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.

The clock is the only sound I can hear

It’s my birthday this week, and this one weighs heavy on me.

About two months ago, as if on cue, my biological clock started to tick, then tock, then pound in my ears daily. I feel the pressure to have more children before I turn 40, and I know I only have five short years to do it.

It’s all I can think about lately — babies, babies and more babies.

It’s not that I don’t feel fulfilled. I see my son cuddling with his dad on the couch with a book and life feels more complete than ever. And it’s great to have a two-parents-to-one-child ratio, but my heart yearns for more.

I was an only child and one of the most important things I want for my family is that my children have siblings to share in life’s ups and downs. My mother was one of three children, and her sister became my guardian after my mother’s death.

Sometimes I think about what would have happened to me if my mother had been an only child. It more than likely would have meant that my grandmother would have taken me in when she was 67 years old.

I look to my aunt and uncle and admire them for the strong people they are. The family — my uncle’s wife and children included — still regularly has Sunday morning breakfast in Detroit. They do things all the time as a family — bowling, boating, vacations — they stay close.

That’s what I want for my children.

As I delicately negotiate the planning of our second child, my husband seems frustratingly aloof. We agree that we would like more than one, but things seem so great now, he is almost fearful that upsetting this balance would be disastrous.

“We got so lucky with him,” my husband says of our son. “There’s no way we will get as lucky with the next one.”

He’s right. Our baby started sleeping through the night at 2 months old. He rolled over at 5 months, sat up at 6 months, crawled at 7 months and walked by 10 months. He has the sunniest disposition as long as he is well fed and takes his regular naps. It’s ridiculous how easy this kid is, and there’s no way lightning will strike twice.

Alas, the clock will win out. It demands that I serve my biological purpose, and my heart want to fulfill a secret promise I made to myself a long time ago to have more than one child.

Now how do you suppose I’ll be able to sneak that third one in before the clock strikes midnight on my 40^th birthday?

— Sarah Leach is content editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278.

Forever mine, whether he likes it or not

They say daughters are yours forever and sons eventually leave you.

I have been bracing myself for the day that my son goes off to college, starts dating someone seriously and gets married. Of course, I’m sure I’ll “lose him” long before then, as his teenage brain — hopped up on all those awesome boy hormones — will be nothing short of horrified at the thought of discussing such issues with his mother.

But I did not anticipate this rejection to happen when he was 13 months old. For the past few weeks, if his father is in the room, my baby has zero interest in me. Maybe I should rephrase that: He screams if I pick him up for a hug, try to comfort him when he’s crying or, worst of all, try to play with him.

I already can see the “whatever, Mom” look in his eyes as I try to show him that his dad isn’t the only Lego aficionado of the household. He hasn’t spoken his first words, and yet I already feel the unmistakable scarlet letter of uncoolness amongst his future tweener friends.

I’ve tried to blow it off as a phase he’s going through, as I watch him toddle after his dad in unapologetic worship. But the truth is it hurts. A lot. But it also is something I’m not likely to change. He will just have to learn to love me (did I seriously just write that?).

Then, a breakthrough came. My husband spent Saturday evening in Grand Rapids with his friends, doing manly things like wrestling bears or constructing barns. Anyway, it meant that the baby and I would have an evening together.

It was nothing short of magical. The entire evening, I made a point of not doing anything but focusing on him. No chores, no emails, no errands. I sat on the floor with him to be on his level. I chased him down the hallway into his room as he squealed with laughter. I made chicken nuggets, applesauce and milk for dinner — his favorite.

It made me realize that most of the time, my husband plays with the baby to keep him occupied as I’m trying to get some sort of work done, whether it be our laundry or dishes, or making sure a story is edited and uploaded to the website. I’m so busy getting pulled in six directions that my baby is attaching to his other parent, and I’m going to do something about it.

From now on, I will make 6-8 p.m. on weekdays Peanut Time, where nothing will keep me from being with my son. After all, I only have him for a few more years before his father will unfairly lure him away with the siren’s song of power tools.

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

A milestone for baby (but more so for mama)

I did it! I want to shout it from the rooftops! I actually successfully breastfed my baby for a year!

In my world of 50-hour work weeks, commuting twice a week for college classes and raising a baby, it is no small feat that I was able to do this.

Today marks the first week where I am no longer lugging around a pumping bag and mini-bottle cooler. I no longer have to set timers and lock myself in a room in the middle of the day to “take care of business.”

My son and I no longer have to be a public spectacle in a restaurant, be forced to sit in the car for a half hour or sit in an awkward position in a bathroom stall.

The freedom is amazing.

Even my doctor was in awe, as she had a child about two months before my son was born.
“I don’t know how you did it,” she said. “But I am impressed.”

I am almost finished weaning Benjamin to cow’s milk, and he seems to really enjoy it. Now I can make up several bottles in advance and take them on the road, which expands the activities spectrum we can do as a family.

I no longer have to pre-plan day trips and account for a lengthy checklist of gear. I no longer have to take a quick tour of a facility to identify a suitable place where I will steal away for a half hour. No longer shall I be stricken with the pain of skipping a feeding.

To be honest, I still am pumping just before bedtime and when I get up in the morning. I have an ample frozen milk supply and I am looking into donating the remainder of my reserves through the National Milk Bank (nationalmilkbank.org), which distributes food products made from the milk to help newborns who don’t have access to breast milk.

This organization’s mission statement is to “make quality human breast milk available to all premature and critically ill babies.”

I love the idea of helping other families receive quality nutrition and immunities that are so important for those tiny bodies. If it helps just one baby’s tummy get nice and full, it will bring great joy to my heart.

So, take heart, young working mothers everywhere. You CAN do this. It takes hard work and dedication, but if you think breastfeeding is the right thing for you and your baby, you can make it work and achieve these goals.

Baby Ben and I are living proof.

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

How do you sum up your role model's life?

Note: This is the print version for this week's column.

My grandmother, the wonderful Mary Jane Fauls, went to her heavenly home at the age of 86 last week. And I can't seem to believe she's gone.

As the family and I deal with her affairs, I find myself reflecting on what a remarkable woman she was. We are sorting through pictures and packing up her apartment, trying to write a eulogy that somehow encapsulates who she was and what she meant to us.

But how do you measure a life? I want to tell anyone who will listen about her feisty spirit, her poignant insights and her quick-witted one-liners. How do I explain what my grandmother meant to me in just a few minutes? Heck, I'm not sure a few hours would be adequate.

This was a woman who lived through the Great Depression as a child and saw how her parents struggled to put food on the table. She lived through World War II, the Kennedy assassination, the civil rights era and the end of a millennium. She married a good man and had three children, but experienced unspeakable tragedy — losing a daughter and her husband to cancer only a year and a half apart.

My grandmother provided a loving, yet disciplined upbringing for her kids and worked for several years as a secretary in downtown Detroit. She wanted to show her two daughters that they had career options when they grew up.

She was the rock for my mother when she braved the world alone as a single parent with a newborn baby, and was my daycare provider as my mother went back to work, struggling to reinvent herself. She provided end-of-life care for her mother, aunt, daughter and husband. Who among us has the emotional fortitude to do that?

As I entered my teens, my grandma never let me stray too far. She called me, wrote me letters, sent cards, and made plans. It was her personal mission to not fail my mother in making sure I was cared for in the most maternal of ways.

How do I explain what that meant to me?

When I got married, grandma started calling about once a month. When I became pregnant, she increased it to at least once a week. She was tickled that she lived to become a great-grandmother and wanted to know everything — how I was feeling, how the baby was sleeping, what types of food was he trying, was he walking or crawling. I am so grateful she was able to meet him, watch him sit up and crawl, then walk and finally, eat cake and ice cream at his first birthday party just four weeks ago.
I can still hear her voice in my head, because she always asked the same question: “So. … How's our boy?”

He's great, grandma. And I have you to thank for so much of that.

Thank you for never letting me forget that I always had people who loved me, even though I didn't always feel it. Thank you for never forgetting a birthday or holiday. Thank you for calling me just because you were thinking about me — that always touched me beyond words. Thank you for worrying about me. Thank you for never letting me get too full of myself. Thank you for every last bit of advice — whether I wanted it or not. Thank you for always thinking of everyone else before yourself. Thank you for never giving up on me, even when I was at my absolute worst. Thank you for always being the force of stability in my life. Thank you for showing me that I have a voice and that it should be heard. And thank you for all the hugs, kisses and sweet sentiments, for I will miss your warm touch the most.

As I sit here, at my computer, I realize I could write five columns on my grandmother and all the maternal lessons I could glean from her experience and wisdom. But in that reflection, I discovered an answer to my own question.

How do I measure her life? I don't have to. I have these wonderful thoughts and memories inside of me forever, and so these principles will be ingrained in my son. Now it will be my life's mission to tell him how awesome his grandmother and great-grandmother were. I will regale him with stories about their lives — their triumphs and tragedies — but most of all I will tell him that the enduring strength of my grandmother helped shape who I am.

The joy of life is the people within it. The cruelty of life is learning to live without them. Life's cruelty tore a hole in my heart 20 years ago, and it just got bigger. But I will go on. My grandmother played a key role in showing me how to cope. "We are survivors," she once told me. And she showed me how to do that through living example.

I will never fully heal from this loss. It will never be okay that I can't call her anymore for advice or ask her a question about my mother or just tell her a funny story about the baby. It will never be okay that she is gone.

But I will go on, for her. I will be the best mother I can be. I will treasure my children and the rest of my family, as she would want me to do. I will try to find a way to make her proud.

And I look forward to the day I will see her and my mother again.

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