Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column today. And for those who don't want to click through, the text is pasted in full below:

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, my children did not fight with one another. In fact, it was often one big love fest around here with Mike, my kindergartener, announcing to his 3-year-old brother, “I sure love you, Peter.” And Peter turning to embrace his big brother as he gushed, “I love you too! I do! I love you SO MUCH!”

Strangers have even questioned me about their relationship. “Do your kids always get along that well?” they’d ask in amazement as they watched my boys play together.

I’d reply, rather smugly, “Yes, they really do care about one another.”

Well so much for that. In fact, just this morning, Mike demonstrated that a 20-foot extension cord is great for hog-tying a 3-year-old after you lasso him and pull him down like a rodeo calf.

Their fighting is just one more thing that completely mesmerizes me about parenting. When they begin to skirmish with one another, should I step in and help them figure it out? Or should I step back and just let them muddle through it on their own?

Kids learn a lot from their brothers and sisters, but probably the most important lesson is how to negotiate a relationship with another person. Having a sibling rather abruptly introduces children to the concept that the world does not revolve around them, that there are other people, with their potentially vastly different likes, dislikes and needs, that must be considered at all times.

So if I always step in between them and order them to stop, will that help prepare my boys for the other relationships, current and future, they will have throughout their lives? Why not let them learn on their own, sometimes the hard way, that relationships are always about pecking orders, competition, conflict resolution, cooperation, and compromise.

As a result, I try my hardest only to intervene if I see blood, weapons (or something used as a weapon) or impending death.

For example, as I was making lunch last Saturday and things got very quiet, I knew I had better investigate. Silence may be golden in other places, but in my household, silence is a flashing warning light.

Sure enough, I walked in the living room to find Mike huddled over Peter.

“Hold very still,” Mike ordered as he bent over his little brother and tried to ignite Peter’s retina using a magnifying glass and the sun that was shining through our front window. “I’ve heard this can make ants spontaneously combust.”

These days, they’re testing their relationship with more than just physical violence. Now I have psychological warfare to contend with. Peter, who is nearly three years younger than Mike, can’t match his older brother physically — yet — so Peter compensates for his diminutive size with a diabolical mind.

As I was washing dishes one morning, I overheard Peter say to Mike, “It’s too bad you have to go to school today. Mom and I will probably go to the museum. And to the carousel. And then out for ice cream.”

Mike has been reticent about going to school ever since.

Peter spends his days wishing Mike would go to school just so he can torture his brother by pretending that his life while Mike is gone is nothing but candy, love and one-on-one attention. Mike spends his days wishing Peter was never born.

But the fact remains: Mike might be gone for the day but he always comes home. And Peter was very definitely born and he’s not going anywhere either. In spite of their active fantasy lives where the other one doesn’t exist, I like to think, deep down somewhere in their black little hearts, they still love one another and that they’ll grow up to become the best of friends.

Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of this. The other morning, I watched them sitting on the floor together, handing one another blocks, helping and sharing with each other, working towards a common goal of building the coolest fighter jet ever. But then Peter wanted to use yellow blocks and Mike wanted to use red so Peter decided to step on their project and in retaliation, Mike sat on top of Peter.

For a few minutes, though, they were getting it. We still have some work to do on compromise and conflict resolution, but we’ll get there eventually — hopefully without too much blood loss.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column this week. And for those who don't want to click through, the text is in full below:

While pregnant with my first child, Mike, I had all kinds of ideas about how I was going to take care of him in those first few years of life. Those ideas revolved mostly around lots of cute little outfits, enriching playdates with like-minded mothers and lots of “mommy and me” classes to ensure my son excelled at everything.

What I hadn’t considered was how I would actually accomplish all of this while working a full-time job that required me to travel four days per week. Quitting my job just didn’t seem like a viable option. I would have preferred to stay home, but we simply could not afford that luxury, let alone lots of cute little baby outfits.

But in the early days of my maternity leave, something shifted for me and I realized I would do anything to stay home with my child. So I did the unthinkable: I quit my position and took a part-time job to help fill the income gap. Between my part-time hours and my husband, Brent’s, night and weekends work schedule, at least one of us was home enough so that we only needed two hours a week of outside childcare.

For years, even after we had our second child, Peter, we managed like this by making huge sacrifices and juggling every aspect of our lives. It was never easy, but it worked. We were determined to stay home with our kids.

Even as our lives changed — I started my own business and began writing this column — we managed with minimal outside care for the kids. We found an amazing babysitter who covered our gaps, which were mostly during naptime, so even with a significantly increased workload, Brent and I were the ones caring for our boys for 99.9 percent of their wakeful hours.

But I also found myself falling asleep a lot and waking up when my head hit the computer keyboard. Then it dawned on me: I was trying to fit my part-time job, my daily workout, my business and this column into the hours that my kids slept, just so I didn’t have to leave them with anyone other than my husband or me. And sure, they both sleep a lot, but I seemed to forget that I need to sleep too.

Then I pitched another column idea to the IR, and they said yes (coming soon – on Tuesdays). Thankfully, the IR’s editors had the good sense to ask me, “Do you have the TIME to do all of this?”

“Oh, sure!” I replied, “I have tons of time!” As if I spend my days sitting around eating bon-bons and doing my nails.

But the idea of finding the time I would need to work on this new project made me a bit nervous. So I went home and did what any Type A person would do: I made a seven-page spreadsheet that accounted for every single hour of every single day of the week of every member of our family plus our babysitter. I quickly realized that something had to go.

And that something was a few hours a week, six to be exact, with Peter.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it was a difficult decision. I fretted and worried about it as if I was shipping Peter off to boarding school, never to be seen or heard from again. And while I realized that I needed more time to get things done, I also realized that it was more than that.

I have always wanted to be everything to everybody: the devoted stay-at-home mom, the industrious employee and the fabulously successful freelance writer (not to mention the successful business owner, dedicated wife, gracious friend, devoted daughter and amazing homemaker).

For the last six years, especially, I’ve tried my hardest to be it all. And I have finally realized that I just can’t do it anymore. There are simply not enough hours in the day. I know there are women out there who pull it all off with finesse and grace, but I’m not one of them.

Of course writing that down is one thing. Living with the guilt is a completely different story. Even a month into our new schedule, I still feel as if I am letting Peter down, that I’m not there enough for him. Although Peter hasn’t really seemed to mind at all since he practically shoves me out the door when I drop him off in the morning at his beloved preschool.

My guilt complex probably has a lot less to do with Peter and a lot more to do with my own ideas of how a mother should take care of her child. It’d be so much easier if it was all about “mommy and me” classes and cute little baby outfits.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column this week. And if you don't want to click through, you can read it in full below:


My son, Mike, is playing basketball through the YMCA this year and he loves it. At practice the other night, he made a perfect basket that just swished right through the net. Later that night at dinner, he was still in awe of this newfound skill. “Did you see my basket, Mom?” he asked repeatedly. “I like basketball so much I’m going to play for the rest of my life!”

But while Mike may love basketball, basketball doesn’t necessarily love him back. The nuances of competitive sports seem to be lost on him. For example, when we told him that he needed to work to get the ball, he tackled his own teammates and tried to wrestle the ball away from them.

And, while he’s supposed to raise his arms up to play defense, Mike likes to pretend that his wristband has superpowers and shoots out lasers, so he spends most of the game waving his wristband in the faces of opposing players. This, as you might imagine, is proving to be a pretty fruitless way to block shots and passes.

But, in spite of Mike’s skill level, he really looks forward to his weekly practice and game. For me, however, Mike’s games can be almost painful to watch. Part of the problem is watching Mike meander slowly down the court, wave his wristband around madly, and head-butt his own teammates to try and get the ball. But the other part of the problem is that I would almost rather saw off my own arm with a dull knife than watch basketball — or any sport for that matter.

Mike, on the other hand, loves all sports. This summer, he discovered baseball. And while he insisted on standing so his entire body faced the pitcher, which meant he basically stabbed at the ball like his bat was a sword, he loved baseball, too. He also loves bowling, which is one of the few sports I sometimes enjoy due to the involvement of beer. And, while I’m pretty content to sit inside all winter, waiting for spring, Mike loves snowshoeing and begs to be driven to ski resorts for downhill skiing every weekend.

But it’s not just Mike’s love of sports that illustrates our differences. Our other interests are also seemingly incompatible. My favorite activities involve bottles of wine, copious amounts of goat cheese, and the New Yorker. But even when I bring it down to a 5-year-old level, Mike and I are still like night and day.

When playing with the kids, I’m much more likely to wile away the time messing around with finger paints for an hour or making a seven-course meal out of Play-Doh. However, Mike is more inclined to make grand announcements like, “Let’s get out my test tubes!” or “Let’s get out the chess set!” or “Let’s play…” he will say with a pause for dramatic effect as he raises his eyebrows, “a math game!”

The downside to the vast gulf that separates us is that our differences are, simply put, our differences. It makes me wonder what the future holds for Mike and me. Will he ever be excited to attend a poetry reading with me? Will we someday travel around Northern California together, sampling wine and trying every restaurant as I did with my own mother? Only time will tell.

For now, however, there is also an upside to our differences. Because being Mike’s mom means that over the past few years, I have learned more about astronomy, NASA, volcanoes, dinosaurs and anthropology than I ever dreamed possible. Who knew that all of this science stuff could be interesting? Prior to Mike’s fascination with space, I couldn’t even name all of the planets. But now I can — and I can even tell you something about each one instead of just making Uranus jokes.

But the very best part of all is that I’m learning with my son, to whom everything is new and exciting. Mike’s enthusiasm — and his interests that are so vastly different from my own — has really helped me to see life through new eyes. His excitement for the world and for trying and learning about new things is contagious. And while I have serious doubts that I’ll ever be able to look forward to a rousing math game or another Saturday morning at the Y, I think I’ll still walk away from these experiences with something really valuable: the simple pleasure of watching Mike learn, explore and have fun.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column. And for those who don't want to click through, the text is below:


It was supposed to be a quick trip to the grocery store with my 3-year-old, Peter, to pick up a couple of things. I planned on being in and out in five minutes. But as soon as we walked in, Peter spotted the pint-sized shopping carts.

“I want to push the cart!” he announced, as he grabbed one and promptly crashed it into my leg. Then he was off and running to the fruits and vegetables section. Though we have a rule about not touching anything at the store, Peter seemed to have forgotten it completely.

“We need some apples,” he said as he reached into an exquisitely stacked pile and began to pull one out of the middle.

“Whoa! Stop!” I yelled at him, as I envisioned an apple landslide. But Peter was unstoppable. He pawed at the oranges and broccoli and hit my shins a few more times with his mini cart. Finally, I reached the end of my rope and put my hand on the cart to help him steer. Peter stopped walking.

“Guess what! You get to push the cart,” I said to him, sensing impending doom. “And I’m going to help you just a little bit!” I smiled brightly to lessen the blow.

But my forced happiness didn’t work. “I want to do it myself! By myself!” If there was a Wailing Wall at Van’s Thriftway, Peter would have been at it.

Which is where he seems to have been spending a lot of time lately. There’s just something about being 3 that turns a little person into a big mess of emotions. They’re not babies anymore, but they’re not exactly big kids either. Peter, for instance, can put on his shoes but he always gets them on the wrong feet. When I point out his error, he informs me that actually, I am the one who is wrong.

And it’s not just the shoes or the little shopping carts. There’s also hand-washing, another thing Peter wants to do by himself, in spite of the fact that he can’t reach the sink. Peter also wants to make his own lunch (resulting in a mangled sandwich of peanut butter and half a jar of jelly). When I dared to pull a shirt over his head the other morning in an effort to get us all out the door on time, he completely dissolved, “Noooooo! No! I wanted to do it myself!”

He then spent 15 minutes taking the aforementioned shirt off just so he could put it back on again himself as I beat my head against the wall repeatedly.

I’m trying my hardest to let him explore things he wants to do (and can do safely). After all, he has to learn how to do these things sometime. But while getting him ready for an appointment one morning, he offered to stay home all by himself. I told him to get his coat on and steeled myself for the next world war. But instead of throwing a fit, Peter dashed away from me, took one arm out of his coat as I slipped the other arm in, kicked one shoe off as I put the other shoe on. As time ticked by, I grew frustrated. We were going to be late.

“I have had enough!” I said sharply (though, you probably could have called it yelling). “I am through – DONE!” I then turned on my heel and walked out the door in a huff, even slamming it behind me.

As I stood on the front porch cooling off, I caught my reflection in the glass window of our door. And what I saw was my very worst self – red-faced, tense and angry.

It made me wonder: as a parent, do you ever get to be done? Part of me says, yes; it is perfectly acceptable to very occasionally lose your temper with your kids and let them know in a very definitive way that they have crossed a line.

But another part of me says no; as a parent, you need to be a rock, a pillar of compassion, understanding and strength. After all, Peter is just doing what 3-year-olds do — exploring boundaries and trying to figure out how he fits into the world.

Of course finding your place in the world does not always fit conveniently into the real world. Sometimes you have to go to appointments — on time even — that you don’t want to attend. Sometimes people will hurry you along when you don’t want them to. Sometimes people will slow you down when you need to get going.

And it’s important to learn and remember that throwing a fit and crying — or stomping off and slamming a door —

doesn’t change the situation. It just makes everyone feel badly.

When I opened the door a couple of minutes later to check on Peter, he was hurrying to put on his shoes and coat.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” I said to Peter. “But when I say it’s time to go somewhere, I need you to help me instead of making things more difficult.”

“That’s OK, Mom. I’m almost ready to go,” he said to me, his face splotchy from crying and his nose running. “I’m just getting my coat and shoes on — all by myself!”

“Thank you,” I told him and meant it. And this time, I decided not to mention to him that his shoes were on the wrong feet.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to today's column. And for those who don't want to click through, you can read the full text below:

Like most of America, I kicked off the New Year by vowing to lose weight to finally attain the slim and svelte body I am sure I possessed in a past lifetime.

Losing weight and getting in better shape is never easy, but adding two small children into the mix makes it significantly harder. Since I have spent most of my adult life on and off various diets, I have learned that in dieting terminology, one might refer to my boys as “inhibitors.” Diet gurus advise those of us struggling to lose weight to avoid inhibitors at all costs because they have motives that involve seeing you fail in your weight loss battle.

Of course avoiding your own children may be tempting, but it isn’t exactly practical. And while my boys aren’t actively trying to foil my pursuit of a thinner figure, they certainly aren’t helping any with their penchant for homemade mac and cheese for dinner and cake and ice cream for dessert. Throughout these meals, I endure their lip-smacking and exclamations of how delicious their dinners are as I crunch through a big bowl of vinaigrette-drizzled salad, my mouth watering for mac and cheese instead of the cold, raw, leafy greens in my bowl.

As all dieters know, it unfortunately takes a lot more than eating giant bowls of lettuce to lose weight. You also have to lead an active lifestyle, which was also a lot easier before I had kids. Back then, I was able to hit the gym for hours when freshly motivated by New Year’s resolutions. At the time, my house also wasn’t overflowing with fire trucks, stuffed animals and Legos so there was room for fitness equipment I’d seen on late night infomercials as I sat on the couch enjoying bowls of ice cream.

The thin, muscular people demonstrating how to use these machines were almost as inspirational as the names of the machines themselves: The Ab Rocket Abdominal Trainer! The Total Fitness Burst Resistant Balance Ball! The Fitness Quest Gazelle Edge! I bought them all, set them up in the living room, and used them religiously — at least for a while.

These days, as a working mother of two young boys, I move more than ever. Sure, I’m not on my Ab Rocket Abdominal Trainer. But I don’t stop moving from the time my feet hit the floor at 5 a.m. to the moment I collapse into bed after 11 p.m. Yet all of this movement I do seems to have little effect on the scale. Obviously, I need to move more in a different way. But when exactly do I find the time to move more? Should I jog in place as I make dinner at night? Do jumping jacks in the shower?

A friend of mine, who happens to be very fit, suggested that instead of just getting up at 5:30 every morning to practice yoga for an hour, I should get up an hour earlier. That way I could move my yoga workout up to 4:30 and fit in an hour of cardio at the gym at 5:30, returning home just as most folks roll over to turn off their alarm clocks. Why not forsake sleep altogether in the pursuit of thin thighs?

“But I’m already always exhausted,” I replied. “I really can’t imagine getting any less sleep.”

“Exercise is supposed to increase your energy levels,” she cheerfully offered.

Perhaps, but the Total Fitness Burst Resistant Balance Ball was supposed to make me thin and toned, and that didn’t work either.

Then again, nothing has ever really worked. In past dieting attempts, I have greatly limited my food intake by eliminating sugar, carbohydrates, dairy, wheat and caffeine. At one point I think I subsisted on nothing but egg whites and lettuce for two months.

Sure, this dieting method worked for a while, but my friends and family now refer to this brief period of my life as “Sara’s Very Darkest Hour.” Then one day, as I was out with the kids, they spotted a Dairy Queen. One illegal lane change and a 90 mph turn on two wheels into the DQ later, we were all digging in to supersized ice creams and once again, life was good.

Those boys — if they hadn’t demanded DQ, I’d probably be modeling on the front cover of Fitness magazine right now.

Perhaps dieting with small children at home — with their desire for mac and cheese and ice cream and their toys taking up space where my Fitness Quest Gazelle Edge could go — is mission impossible. In fact, I’m sure it’s impossible! And thankfully, I know right where to find some leftover Halloween candy to celebrate the end of my diet!

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column today. And for those who don't want to click through, the text is pasted in full below:

A few months ago, I was walking down the street with my 5-year-old, Mike, when a stranger stopped us to ask about my column. We chatted for a few minutes about parenting and then went our separate ways.

“What do you write your columns about?” Mike asked me.

“Well,” I began. “I write about being a mom.”

Mike stopped walking, looked at me, rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what I had just said, and announced, as only a 5-year-old can, “BOOOOOOORING!”

But writing this column has been anything but boring. It’s hard to believe, but for almost a year now, every Sunday, I have been given the opportunity to share intimate stories about my family, practically guaranteeing that my sons are unable to go anywhere in town without being asked to imitate the call of the Northern Speckled Fart Bird.

To which my boys always respond, with their secret shy smiles, “Oh, I think you know what the call of the Northern Speckled Fart Bird sounds like.”

While it may not seem like it, I actually try really hard not to write specifically about my boys. Instead, I try to write about what it means to me to be a mother — the good, the bad and the ugly of the daily joys and challenges of raising children.

And there’s a lot to say about all three — the good, the bad and the ugly. I could focus only on the good, but if this column was all unicorns and rainbows and cute, dimpled smiles, where would the fun be in that? And, even more importantly, where would the truth be in that?

Parenting is a hard job. It is, by far, the most difficult, exhausting, and exasperating thing I have ever done. But, it’s funny how feeling a little hand on your back as you’re cleaning up something that has spewed from one of your kids can make you feel like you’re soaring high above the earth.

Writing all of this down — and sharing it with you every week — reminds me how great being a parent really is, which I sometimes forget when my shower is interrupted every 37 seconds to negotiate who gets to hold a certain stuffed animal or when I’m the only one in the house who will consume a meal I painstakingly prepared.

I sometimes wonder if my boys will read these columns when they are older and, if so, how that will change their perception of me as their mother. Looking back at my own childhood, I remember my mother as this completely even-keeled elegant creature, who walked around in high heels and jewelry, always smelling good.

She didn’t, for instance, peel off the jeans she wore to work as soon as she walked in the door at night and replace them with a pair of bright green yoga pants. (When I managed to wear jeans until the kids went to bed the other night, Mike actually congratulated me on my newfound stamina.)

She also, at least in my memory, never shuffled from cluttered room to cluttered room with a cup of cold coffee and hair standing straight on end, muttering to herself and turning the air blue when she stepped on a Lego.

Not that I do that. Ahem.

With the distance of time, the messier memories have faded from my mind and have been replaced with only the best — laughter at the dinner table, sympathy even when I didn’t deserve any, compassion, and complete understanding.

I certainly hope that in spite of these columns that lay out the daily realities of my parenting skills — and my green yoga pants — my boys will look back on their childhoods and remember lots of laughter, joy, infinite patience, comfort, and kindness. I also hope they will remember me as being strikingly thin.

I’m not taking any chances, however. I’m helping my kids’ memories along by teaching them fabulous new songs like “Our Mom is the Best Mom in the World,” which goes a little something like this, “OOOOHHHH! We have the best mom in the world! The best mom in the world! She’s the best! We have the best! The best mom in the world!”

They love that song. But, of course, there will always be the stories written in these weekly columns that will attest otherwise.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to today's column. And for those who don't want to click through, it's posted in full below:


“You have to read the letter Mike wrote to Santa,” my son’s kindergarten teacher told me the other day when I picked Mike up from school. “It’s classic.”

Pasted on his locker among the other letters from his classmates that said things like, “Thank you, Santa, for bringing me presents last year,” and “My sister is always nice to me,” was this letter from my son:

Dear Santa,

My brother Peter has been very bad this year. He hits me and yells and doesn’t share and he also says very bad words. He doesn’t deserve any presents at all. I, on the other hand, have been very good this year. I am trying really hard in school and I also do a good job listening most of the time. For Christmas, I would like the following items ...”

His letter ended with an abbreviated list of the approximately 9,000 things he wants for Christmas this year, most of which have already been detailed in the numerous other letters he’s written to Santa since mid-September.

When I spoke with him about the letter later that day, Mike had absolutely no concerns about sending his brother up the river. Instead, he was worried about what he had written regarding his listening skills. “Do you think Santa knows if I’m lying a little bit?” he asked. “Because I try to listen most of the time but it just doesn’t work very well for me.”

Instead of telling Mike that Santa understands and appreciates all of Mike’s efforts to be good, I said, “Of course he knows you’re lying! If I were you, I’d turn it around and be a good listener so you don’t end up with a lump of coal in your stocking and no presents under the tree!”

Of course both of my boys are enamored with Santa and, as their mother, I find it difficult not to take advantage of that. So as I wield Santa like a weapon, threatening my kids with giant lumps of coal and no gifts, their fascination with present-getting escalates to frantic levels. These boys who are normally happy to build forts out of leftover Costco boxes become obsessed with toys.

With all of the focus on presents and Santa Claus, it’s hard to teach kids that Christmas is supposed to be about giving, a spirit they should carry with them all year. But amazingly, a few years back, this concept was epitomized in our very own lives when our family experienced a veritable Christmas miracle.

It had been a tough year; money was tight and our family had just been through a series of severe illnesses, emergency surgeries and deaths of loved ones, but with Christmas around the corner, our spirits were on the rise.

One evening, just before Christmas, a stranger rang our doorbell. “Are you Sara Groves?” the stranger asked. When I said yes, she said to me, “A friend wanted to be sure that you and your family had a merry Christmas.” As I stood dumbfounded holding open the door, she and another person I had never seen before proceeded to unload several boxes of food, toys, tokens for the carousel, gift certificates for free ice cream, a few hundred dollars in cash, and a gift certificate to a very nice local restaurant.

“Who did this?” I asked her.

“They want to remain anonymous,” she said. “And they want you to have a merry Christmas!”

And so our Christmas that year was indeed very merry. The idea that an anonymous friend had been so generous to us is the epitome of what Christmas and every single day of the year should be about. To this day, I have only a few vague ideas of who our Secret Santa might have been, but I will likely never know for sure. However, I do know that it is a gift I will always treasure and remember and I hope that someday I will be able to do the same thing for a young, struggling family.

This year, however, the wrapping paper and ribbons will fly as Mike and Peter rip open their presents. In spite of Mike’s blatant lies to Santa and Peter’s all too frequent right hooks to his brother’s chin, the boys have been good this year. Mike even used some of his own money to buy Peter a Christmas present because he was so worried that Peter might not get any presents from Santa. And for a 5-year-old, if that’s not the spirit of giving, I don’t know what is. Merry Christmas!