him to dump the clothes everywhere and one when I want to put the clothes away and he doesn’t get to do it.

Then there’s the negotiation to get into the car in the morning, to come inside and not shovel the clean driveway when we get home and to get in — and then out of — the bathtub.

Yes, every day I have to put on my parenting helmet and weather the Terrible Two storms. At the same time, however, it’s amazing to see his personality develop, and I’m sure he’ll be an amazing, confident man — who will pick his own shirts like a boss.

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

Another month, another year, but hope springs eternal

It’s pretty much a universal human flaw that we don’t appreciate what we have. We always want more, and I’m no different.

This week, I turn 36 years old and it’s not a day I’m excited about.

I know what you’re thinking. Thirty-six isn’t that old, quit my whining, right?

And you’re right: I’ve got a great husband who loves me, despite my numerous flaws. I have a son that lights up my life every moment of every day. I have a loving, loyal dog, who — despite a freakish ability to escape every kennel we construct for him — I love dearly, and two cats that are practically my four-legged children.

But it’s just not enough.

Another month has passed, and we are still no closer to expanding our family. I worry so much about the statistics of “a woman my age.” It’s a phrase I have heard frequently in the doctor’s office (by three different doctors, in fact). Sure, most women after the age of 35 go on to have healthy, full-term pregnancies, but the risks go up after that magical age deadline. I can’t help but obsess over terms like preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, Down syndrome and miscarriage.

Now, just to be clear, if my next child has health problems, I will love him or her with all my heart either way. But no parent would hope for that scenario. We are dedicated to creating a life for our children where they are better off than we ever were.

I’m trying to stay positive, but with each passing month that seems more and more difficult. I have one more month the natural way, then I go back onto fertility medication. Then there’s only three to four monthlong rounds of that before I graduate to more advanced procedures — if we choose to pursue them.

My body is rebounding from surgery quite well, and I’ve been struck by the notion that a woman’s body, at the end of her lifetime, has quite a story to tell. There are pregnancy stretch marks, a caesarian-section scar and now four incision marks — all within 8 inches of one another — on my torso. Each mark tells the story of the most significant moments of my life, and I hope as hard as I can that there are more marks to come.

It is so easy to get drawn into the self-pitying spiral, and there are days that I don’t win that fight, but I have to keep hoping. In our darkest hours, when life’s circumstances are beyond our control, isn’t hope all we have?

Yes, I yearn for more, because I have so much more love to give. In the meantime, I hope. I hope the wish for my future is granted; I hope to cherish my present as much as I can, and I hope to not dwell on the failures of my past.

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

Heavy thoughts now at the top of my mind

I have a weight hanging on my shoulders.

Actually, it’s hanging around my gut. … And my thighs. … And the region that was once known as my butt, but has recently been reclassified as a planet.

It’s safe to say I need to lose some weight.

To be fair, I have never been a slim gal. I’ve always carried at least an extra 20 pounds, but I was pretty content with keeping within that range.

I was one of the lucky ones, I’m told, when I gained 35 pounds with my son, and I actually saw a quick pound-shedding after he was born. But the number on the scale started to creep up after my son turned 1 — and up and up it went.

Now my son is 2, I’m about 40 pounds overweight, and it’s time to do something about it.

My friends keep trying to reassure me: “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself; you just had a baby after all.”

I’m curious as to how long society is willing for me to ride on the coattails of that fact. Do you think I could get away with it until my son graduates from high school? Then maybe I can gain the sympathy freshman 15 when he goes off to college? Perhaps I could then be firmly in the grandma classification and just give up?

I have been getting in my own way, really. I work too much, at a desk job, no less. And I was born with an affinity for food. Seriously, there are very few things I don’t like (I’m looking at you, butter pecan ice cream). So inactivity + food love affair = lifelong weight struggles.

When I finally realized I was getting too heavy again — let’s face it, I’ve been in this position a few times — I convinced myself that I shouldn’t bother because I was trying to have another child. It was sound reasoning, I told myself: “Why lose a bunch of weight, only to gain a bunch of weight, only to lose a bunch of weight again?”

But we have not been blessed with another baby yet, and I’m running out of excuses.

It might mean getting up an hour earlier for exercise in the morning, but keeping myself healthy keeps me around longer — for all the babies I hope to have. I’m going to start right away. … OK, maybe tomorrow.

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

A new journey unfolds to expand our family

The word “benign” has many definitions: gracious, mild, gentle, harmless.

But to me, it means so much more. It means I don’t have cancer and that I still have a chance at achieving my dreams.

A few weeks ago, the doctor found a cyst on my ovary and I needed to have laparoscopic surgery. It was discovered in the course of me being treated for infertility problems. And the moment the doctor told me about the growth, I was faced with two greatest fears: Do I have cancer? and Will I be able to have more children?

Now, people might think that because I share a lot about my life through a regular column in the newspaper that I would have no trouble sharing these recent concerns, but they would be wrong. Something I ran into was the intensely private nature of infertility and the reticence of others to talk about it.

So I had to make a choice: put myself out there and try to get people comfortable with talking about it, or keep it private. When I started this column, I was newly pregnant and just embarking on the journey of motherhood. Now I am on the journey of trying to be a mother again and it is hard.

We have been trying for over a year with no success. I have seen three different doctors, went on fertility medication, then underwent the surgical removal of half of my ovary. It actually was a good outcome, as when they wheeled me into the operating room the doctor prepared me for the possibility of losing the entire ovary, therefore halving my chances of being pregnant again.

The reactions I have gotten are mixed, from completely empathetic to downright uncomfortable. I mean, let’s face it, no one wants to talk about someone else’s reproductive issues. But what surprised me were comments like, “Well at least you have your son.”

Just because I want another baby does not mean I am not grateful every single moment for my son. In fact, it’s my love for him that is fueling my effort to give him a sibling.

Another comment was, “Well you can always adopt.” My husband and I are very open to the idea of adoption, but it’s not as easy as that. When you have a baby and suddenly have infertility problems, it is painful and confusing. I want answers as to why my body suddenly stopped working properly, but the doctors can only speculate. I want to know what the options and probabilities are of getting pregnant, but the doctors don’t have a crystal ball. And when you mix all the hope and anxieties together, you don’t really know when to stop pursuing having biological children.

I don’t know what will happen next, but today I am healing from surgery and the growth was benign. Today I celebrate my good health and hope is renewed for now. And hopefully I will be brave enough to share the successes and setbacks that this new journey will bring.

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

Weathering the storm of parenthood ups and downs

“If you don’t like the weather now, just wait a few minutes,” or so the saying goes.

The same could be said of motherhood.

There are moments when I am so overwhelmed by the stresses of life, and then my son does something so naively amazing, and I am struck with the incredible blessings of life.

Conversely, when I allow myself to slip into the safe security of a family routine, it is easily shattered unexpectedly.

Heading into the holidays, I was entrenched in planning mode. It was my first time hosting Christmas dinner and, just 10 days later, was my son’s second birthday party.

Now, some people might not get too jazzed about a 2-year-old’s birthday, but in most cases with the attendees, this is one of the few times my husband and I get to connect with our friends and their children altogether.

Even though I enjoy these experiences, however, I am filled with relief once they’re over, and I look forward to life returning to normal. And this year was no exception, but this year, life had other plans. My toddler suddenly spiked a fever more than a week ago. He was diagnosed with respiratory syncytial virus, or RSV, a highly contagious malady that can lead to more serious illnesses in children.

I’ve been down this road before with my son, as he had RSV last year. But he just didn’t seem to be responding to the prescribed medications by our pediatrician. By Thursday, we were in the emergency room and he had a temperature of 104 degrees.

Three hours later, his condition was stabilized and we had a diagnosis of pneumonia. Did I mention the pink eye in between?

Yes, motherhood, like the weather, has amazing highs and gut-wrenching lows, and I’m beginning to understand that it’s pretty common for these extremes to occur within the same week.

But each time the pendulum swings the other way, it certainly puts things in perspective and when enough time passes, you look back and literally feel yourself growing as a human being through the parenting process.

And that makes every five minutes worth living.

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

Christmas spirit discovered in fun, unexpected way

When all was said and done on Christmas Day, there was an immense sense of satisfaction that everyone had a wonderful time. Their bellies were full, there was joy in gift giving and we all could escape from the day-to-day insanity of our lives and laugh and love.

And although my bones were aching in the end, I was so happy — but that’s what you do for those you love.

That dedication certainly was tested a few short days later, when I was crazy enough to gift my husband with tickets to the Winter Classic, an outdoor hockey game between the Detroit Red Wings and Toronto Maple Leafs at Michigan Stadium in Ann Arbor on New Year’s Day.

Now, those who know me are well aware of my hatred of winter. Snow, ice and frigid temperatures just ain’t my thing. If it were up to me, I would hibernate with the squirrels until the mercury crept back up to 50 degrees.

So it was no small feat when I packed on the layers to attend this event. There were the two layers of socks wrapped in faux fur-lined boots. There were the two pairs of long underwear, the two-layer winter coat and the snow pants. And it wouldn’t be a party without the Red Wings jersey and hat, coupled with a facemask with only a narrow window for my eyes.

Before the puck dropped, the announcer called the stadium visitors’ attention to the scoreboard at either side of the field. And there, in giant digits read 13 degrees, and that was before wind chill. Did I mention it was in the middle of a blizzard?

Hockey fans might remember that, because of a dispute between the NHL and its players last year, an ensuing lockout canceled the 2013 Winter Classic. Everyone had to wait another year to see this matchup at this epic venue come to pass. And I married a rabid hockey fan.

Over the next four hours, we saw a great hockey game and we didn’t die of hypothermia, which in and of itself was a great accomplishment. But, most importantly, my husband was over the moon to see this game — this frigid, long-awaited game.

And you know what? That’s what Christmas is all about: bringing joy to others and that led to me having a wonderful time.

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

Reach out to those you long to know

The holidays are known for bringing families together. Aside from all the commercialism and decorating, it’s really a time when we step back and treasure the special people in our lives.

Of course, it’s also a difficult time for many, as the holidays can remind some people of what they have lost.

My family went through a devastating period where we lost two members in 18 months — one the day after Christmas. After that, we decided to vacation together as a family during the week of Christmas. It only lasted a few years, but it’s what we all needed to heal from the pain, and now those are treasured memories for me.

And the addition of my son to the family has allowed me to focus on teaching him about this wonderful time of year. It has rejuvenated my spirit when I see my toddler’s delighted face as he discovers Christmas trees, holiday lights, angels and Nativity scenes.

I must say, however, that this time of year has me longing for my parents. As some of you might recall, my mother departed this world long ago and I am estranged from my father. And this irrefutable truth forces a sadness to settle upon me, especially when I’m trying to make Christmas bright.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I took a chance on reconnecting by calling my paternal uncle. I asked if he wanted to visit while my husband, son and I were visiting other family in the area. Not only did he say yes, he welcomed us with open arms.

He and his partner cooked for hours preparing a feast — she even bought our son some new toys.

We sat and ate and talked and shared. It was as if the 25 years since we last saw each other melted away. And I know it sounds melodramatic, but it restored my faith in family. It’s never too late to reach out and reconnect — it’s all about just taking that chance.

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

My monkey see, my monkey do

The best part of the holiday shopping season is the smart, witty advertising retailers conjure up to get us to spend big bucks.

The big box stores really step up in the marketing department with catchy jingles, clever double entendres and heart-tugging moments.

In fact, the humor and warm messages are the only things that help suffer through a materialistic month.

The unexpected treasure this season is I happen to have a monkey in my house. In fact, my son mimics just about everything he sees, from the words we use — his attempt at pronouncing “I love you” is just priceless — to the way we do things.

He tries to put on our shoes, he puts his toy cellphone to his ear and pretends to gab, he even tries to type on the computer — those darn keys have to be very meaningful for mom to always be playing with them.

So it was with great pleasure to discover that he now is mimicking what he sees on the television.

The much-maligned (and celebrated) Joe Boxer commercial from Kmart came on the other day and my son, now almost 23 months, was drawn to the sound of “Jingle Bells.” He quietly listened as some very scantily-clad men gave what can only be described as a “colorful” rendition of the classic Christmas song.

After the final bell rang, my son thrust his hips forward, as if giving the final note and the entire family burst into laughter. It was as if the moment had been perfectly scripted and it put a fine point on the innocence of youth.

But now I realize that the moment has finally come that he is starting to pay more attention to what we say and do — and what that could mean if I become too careless. Now the remote is firmly affixed to my hand when my “little eyes and ears” are in the room.

‘Tis the season.

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

A mother’s guilt is never done

Becoming a mother was the best thing that ever happened to me. It changed my life in thousands of untold ways.

I have learned what true love really is. I have learned patience beyond imagination. And I can appreciate a belly laugh to its fullest extent.

But along with these treasures, there are complexities beyond measure. As I juggle a career and motherhood, I have discovered fun terms like “work-life balance,” “family time” and “mother’s guilt.”

It wasn’t a concept unfamiliar to me. My mother was divorced and a registered nurse, meaning she often had an unpredictable work schedule. My aunt was a career-track woman who often had to travel for her job. So it would be fair to say that when I graduated from college, I was ready to make certain sacrifices to be professionally successful.

When “the hubby” came into the picture, sure it was an adjustment to work together toward common goals while supporting one another in our personal aspirations. But having a baby was a game changer.

Now I constantly grapple questions like, “Do I spend enough time with him?” “Do we do enough together as a family?” “Am I setting a good example?”

Part of the mother’s guilt role is that these questions will constantly haunt me until I’m reasonably sure my son is not a serial killer and that he is on the college track. But there has to be some way to assuage my constant worries in meantime for the next 16 years.

Recently, I attended a professional forum that included three other women. One of the women was not working regularly because she wanted to spend time with her new baby. Another had just quit her job — where she had won several national awards — in order to spend time with her children. The last woman there had children and worked from home. Let’s just say I felt a bit out of place.

I would never begrudge a woman staying home with her children — heck, if I could afford it, I would highly consider it. There’s something innate within me, however, that drives me to stay in the professional world. The fact is, I really like working. Sure motherhood gives me a sense of purpose, but women also are needed in workplaces of all types. We are workhorses, we are peacemakers and, above all, we are communicators.

All that fancy talk doesn’t make me feel much better, though. Every day I wonder if I’m setting an example of a strong working woman or an exasperated mommy. Thankfully, he still can’t form coherent sentences, so the jury still is out.

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