It’s time to have the tube talk

Well, I gave it the ole’ college try, but it’s time to bite the bullet. It’s time to have the “tube talk” with the pediatrician.

After nearly 10 infections this cold and flu season, my 15-month-old’s tiny ear canals clearly need medical intervention. The tug-of-war I’ve been engaged with the bacteria that plagues his head was elevated to a whole new level recently when my tot had to get a series of daily antibiotic injections — which, I’m told, is the strongest dose he can receive.

This was supposed to be the pediatrician’s last stand before referring us to an ear, nose and throat specialist. It also was supposed to buy me some peace of mind at least for a couple of weeks.

Boy, was I wrong.

The morning he was to receive his last of three injections, he woke up terribly sick — norovirus had struck again. The fever, the vomiting, the irritability were piled on top of recovering from clogged ear canals. I held my breath through the subsequent weekend, but more illness followed the next week.

After another last-minute pediatric appointment, another series of three daily injections was scheduled and we had our ENT referral.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too terribly worried. After all, thousands of children every year undergo this routine procedure, but I can’t help but dread it. Not knowing what is going to happen next is nerve-wracking.

Will they remove his tonsils? What about the adenoids? Will the procedure be successful? What if his hearing is damaged? Will he be in pain?

Not knowing these answers makes me want to lock him in the house and never let him out. If he didn’t go to daycare, maybe he wouldn’t be sick all the time. And if he weren’t sick all the time, he wouldn’t have to go to the doctor all the time, let alone have to have surgery.

Better yet, maybe I should put him in a plastic bubble, like they make for gerbils. Then I would need to stay home in order to make sure he doesn’t knock over any lamps or run over a cat. That would mean I would have to stay home all the time, because, what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t stay home with my bubble-wrapped son?

*Sigh*

A girl can dream, can’t she?

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

Great builders are the truly special ones

I often feel unappreciated in most everything that I do. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother, maybe it’s because I take on too much, or maybe it’s just the way life is supposed to be.

While trolling through Facebook recently, an interesting post caught my eye. It was titled “Invisible Mother,” and I just had to read it. The woman described how she often felt like she wasn’t human, but more like a GPS system for her husband’s lost keys or a taxi service for her children’s activities.

I can relate.

But what began as empathy evolved into an epiphany as the author likened her life to that of one of the “great builders.” When people look at an ancient cathedral, she said, no one remembers who built it, not to mention that it took thousands of people to complete. The architects of such great structures never even lived to see their dream realized and yet they pursued those visions passionately and tirelessly.

She said that once she reframed her perspective to that of a “great builder,” it was easier to make peace with the lack of acknowledgement for all her hard work being a wife and mother.

I have always wanted to be a part of a greater legacy, perhaps something involved with civic service, but I have never been able to find the time. I’m so busy being busy, I never have made good on my goal to volunteer time to the community.  And that’s when the opportunity to make good on that goal presented itself.

At an event this past weekend, I joined former professional colleagues to remember a man who was one of my mentors. Andy Angelo, the former news editor at The Grand Rapids Press, was an amazing man who respected everyone, was completely giving of himself to others and had the patience of a saint. Believe me, this man “walked the walk.”

In his honor, Habitat for Humanity is building a home, called The House That Andy Built. It is a fitting tribute to a soft-spoken man, who, by just about everyone’s estimation, was one of the “great builders” of West Michigan newspapering.

This mother and this man motivate me to be a great builder, too. It’s comforting to know that personally and professionally I am part of a continuous storyline — and it’s easier to accept setbacks when I see myself as a chapter in the story, not the conclusion.

I don’t need to get credit for what I do; I just need to remember that I am part of something that is bigger than myself. I’m helping to raise a great kid and to build a tangible structure with an honorable heritage. What’s better than that?

If you would like to know more about The House Than Andy Built, please visit facebook.com/TheHouseThatAndyBuilt.

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

The plague looms large in a little boy's ears

There is a monster in my house. It lurks around every corner, hides in the dark crevices of the shadows. It constantly waits for me to let down my guard, and BAM! the baby has another ear infection.

Ever since my bouncing baby boy reached the tender age of 7 months, he has been struck down by not one, not two, but seven ear infections. I see his pediatrician more often than I see my husband.

Each time, antibiotics are prescribed — sometimes refilled — and the infection clears. This seems to be some sort of germ trickery, as it has convinced both the pediatrician and myself that if we can just keep him healthy into the summer months, the infections finally will cease.

And each time we think we have it licked, we are wrong.

Every time my tot catches a cold — a nearly biweekly occurrence for a child in day care — it manifests in an ear infection. If he drinks fluids while reclined too far, ear infection. If I look at him cross-eyed between the hours of 3 and 4 p.m. on the second Tuesday of the month, ear infection.

Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and have tubes put in his ears. But I keep thinking if he can just make it a few more months, the ears will develop enough to drain the fluid properly. It's frustrating, because I want to do what is best for my baby's health, but when you're just not sure if it's totally necessary, it's difficult to make a decision like this.

All I know is the warm weather can't get here fast enough, with its wonderful humidity that prevents cold viruses from spreading like wildfire. And I'm thinking of deploying a vitamin C bomb at his school in order to keep all the nuggets healthy through the remainder of spring.

We've had so many colds move through our house, I should buy stock in Kleenex. It's nearly to the stage of a pox on our house, but I suppose there's no need to get biblical.

This, too, shall pass and a solution will be found one way or another. But each time I open the door, the trepidation is nearly too much to bear. Perhaps I could put him in a bubble? Not long, though, only until he's 21.

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

The words cometh, just not as easily as I thought

The frantic babbling that fills my house is becoming a little more pointed. What once was "dah!" is now "doh!" He squeals in delight as he points at our German shepherd and tries to get the word out.

Then there is what is vaguely recognized as the sound for "hi" as he opens and closes his hand at you — it passes for a wave as far as I'm concerned.

Yes, progress is happening in our house, and I'm breathing a sigh of relief.

It's not that I expected things to go any differently, but the seed of worry had been planted.

At my son's 14-month checkup, the doctor asked a fairly benign question: "Does he have any words yet?"

"Nope," I replied. "But he is a talking fool. He's saying lots of different syllables — they just don't string together in any coherent fashion."

"Oh," the doctor said, rather disappointedly. "Well, he should have about five words by the time he's 18 months, or we're going to have to talk about speech therapy."

I was stunned. Was his development that far behind his peers? Was I not doing enough to encourage his speech? Was I the absolute worst mother in the world?

I know, I'm a little reactionary, but this had me concerned. My friends told me to shrug it off. My family told me the doctor was worrying me over nothing. My co-workers commiserated with me in my frustration over what was a legitimate worry when it comes to child development.

But at the end of the day, the seed had been planted. I started to hover a bit more and say words to him emphatically. "DOG," I would say. "Dah!" he replied. Of course, "day!" meant everything from the cat to his water bottle.

I was envisioning his 18-month checkup like a court sentence. What would I say to explain why I failed to meet the quota of five words by the deadline?

And then it happened. On Easter Sunday, my baby boy opened his mouth and said "hi" and waved his little hand at me. It was one of the most precious moments of my life and truly a sign that he's developing just fine.

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

A vicious virus can wreck a perfect weekend

An ugly bug has reared its head in my life. On Friday, I was introduced to norovirus, a lovely collection of viruses that can be quite serious to vulnerable populations, such as the 1-year-old in my home.

It started with vomiting, then the loss of appetite, followed by a runny nose and then the irritability.

Yup, my son was down for the count.

I scrapped any hopes of it being a productive weekend and put on my mommy cap and went to work making my Peanut as comfortable as possible. Naps were encouraged, blankets were on the couches and floor, sippy cups with fluids were as far as the eye could see.

I've heard horror stories from other parents who go on sleepless sojourns when they're children are ill.

I've heard about the messes in beds and the extreme situations that land you in the emergency room.

Thankfully, my recent situation was not in that league.

My son slept through the night and faithfully took all his regular naps. By day three, I managed to coax him into eating some applesauce and carrots in addition to the fluids and crackers on which he had been subsisting.

My husband was busy assisting me, making sure we had all the supplies we needed, from buying medications to finding the thermometer, from filling the humidifier to fixing the CD player.

After three days of baby funk, we were firing on all cylinders and were managing his symptoms quite well. He seemed to perk up a little and was quietly playing with his toys. I was able to read to him (normally he is a wiggle worm) and I was getting big hugs and regular snuggles.

So, it was not surprising when he toddled up to me in the living room, threw a leg over to sit in my lap and snuggled into me. He started to cry a bit and I tried to soothe him.

I was proud of myself for keeping everything humming along smoothly.

He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back as my heart melted.

Then he vomited on my shirt.

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

Pick a word, any word for this hopeful mama

I sense a shift in the force.

Moms, I have learned, often have a sixth sense when it comes to a developmental leap in their young.

I saw the signs before he started to roll over, before he began to crawl and before he took his first steps.

And now, my Mommy senses are tingling and telling me my toddler's first words are imminent.

In the past week, there has been a spike in frustration as he points to objects he wants and grunts. At first, it was just something he wanted handed to him, but now his wishes are more complicated.

Does that grunt mean he wants his shoes put on? Or does he just want them out of his way? Does he want to share his toys? Or does he want me to put them together (just so he can take them apart).

And then there is the ever-increasing interest in our dog.

Our poor German shepherd has been through so much in the past 14 months. First, a tiny, screaming infant usurped him. His playtime was drastically reduced as work and baby schedules took priority.

Then our older dog, his companion, died. Finally, he has become the resident jungle gym for our little one, who thinks the dog is some sort of animated toy. The fur gets pulled, the body gets tackled, little hands go into the mouth — but he never loses his patience.

It's always surprising to me that all creatures in the animal kingdom have instincts. It happened to me when I became a mother, and it happened with our pets, as they knew a shift had occurred in the household upon bringing the baby home.

And now another adjustment is about to take place, as the “dah!” and “uya!” our little one utters become real words, with real meaning. His understanding is expanding at an amazing rate as he helps bring in groceries (OK, one item taken out of the bag and then dragged down the hall), fetches a book from the shelf and sits on my lap and runs after me as I call him from his room.

My ears and heart are open as I eagerly await his first word. I can just picture it now. He will concentrate really hard, slowly open his mouth … and say … “da-da.”

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

I'm cruising into suburbanite central

It's official. My transformation into suburban soccer mom is complete.

Okay, that might not be entirely true, seeing as how my son only is 14 months old and slighter taller than a soccer ball. However, I have acquired the new status symbol of motherhood: the minivan.

In all honesty, I have secretly desired to own a minivan for years. Stereotypes aside, I loved the functionality, the space, the storage — what wasn't to like?

But I never had a reason to purchase one before. It would seem a little silly to see me cruising down the street in my Chrysler Town & Country, window down, jamming to Alanis Morissette in my late teens — or even Foo Fighters in my late 20s.

But having a baby helped me achieve my lifelong dream of owning one of these fine beauties.

My ascension up the suburban ladder was aided by my late grandmother, who bequeathed her minivan to me. It was a bittersweet moment to pick it up this past weekend. On the one hand, it felt wonderful to know that my grandma was helping my family. On the other hand, it felt awkward and wrong to benefit from her passing.

As I slowly started to go through the personal possessions she left in the van, I noticed a yellow piece of paper. I unfolded it, and discovered it was a letter my grandmother had written to us, her family, in the context of her passing.

She wrote it seven years ago, when she was 79 years old. At the time, I hadn't met my husband, and my two younger cousins were barely teenagers. I began to cry as I read her words:

"You'll never know how much I have loved you — each and every one."

She went on to provide some of the best advice:

• "Youth is precious — don't waste it."

• "If you choose to get an education — work hard at it."

• "The profession you choose should be more than a living."

• "Look past the romantic side of marriage to the day-after-day part of it."

• "When all the plans are made, learn when to be flexible."

• "Compromise is one of the most important things in all aspects of our lives."

Hearing those sage words gave me an incredible amount of closure, and it made me feel more at peace driving that minivan home. Grandma wanted to the best for us and would have insisted I take it anyway.

Now, as I cruise down the street this summer with my window down listening to Adelle, I don't care if people see me as a soccer mom. In fact, I don't care how people see me at all. I've got a great kid, a great life, a great family and a promising future. And I've got great memories of a great lady fueling me forward.

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