Nothing’s fishy like picking a new pet

We are pet people through and through.

When my husband and I first met, I had four cats (yes, I realize how that looks). Together we also acquired two dogs, a purebred puppy and an older shelter dog. Sure, having six pets was a lot of work, but hands down it was totally worth it.

And through natural attrition, we are now down to two cats and one dog. One of my concerns when he started having human children (yes, my pets are my babies, too) was whether the stress of having an infant around would be tough for the four-legged children.

Those worries turned out to be unwarranted. Through lots of coaching about “soft touches” and “no tail pulling,” we came through the baby age relatively unscathed. My son, 3, now even has his first household chore: feed the dog.

It’s a daily disaster. There’s a massive dog food bin, where he unscrews the top and finds a scooper inside. Despite my attempts to get him to take small scoops, bigger is always better for my boy, and he insists on getting heaping scoopfuls. This usually equates into dog kibble skittering all over my kitchen floor.

But it’s a job he treasures, so we dutifully vacuum up the chaos until the next day.

Now I’m thinking he might be ready for his first pet that is all his own.

Through my research — OK, extensive Googling, really — I learned that having a pet can be quite beneficial for developing children’s social skills. The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry says having pets for children helps develop self-esteem and self-confidence and can aid in creating trusting relationships with others. There also are indicators that say having pets around children helps little ones develop non-verbal communication, compassion and empathy.

But what kind of pet would be good for a 3-year-old? On a recent trip to Meijer, inspiration hit: a goldfish. I can imagine it now — little Goldie swimming around, my tot gently pinching in the fish flakes, him whispering his childhood secrets to his finned friend.

In reality, it will be more like him dumping an entire container of flakes into the bowl and yelling for Goldie to do more than just swim — and I can only imagine how many Goldies we will go through to keep up the charade.

It’s a small price to pay for boosting your kid’s self-esteem, right? How hard can one more pet be (whimper)?

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

‘Tired’ doesn’t even begin to cover it

One of the questions I field most frequently is, “How are you feeling?”

Usually, this is just one of those obligatory niceties and no one expects you to go into your gripes about sleep or nausea or stretch marks. In polite company, you are expected to say you’re doing well so no one has to worry too much about you and everyone can go about their day.

In my situation — I’m at the 22-week mark in my pregnancy — and I have to be honest, I’ve been lying to people for the most part.

Now, it’s not like I’m having an awful go of it. Millions of women have severe morning sickness at some point in their pregnancy — although why they call it “morning sickness” when it strikes at just about any time of day is beyond me — and I’m a lucky duck as far as that’s concerned.

And I feel like I don’t have much of a right to complain at all. After all, anyone who reads this column knows I tried to get pregnant for two years and fought long and hard along the fertility treatment path to happiness. So after all that, I’m pretty sure I’m a schmuck to whine at all.

The only reason I even bring it up is because I feel like I’m outright lying to people, even my closest friends and family.

The truth is I’m tired. I mean drop-dead, bone-weary tired. Sure I’m not sick per se, but for the past month I’ve felt like I can barely do anything. I walk across the room and I’m wiped out. I fold a load of laundry and I need a nap. Someone suggests any sort of outing that involves me getting out of a vehicle and moving any part of my body and I have an entire inner-monologue session to convince myself that no, this is not, in fact, a death sentence.

I just don’t know how I did this the first time around. I first pregnancy was a dream. It was my regular life with the addition of some kicks, a waddle and some heartburn. This time around, I can barely get everything done.

Maybe it’s because I’m older. Someone suggested it’s because I’m already a mom this time around. My theory is that I have a parasite. Not trypanosomiasis (otherwise known as African sleeping sickness); I mean a literal parasite sucking everything it can out of me to grow big and strong.

I say that with no malice in my heart. What baby wants, baby gets. But now that I just wrote a 400-word-plus column, I’m pretty drained. I think I’ll just lay down for a bit.

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

Sleepless nights return a little ahead of schedule

Ask any parent of small children what they miss most from their pre-children days?

Sleep. Glorious, beautiful sleep.

Now, I’m not an idiot. I knew the sleep-sacrifice tradeoff when we started our family.

But I have been spoiled beyond belief in the sleep department. My 3-year-old started sleeping through the night when he was just 8 weeks old, and I can count how many times he’s woken me up in the night since he turned 1 on one hand.

Try not to hate me.

Anyway, I also know that, with another baby coming this summer, my little sleep bubble was going to burst — big-time.

So, color me surprised when my nocturnal interruptions arrived five months early.

On the first night of this fantastic new phase, my toddler came out of his room at 5 a.m., saying he had “bonked his head.” I assumed he meant he fell out of his bed and calmly walked him back to bed, tucked him in and lay with him for a few minutes until he drifted off.

On the next night at about the same time, I awoke to my boy standing over me in the dark. And just as a side note, it’s not creepy at all that every child younger than 6 breathes with the ferocity of a mythical dragon — seriously, why do they all pant like serial killers?

This time his story was that he fell and hurt his leg. I had my suspicions, but did my motherly duty and repeated the routine from the previous night.

By the third night — this time at 3 a.m. — he said it was too dark in his room. My first thought, after cursing the sleep gods, was that his nightlight burned out. No such luck: That baby was still burning as bright as a Christmas tree when we got into his room.

“It was too dark, huh?” I asked him.

“It was,” he nodded sagely.

We climbed back into his bed and I snuggled up to him, planning on a max of 10 minutes before I slinked back to my room.

It wasn’t more than six minutes into us being snuggled in when my son, eyes closed, pulled the blanket out of his mouth and said, “You can go now.”

I was shocked, because I knew in that moment that for the past three nights I totally got played. Touché, toddler, touché.

But a word of advice, little man: When your baby brother or sister comes along, those screams will wake up the whole household at night. Sweet dreams, Stinker.

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

‘Second kid’ ride is at a much slower speed

There’s a great ad campaign by Luvs, the diaper line, where they show moms’ experiences with “first kids” and “second kids.”

One commercial shows a little girl approaching a first-time mom asking to hold the baby. The mom asks the girl to put anti-germ lotion on her hands, and then her arms and then on her neck and … well you get the idea. Then the ad reverts to the “second kid” experience, where she hands her baby to a greasy-handed mechanic while she roots around in her purse for her checkbook.

Yeah, I can definitely see how this parallel is going to play out in my household.

This pregnancy is completely different than the first rodeo. I’m healthy and blessedly not plagued by morning sickness, so there’s a lot to be thankful for — but there are differences.

For one, my energy level is nowhere near where it was four years ago for “first kid.” Back then, I was working nights and could work 12 hours, stay up until 2 a.m., get six hours of sleep and go back at it.

This time around, I get winded if I walk from one end of the house to the other. I’m not sure if it’s because we have a child already or if it’s a reflection of my age (I am days away from turning 37), but half the time I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck.

For “first kid,” I dragged my husband to every baby store within a 60-mile radius, creating registries and lists and researching every product from soaps to car seats.

This go-round, I’m hoping that a throwing everything from “first kid” into the dishwasher or washing machine will be adequate prepping.

For “first kid,” we did that cutesy thing where we photographed my tummy from the side to document the growing bump, as my flat(ish) tummy expanded slowly but surely. Of course we posted the whole album on Facebook toward the end to share all our obnoxious happiness with the world.

This time, I was nearly ecstatic that my condition would explain away my fat. I’m four months along now, and I like to think that my pregnancy is finally catching up to my girth. (I’ve looked four months pregnant for about a year now.)

But let’s not dwell too much on the negative — there are awesome things about “second kid” already. For one, I’m not nearly as nervous as the first time. Everything is much more laid-back, which allows for a much lower stress level. I also know what I can and can’t do, meaning no fretting with 500 questions at each doctor visit. And this time a planned C-section takes away a lot of anxiety about the birth.

Yes, “second kid” is being very kind to me, as if he or she can already sense that Momma needs to catch a break. Love that kid.

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

Big boy breaks in a big bed

In parenting, there are big victories, and then there are little ones.

And any self-respecting mother will not quibble over the mini-ones. A win is a win. Period.

In the midst of Pregnancy Prep 2.0, one of the instructions I got from the doctor was to avoid lifting objects of 40 pounds or more. (At the time my pregnancy was confirmed, an ovarian cyst also was discovered, hence the extra precaution.)

The only problem? My 3-year-old weighs 35 pounds and is growing like a weed. Compound that with the fact that he’s still sleeping in the crib in the nursery, which in exactly 6 months, will be occupied by a new resident.

So we had to act fast to get our toddler moved to his new “big boy” room.

I know changing spaces at this age can be a delicate process, so I constructed an elaborate plan that spanned several weekends.

First, I needed to clear out all the clutter and junk that was residing in that room. Next, we moved in the bed and dresser, bought a new mattress and got fresh bedding.

Next, I moved all his clothes into that room, so he would start to realize it was his space, at least on some level and that we needed to go in there for part of his daily routine.

He seemed indifferent to the whole process, and I remained skeptical that this transition would happen prior to Number 2’s arrival.

So I sweetened the pot and moved all his toys over. That seemed to get his attention. Suddenly he was splitting his time between the “big boy” room and the “regular” room.

Within the next week, I dared to test out if he was willing to sleep in the new space.

When I turned out the lights for the first time, he freaked and said it was too dark. I had a stroke of genius and grabbed the small string of Christmas lights from the nursery and plugged it in.

And that was it. Seriously. All that build up; I was totally prepared for psychological warfare stretched out over months.

Like I said, a win is a win. I won’t be looking this gift horse in the mouth.

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

Big brother can’t quite grasp big news

Now that the cat is out of the proverbial bag and we have outed ourselves as expecting parents once again, there is much to be done.

But before totes of newborn clothes and burp cloths get hauled out of the basement, first things first: Explaining the new baby to our 3-year-old.

It’s not that I thought my toddler would really understand. But I figured that the earlier we planted the idea, the easier time he would have adjusting to a little brother or sister arriving this summer.

The first attempt was pretty anticlimactic. When I said I had a baby in my belly, he blinked, turned around and started playing with his dinosaurs.

A few days later, I tried again.

“Do you want a brother or a sister?” I asked.

“… I want … a big brother.”

“Well, you’re going to be the big brother,” I said.

“No, I’m gonna have a big brother,” he replied.

“Sorry, kiddo. Short of building a time machine, that’s not happening.”

I occasionally tried again. The answers would range from “a brother and a sister” to “I don’t want a brother or sister.” Once he said the baby was going to hatch from an egg (he’s in a bit of a dinosaur obsession).

I decided to regroup.

Over the next few weeks, I went for a more subtle approach. I figured focusing on the novelty wasn’t as important as the fact that the new baby is a part of our lives now. The more I made it a certainty, the less jarring it might be when we bring him or her home.

“Would you like to give the baby a kiss?” I asked him one morning as I was getting him ready for daycare.

“Yeah!” he squealed and leaned in and kissed my belly. He even laid his head on my abdomen and tried to point to where he thought our new nugget was.

I thought it was considerable progress until he informed me that he, also, had a baby in his belly. He lifted up his shirt and asked me to kiss it.

Oh well, maybe when I start to look like I swallowed a beach ball, it might be a little easier for him to comprehend.

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

Keeping hope through infertility not so easy

The road of infertility is often paved in disappointment and doubt.

You have to keep hoping that for all the effort you put into the process, that by some miracle, things will work out the way you want. And each time you realize another month has passed, it’s more and more difficult to rally that hope again.

Now, I’ve been going through this process for two years, after I figured out that things were not going to just happen as easily as they did the first time around. I’ve been to nearly a dozen doctor offices around West Michigan, been on several different types of medication, underwent abdominal surgery and given enough blood to operate a blood bank.

And each month, nothing changed.

My husband and I started quietly discussing the increasing likelihood that we might only have the one child, so we began to focus more on our toddler. He turned 3 last weekend and it’s been an amazing ride as a first-time mom.

He has taught me so much about patience, love and understanding. I know that having him in my life has made me a better person — a stronger, more compassionate person. Watching him discover the world through those big, blue eyes, I see wonders that my jaded, cynical side long ago had crushed.

I find myself marvelling at the joy of snow. We get so caught up in the dregs of winter and the ever omnipresent polar vortex from hell, but when you have a 3-year-old, he just wants to stomp his boots and feel the powder in his hands. He wants to feel the flakes dissolve on his tongue and figure out how to make a snowball.

He makes me want to slow down and appreciate all the beauty and wonder there is in the world, and even though I very much wanted to go through this entire experience again with a new baby, I began to accept — even embrace — that it was not to be.

And it made him that much more precious to me. It made me realize that I should savor every minute and appreciate every experience we will have with him. I remember seeing my tot perched on his dad’s shoulders as we watched Holland’s annual Parade of Lights and I said to myself, “This is enough. This is more than enough and I AM happy.”

It’s funny how life can be serendipitous that way — almost as if God was waiting for me to accept the plan he had all along.

I’m pregnant.

I found out the day after that parade, and it was the most beautiful moment I have ever had in my life, and I can’t wait to welcome this new life in early August. What more is there to say than that all of it — every single moment — was completely worth it.

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

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.