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.