Sleepy time takes on a whole new meaning

My favorite time of day with my son is bedtime. I know that sounds like I can’t wait to get my kid to sleep so I can have some alone time, but it’s not like that at all.

I love the fact that this is the only time of day when he settles down enough for us to sit quietly together and there’s nothing more wonderful than your little one drifting off to sleep on your shoulder.

We have this ritual every single night. I turn off the lights in the living room and kitchen and we sit on the couch with my husband. Sometimes we read a book, sometimes we watch the Tigers. He has some milk to fill up his tummy and I give him his favorite blanket and off we go to his room.

Now, for a long time, the story ends a few minutes later with a sleeping boy in his crib and me happily getting ready for bed myself. What has been the case as of late, however, is a wild animal that somewhat resembles my child, only this creature bucks like a bronco, swings like a boxer and screams like a hyena.

I have developed several strategies for dealing with this creature. Sometimes I can calm him in the rocking chair; other times I can hold him standing up and he settles down. On the worst days, I have to put him in his crib for a few minutes and let him calm down before I’ll pick him back up.

A few days ago, we had a particularly bad night where I had to go through all of the aforementioned techniques. Once he calmed down a bit in the crib — but was still standing up staring at me — I picked him back up to rock him to sleep.

I realized immediately that I had played right into his hand. In an instant, his little arm swung round and locked around my neck. Now, having no formal martial arts training, I was ill equipped with what to do next. I have, however, seen a few MMA bouts on television — thanks, hubby — and recognized the chokehold.

Our cheeks where smooshed together, his head was nuzzled into my neck and I could barely breathe. I started to pull away, but the boa constrictor baby in my arms only took that as a chance to squeeze tighter. I knew my only choices were to suffer a screaming fit or hope for him to succumb to slumber.

Even when he stopped moving and his breathing was deep and even, I couldn’t even pull away enough to break our cheek-to-cheek contact without panicked whimpering.

I’m not really sure what happened after that. After all, I was pretty lightheaded and may or may not have temporarily lost consciousness, but it seemed to all work out in the end because we both survived.

It makes me a little leery now, however, that he has a sound strategy to keep me from leaving his bedroom and putting him down. I suppose I should start brushing up on defensive tactics.

And maybe wear a helmet … yeah, definitely wear a helmet.

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

Toddler gibberish is all Greek to me

I need a translator in my house, for a new language is being bantered about.

At least one of us is fluent, but the others only pick up a word here and there to barely keep the conversation going.

It’s called toddlerese.

The other day, my 19-month-old started saying something to me, quite emphatically. He pointed and said, “Tsat!”

I smiled at him and went back to what I was doing, feeling pretty confident that my parenting skills were on the mark to acknowledge him and move on.

But he wasn’t going to let it go. Apparently he had thrown down the gauntlet and I didn’t get the memo.

He started to say “tsat” over and over. He pointed, he motioned, he increased in volume until he was shouting.

I stared at him blankly. Either I had just stepped into a “Peanuts” comic strip where he was the grownup or my son was trying to tell me something.

Then it hit me. He was saying, “What’s that?” to every object he saw. He wanted to know the name of things.

Once we got that out of the way and I started verbalizing object names, we got along famously for at least the next 15 minutes, but it made me wonder: How many other times had he said what I thought to be gibberish and he was really trying to communicate?

What if he cracked dizzying, complex equations deserving of a snarky off-the-cuff reference by Sheldon on “The Big Bang Theory?” What if he thought of some profound prose eloquent enough to be remembered in the annals of poetic lore? What if he had an astute observation about the human condition?

I’m probably over thinking it. He more than likely is just trying to say he pooped his diaper, but still, it could be all that other stuff.

The point is, I thought when he started talking that I would be able to understand him. I’ve met plenty of moms who beam nearby as their small tot imparts some keen observation to me, only to have to translate for me. Seriously, munchkin voices paired with speech impediments aren’t the clearest to understand.

I figured when my son started to speak, I would just know what he was saying because I’m the mom and I’m supposed to know these things.

Nope. I got nothin.

I sure hope Rosetta Stone has something to offer me.

— Sarah Leach is managing editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 564-4278 or sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.

Motherhood expands my heart and my waistline

Something has been weighing heavy on my heart, er, my stomach actually.

For I have discovered that one of the best kept secrets of motherhood is that it is nearly impossible to be a working mother and effectively manage a healthy weight.

When a woman is pregnant, she has frequent doctor’s visits, and there is one number that determines everything: her weight.

At first, you don’t want to gain too much weight; the majority of the pound packing should come in the last trimester, so my doctor says.

My grandmother, bless her heart, would always inquire about my weight every time we spoke during my pregnancy: “How are you doing with your weight?”

I never took offense, because I knew it was coming from a place of love and motherly concern.

I took some pride in the fact that I gained 35 pounds during my pregnancy and, after my son was born, I was shocked at how quickly the weight melted away. I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight in a matter of six weeks — not that it was a weight worth bragging about in the first place.

Then I was on to breast feeding and managed to maintain my weight for the better part of a year. When the baby was weaned, however, the number on the scale started to creep back up … and up, and up.

Now I have nearly gained all of the pregnancy weight back, and it feels so disheartening. I have a job with long hours sitting behind a desk, and I don’t really have the option of taking a long walk for lunch. If I go shopping after work, I don’t have time to spend with my little one before bedtime — forget about having a good hour to cook something every night.

That leaves a lot of takeout in my belly and a lot of weight in my mid-section. Trying to cut calories when there are so many other things to worry about is nearly impossible and I’m struggling with what to do.

As I buy a larger size of pants and more shirts, I wonder how other women manage to keep their waistlines in check. So, how about it, ladies? Are there tips or tricks you have learned that help you manage your weight while juggling all your motherly duties?

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

Friend’s joy compounds my own

The other day, a friend of mine told me she was expecting her first child with her husband next spring.

I couldn’t help but feel overjoyed, not just for her personal dream realized but I also welcomed a new “couple with children” into my ranks.

Major life events tend to strain friendships in unintended ways. When I first got married, I would have my single girlfriends call on a Friday night asking if I wanted to go out.

They struggled with the concept of me asking my husband what his plans were, and if he minded if I left for a few hours.

“Why do you need to ask him?” they would say. They didn’t know what it was like to no longer be an individual, but part of a unit.

Slowly the single friends drifted away — some drifted back once they became involved in serious relationships or got married.

The same evolution happened when I had a baby, and I grew increasingly out of touch with my single friends — even with my childless friends.

It’s not an intentional thing; it’s more of a natural growth. I couldn’t even start to imagine how I would explain my life now to the 25-year-old version of me. My younger self wouldn’t know the first thing about diapers. She would be horrified at the sight of poop and vomit. She would get the shifty eyes at the mere mention of a toddler’s temper tantrum.

Major life events change who you are: getting married helps you learn how to work as a team, and having a baby helps you learn how to love someone else more than you’ve ever loved yourself.

So it is with great delight that a dear friend of mine will be able to relate and share in the journey of parenthood with me. I already can see a new bundle of joy, a little squeak of a cry and lots of naps — for momma and baby.

But for now she gets to dream, as well she should. And I get to give her all the unsolicited advice she can stand. Hey, is this a great friendship or what?

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

‘Perfection’ not a part of this momma’s vocabulary

Another whirlwind weekend is over and, after all the chores are done and the errands are run, I tend to feel more tired on Sunday than I do on Friday after a long week at work.

The time with my son is flying by. He is a few days shy of 19 months now and he’s growing so fast. And as my husband and I grapple with trying to get anything done, it makes my wonder how others make it look so easy.

I see happy families with multiple children walking down the sidewalk, everyone is perfectly groomed and well-behaved. I find it challenging just to take a shower every day.

How do these people do it? How do they keep impeccable homes, raise impeccable children and bring impeccable homemade dishes to every potluck?

Perhaps I’m not meant to know the secret just yet, but I have found things to focus on that help me take heart:

• I put the unnecessary chores aside (pretty regularly). Sure it’s nice to vacuum every few days, but sometimes I just have to opt for play time.

• I go out to eat. I know this can get expensive, but if I’m smart in my restaurant and menu choices — and if I share my plate with the kiddo — I save the muss and fuss of being away from him while cooking, then having to clean up afterward.

• I let my boy be a helper. My tot is at that mimicking stage, where he wants to copy everyone we do and be involved with everything we do. He wants to touch, pull, push and grab to understand our world. So I ask him to carry things or hold things and it brings a huge smile to his dimpled face.

• I talk to him. Hey, just because he can only say about a dozen words doesn’t mean we can’t carry on a conversation. He understands much more than he can say — he can point to at least six parts of his body on command — and is constantly babbling and pointing to things. I take the time to tell him what things are and listen to him as he babbles. I want him to know that I’m interested in what he has to say.

• Finally, I slow down. I’m always late when I have my son with me, but it’s OK. Because at the end of my life I want to look back and know that I took the time to cherish his little hand inside of mine, that I took the time to laugh when he acts silly and that I snuggle with him every chance I get.

In the end, I won’t be as accomplished and effortless as I want to be, but I can be happy with appreciating all the special, unexpected moments that motherhood brings.

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

Dog days of summer getting me hot under the collar

A dog is supposed to be man’s best friend, as the saying goes.

Whoever said those famous words never met my German shepherd. Tall, lean, beautiful and loyal, Luger is a good boy. He rarely barks, he’s great with my kid and I don’t have to worry about him running away.

And he’s ruining our family.

OK, that might be a bit of an overstatement, but in the past three month alone, he has escaped from his kennel in a desperate attempt to find his pack. He has jumped a fence, ripped chain-link off the frame, tunneled under a gate and hopped through a window into our pole barn.

Every time I turn into the driveway, I hold my breath as to what canine carnage awaits me.

The past four weekends have been spent repairing the kennel fencing over and over, installing an electric fence that subsequently got ripped down and filling a massive hole with concrete.

My husband has been traveling again for his job, as the summer season is the busy time for construction, and my job is demanding as well. So the precious family moments I look forward to on these weekends has been largely diverted to home-improvement store visits.

I’ve been doing my best in the hubby’s absence to exercise our dog. He loves chasing a tennis ball and a Frisbee, but it’s a challenge when you’re on your own to feed and bathe a toddler and still meet his bedtime.

We’ve bemoaned our troubles to just about anyone who will listen. They’ve suggested new fencing alternatives and behavior modification, but nothing seemed to work.

Finally we took Luger to the veterinarian. She explained to us that German shepherds are pack animals, and that he is experiencing separation anxiety because he is lonely — and the incident rate spiked since our other dog died last fall. The vet suggested trying a mild medication that would help with the agitation, but that it could take a month to build up in his system.

In the meantime, I am nervous myself as my husband packs up to head back out on the road this week. And the biggest suggestion I’ve heard from everyone — the vet included — starts to needle me: Get another dog.

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

Persistent rash a bum rap

“You better come in here,” my husband yelled from the bathroom.

Usually this meant one of two things: he wanted me to get the baby out of the tub and get him ready for bed (a sly move, I might add), or he wanted me to check out something regarding our son.

I popped into the bathroom.

“What’s up?”

“Look at his butt,” he said.

Now, my son is 18 months old, so his bum is the size of a postcard — not a lot to see.

I squinted and looked closer.

“I suppose it’s a little red,” I said.

Within two days, that “little red” problem turned into the most vicious case of diaper rash east of the Mississippi. It was red, blotchy and angry.

I called the nurse hotline for advice, which recommended baking soda baths to help with the irritation, an antifungal cream treatment in case it was a yeast-based infection, a larger diaper size and … air drying.

I paused on that last suggestion.

“You mean …,” I trailed off on the phone.

“That’s right,” she said. “Letting him go commando.”

“But, don’t you realize that he has a firehose?” I asked. “I mean, that thing could spray anywhere.”

I started going over how much it would cost to re-carpet the room.

“The longer he air dries, the better the skin can start healing,” the nurse explained.

I was sure she was plotting against me … and my carpet.

It was my husband who came up with the idea of taping towels to the sides of our son’s crib. And for three nights, I dutifully took them down and replaced them and the sheet and washed everything.

And for three nights the diaper rash continued.

Finally, after a week of frustration and the ongoing agony of our little guy, I brought him in for a doctor’s visit.

“Use Bag Balm,” the pediatrician said.

I failed to see how a product originally created to soothe cow udders could help this situation, but I had exhausted all the other over-the-counter options.

What happened over the next two days was nothing short of miraculous.

My son’s puffed up bottom healed quickly and he was back to his old self, implementing his mischievous ways.

But what was even more miraculous is that he gave me what I’ve yearned for since the day he was born: At the age of 18 months and nine days, he said “Mama” for the first time.

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