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.

Listen, honey, it’s all part of the plan

There’s a video making the usual viral rounds of YouTube right now where a precocious toddler, named Matteo, makes his case for getting cupcakes.

But the reason why this video, in particular, has received nearly 12 million hits is not just another heart-melting moment of a child doing something innocently inept to charm us. No, Matteo knows exactly what he wants and he’s not afraid to say it.

In fact, the 3-year-old calls his mother by her given name (Linda) and gently patronizes her for not seeing the obvious myriad reasons he should have a tasty treat. Once I heard him say, “Linda, listen. Listen, honey,” I instantly connected on a deep level with this woman behind the camera.

I find that most of my time at home is spent either explaining something to my 2-year-old son or arguing with him. Toddlers seem to have endless energy and once they start stringing sentences together, coupled with the sharpened skill of manipulating your emotions, it’s not difficult at all for me to believe I will have a Matteo moment of my own pretty soon.

My son continues to become emboldened with his independence. He wants to help me do every task, from watering the plants to vacuuming to folding the laundry. Now, his “helpfulness” usually results in water going all over the floor, the vacuum turning on and off 17 times during a living room sweep and my laundry getting strewn about the floor, but I suppose it’s all par for the course.

One day I know that this independence will serve him well. He’ll need it to navigate that great, big world out there when he leaves home. At the moment, however, it is quite the challenge to manage it.

I always feel the frustration of wanting to say “because I said so!” simmering beneath the surface. Some days I win that battle, some days I don’t. But I think any parent knows that for the countless moments we have where we struggle with the rebellious nature of our kids, there are Matteo moments that make us laugh — and make us realize that it’s all worth it.

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

Toddler tantrums have me wanting to lose it

As a rule of thumb, I do not negotiate with terrorist.

It usually just leads to more trouble and they are not trustworthy enough to hold up their end of the bargain.

But then I had a kid and now that he’s been formally introduced to his independent streak, negotiations have become a major component to my day.

Back in 2008 B.C. (before children), I used to daydream about what parenthood would be. I would quit my job and home school them — because any children that I had were bound to be the next Albert Einstein or Steve Jobs — and their education could not be left to chance.

I would feed them only whole grains, organic greens and lean meats to ensure the best nutrition.

And I would never even think about spanking and would use my elevated reasoning and verbal skills to educate my young on the lessons of life.

Then I had a son and all that flew out the window.

Now I hear him say words that I really wish he didn’t know (thank, hubby), French fries are his favorite food and I do more convincing and enticing than a vice cop.

This is all because of the toddler tantrum, which can strike at any moment in any setting.

There are many shades of the tantrum: among them there’s the “I can’t get what I want” wail, there’s the “why did mom leave the room” rant and, my personal favorite, the “the sudden shriek for no reason.”

Usually I’m blessed with a decent “cool down” period, where the tantrums are spaced out a few hours, but then one recent morning, there were three in 45 minutes.

It started when I had the audacity to hand him his sippy cup rather than let him grab it (in my defense, he did not let me know his wishes pre-tantrum). And that was all it took for a five-minute screaming fit.

Ten minutes later, I was attempting to brush his teeth and he wouldn’t open his mouth. I tried motivating him with a treat, I tried asking very nicely, I tried the stern warning to comply — nothing worked. He hollered when I tried to overrule his stubbornness and kicked me as I tried to hold his chin still.

Then came time to get into the car, which I liken to trying to wrestle a piglet into a mud pen (complete with blood-curdling screams).

The only thing that prevents me from wanting to kill him is 10 minutes after the meltdown, he will do something that I’m convinced is the most adorable thing a child has ever done.

Yes, cuteness definitely is this child’s weapon of choice, and I think he’s winning the war.

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

Everywhere I went, the lamb was sure to go

When I was a little girl, I had a little lamb and her fleece was as white as snow.

Her name was Lamby, and she lived at my grandma’s house. Whenever I visited, everywhere I went, Lamby was sure to go. She went to sleep with me and was my friend through countless adventures.

She was washed hundreds of times, and it wasn’t long before Lamby’s wool was more of a dingy yellow. She became matted and worn, but I didn’t care. Even when I was a teenager, grandma left Lamby on the bed all the grandchildren used and I found an amazing childlike comfort in having that familiar friend’s company one more time.

Grandma was pretty intuitive like that, sensing that a simple gesture such as preserving my favorite childhood toy, would bring me joy. It was that intuition that also led her to buy another lamb for my little one. Now, I appreciate every gift my friends and family gave for our baby shower — but this lamb was special.

I teared up at the sight of the bright white, soft fur. I looked at my grandma, who sat contently across the room. I went over to hug and kiss her, hoping that she knew how much this gesture had touched me. She wasn’t one to make too much of a fuss — where I like to fawn over and gush, grandma preferred a knowing look.

I knew the tradition of Lamby would go on.

But then something happened that I wasn’t counting on. My son didn’t have an interest. The lamb has been in his crib since he came home from the hospital — he’s now 2 — and still nothing. I occasionally would remind him that the lamb was there and offer it to him, but no nibbles. He’s more of a blanket guy.

It saddened me, but it’s something that you can’t force to happen.

Then one day last week, things changed.

I walked into his bedroom to get him up for the day and there he was, sucking on his blanket, holding the lamb tightly in his arms.

“Lamby,” he said, and my heart exploded with joy.

Lamby had to go to the changing table with him. Then she needed to be buckled with him in his car seat. He insisted on taking her into daycare and refused to let me take her out. He hasn’t even done that with his beloved blanket, named “Bob.”

It was a fantastic feeling, knowing that “Lamby” will live on. May her fur matt with memories and may she gracefully age into a dingy state of loveliness.

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

A mighty voice is developing

I was getting my son ready for daycare the other day when I made a shocking discovery.

I rooted around in the shirt drawer of his dresser and pulled out one of my favorites.

“No,” came a little voice from the changing table.

I looked at him quizzically.

“No what, baby?” I asked.

“No blue shirt,” he replied.

I looked down at the garment in my hand. It was light blue with three raccoons on it and said “Little Rascal Gang.” It was just the cutest, but I guess this day it didn’t make the cut.

“OK, then,” I said. “What about the dinosaur shirt?”

“Dinonaurs,” he said.

I took a step toward him.

“No dinonaurs!” he wailed.

“Oh, OK,” I said. “What about trucks?”

“Trucks,” he said.

I was fairly certain we had a winner.

“No trucks!” he cried.

“You just picked this one!” I said, growing frustrated. “Why did you tell me you wanted this one when you didn’t want it?”

Then I realized I just asked a 14-word question of a 2-year-old. I might as well have asked him to solve a Rubik’s cube.

I opted to go back to my original choice. If he was going to fuss, he should look cute doing it.

Yes, my toddler recently discovered his independence, but he still doesn’t know what to do with it.

If I try to give him a bite off my plate, he cries because he didn’t get to lift the fork. When he throws the dog’s toy and our shepherd gives chase, he cries because now it’s “my ball.” When I bring up the laundry, no fewer than three crying fits occur — one when I abandon him to go to the basement, one when I bring up the basket and don’t allow him to dump the clothes everywhere and one when I want to put the clothes away and he doesn’t get to do it.

Then there’s the negotiation to get into the car in the morning, to come inside and not shovel the clean driveway when we get home and to get in — and then out of — the bathtub.

Yes, every day I have to put on my parenting helmet and weather the Terrible Two storms. At the same time, however, it’s amazing to see his personality develop, and I’m sure he’ll be an amazing, confident man — who will pick his own shirts like a boss.

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