5 ways I sabotage my own happiness

Is it possible to be happy yet completely overwhelmed?

It’s such a juxtaposition that it hardly seems that in one breath you can appreciate all the wondrous experiences with which you have been graced, and in the next want to throw up your hands and run away from it all.

The cold, hard truth is that I have too much on my plate, but when I want to take something off, I feel like a failure or guilty that I should be more grateful for the fact that I’m better off than others.

I imagine many people feel this way, but just don’t want to reveal their innermost demons so publicly. But I’m an over-sharer, so let me just invite you in:

• I work too much: I am at the pinnacle of my career at a surprisingly young age. I put too much pressure on myself to deliver everything to everyone. I’m a woman and 35 years old, ergo I not only have to be competent, but superior in order to prove myself every single day. Anything less gives validation to my critics.

• I care too much: I wish I could take every person I’m at odds with and haul them into a counselor’s office so we could talk about our feelings. I keep convincing myself that if I can just say the right string of words and explain myself in the right way, it will all work out in the end. I keep clinging to the masochistic concept that if I pull off impossible things, I will lead by example and get others to follow.

• I worry too much: We’ve been trying to get pregnant with no luck. That is tough enough, but I’m having abnormal periods — 2 a month for 6 months — and the doctors can’t explain why. I’ve been poked and prodded in some very uncomfortable ways, but the bottom line is I have no answers. And with no answers, I can’t identify a solution. How could I have gotten pregnant so easily only to be mystified the second time around? What if I develop cancer that struck down my mother at such a young age? What if I never have more children? Not knowing leaves me in limbo and limbo leaves me not knowing how to feel about any of it.

• I don’t have a rock: This is not a criticism to those who love me. In fact, I think it’s my fault. I’m so set on not needing to lean on others — to avoid unnecessarily worrying them — that I don’t reach out for the hands that often are extended. I don’t have that perfect person you read about in books or watch in movies who just gets me in most vulnerable hour. Do they even exist in real life?

• I’m not a positive person: I habitually brace for the worst-case scenario, preferring to be pleasantly surprised than horribly disappointed. My life experiences have taught me this coping mechanism. It has served me well at times, but has hardened me in inexplicable ways, where I cannot revel in joy for more than a few moments before doubt and worry creep in.

I can’t do it all, but for some reason I keep trying, like a gerbil in an endless spinning wheel. I don’t know why I don’t give up — and I honestly don’t think I want to. Perhaps the struggle is the journey on which to reflect at the end of the road.

But now, in this moment, the mountain of obstacles seems insurmountable. All I have are these two hands, so I better stop whining and get climbing.

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

Techno wizardry leaves me a bit uneasy

“We're born, we live for a brief instant, and we die. It's been happening for a long time. Technology is not changing it much — if at all.” ― Steve Jobs

Well, not to argue with the father of the iPhone, but technology makes a huge difference in my household. From the bottle warmer to the quick microwavable toddle meals to the books with sounds, technology has allowed me to open up endless possibilities for my son.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and that means monitoring that iPhone pretty closely when you have a toddler running around.

This past week, I was sitting with my son on the couch. He slyly pulled my phone into his hands, thinking he was really getting away with something. I smiled, thinking how cute he was, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t do much harm.

I raised an eyebrow as he flipped the phone on its side. My mouth fell agape when he selected the correct button to light up the smartphone’s display screen. Then I watched in disbelief when he opened and clenched his hand over the phone until his fingers hit the screen just right to unlock the device for use.

How in the world did my 20-month-old learn how to operate a computer?

Part of what separates the babies from the grownups is that adults (in theory) know the ways of the world. Babies depend on us for certain things — food, clothing, stinky diaper disposal — and the adults are expected to provide.

It’s a little unsettling, however, when a child flirts with knowing more than you do. My son hasn’t even started forming sentences yet, and he knows how to take “selfies” with the camera on a cellphone. And just in case you thought this was a fluke, he learned how to unlock my husband’s cellphone, too, using an entirely different unlock mechanism.

Suddenly I don’t feel so secure in my technological superiority, and I’m wondering what else this kid can figure out. For now, the laptop is getting put on a higher shelf, the batteries are coming out of the DVR remote and I’m calling Apple to see if there’s a minimum age for new interns.

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

I’m wishing for another round

Humans are funny in that they can never appreciate what the have — we always want more.

Case in point, I have a husband who finally took a job that keep him home, a job I can’t help but love and a 20-month-old who has me wrapped around his finger.

And yet I want more.

We have been trying to have another baby, but the ease we were blessed with the first time around has not graced us again. In fact, it’s getting pretty frustrating.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You’ve only been trying for a few months, these things take time, you’re still young, yada, yada, yada.”

We’ve been trying for six months and the minutes that are ticking down to my impending 36^th birthday are like war drums. I keep thinking that any minute, God will bless us again, but it looks like that’s not the plan for the immediate.

The doctor says I need to be patient, but that, “given my age,” we’ll take things to the next step if we’re not pregnant by the end of the year. But every month feels like an eternity.

So now, I am hoping and praying I have a little luck left.

Family ties grow stronger with burial

My husband finally met my mother this weekend.

It was short and sweet, and she didn’t say a word, but it meant the world to him.

In 1993, my mother died of liver cancer. She was 40 years old, a single mother, and I was her only child. There are many predictably soul-crushing aspects to this unfortunate life statistic, but I daresay I’m happy with my life.

I met a great guy, who for some reason beyond my comprehension, professed his undying devotion to me and asked for my hand in marriage. We had a zoo of pets that we poured our love into, and when we thought we were ready for a two-legged baby, the good Lord blessed us with a feisty son.

But there was something always bugging my husband.

“When are you going to take me to see your mother’s grave?”

It wasn’t the first time he had asked. In fact, he’s brought it up a few times during our six years together.

My mother is buried in Macomb County, where I grew up. And, even though I have only gone to the cemetery about a dozen times since her burial, I know exactly where the plot is. She is in a beautiful spot, near a large shade tree.

And now, my grandmother is finally with her. We traveled home to finally lay my grandmother to rest and bury her ashes next to her husband and daughter. It was a relief to know that she was at peace with those most precious to her, and it was cathartic to finally show my husband — and son — what was my most hallowed ground.

It was temperate day, with storm clouds threatening. The process was brief — almost anticlimactic — and then it was over. As I stood there, my husband took my son’s little hand and led him over to my mother’s grave.

“Ben,” he said, “this is your grandma. Can you say hello?”

Ben looked down at the gravestone I selected for my mother all those years ago and just stood silent, and I saw my husband grieve for a woman he never met.

Now that’s love, pure and simple, and I know my mother was pleased to finally make their acquaintance.

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

Graduation day makes me wistful

It’s tough to believe that this day has finally come.

My baby is graduating, and I couldn’t be more proud.

He worked really hard on all of his assignments, and his teachers said he always displayed a natural curiosity and precociousness rarely seen for his age.

I worked with his teachers every chance I got in order to have a good relationship with them. I attended every school open house, bought extra school supplies, brought in items from home to help him through his day.

My husband and I worked through work schedules, doctor’s appointments, travel, holiday weekends and our little one’s success is evident.

It’s weird seeing him move on, though, as he reaches toward bigger and better things. My husband and I wonder where the time went, as our little man starts branching out on his own.

It makes me wish I could go back in time and savor some of those milestones moments just a bit more. I should have scheduled more family outings so we had more memories to cherish.

At the very least, it has motivated me to try to make the most of the remaining time we have before he inevitably leaves the nest. My husband thinks I’m being a bit premature, but I am all too aware of how quickly the sands are falling through the hourglass.

And my son has done a great job meeting my expectations in terms of his educational achievement. I always knew he was capable of great things, but it’s a fine line between being wholly supportive of your child and being a little too pushy, which can jeopardize their interest level.

I’m glad the family’s hard work is paying off and I can’t wait for what this next phase brings. There will be challenges, for sure, but we will work together and come out stronger and wiser on the other side.

That’s right, my guy has graduated from the infant room and now is in the toddler room.

Way to go, Peanut. You’re making your dad and me proud.

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

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.