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.