Montana Momoirs

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

“You’re being bad and I don’t like you when you’re being bad. So I’m going to lock you in the closet and you can never come out!” With that, the closet door opens swiftly and then slams shut.

I’m sure readers of this column sometimes question my parenting skills, but the above disciplinary action did not come from me. Oh no. It came from my 3-year-old, Peter. The recipient of his scolding was his beloved Doughnut, who, over the years, has been loved so much he is now a mangled and essentially furless stuffed dog.

I’m no child psychologist, but I know enough to ascertain that Peter is working through some feelings about being punished. Because not even an hour earlier, I was the one who was saying to Peter, “I don’t like your behavior and you need to sit on the stairs and think about how you’re treating everyone.”

This reprimand came after Peter systematically destroyed a fortress — by kicking it down and then stomping on it for good measure — that, Mike, my 6-year-old, had been diligently constructing out of blocks. After Mike had yelled at Peter, Peter haughtily replied to Mike with, “I hate you.”

Hate is a bad word in our house; we abstain from using it even when talking about something as ambiguous as vegetables. It is OK not to like sauteed Swiss chard (though I can’t quite understand it); it is a completely different story to hate it.

Of course this is a difficult concept for a 3-year-old to grasp just like it is difficult for me to be angry or even disappointed with Peter. Normally, he’s such a happy little person, always full of love and affection. He often runs up to me and wraps his arms around my legs and gives me the biggest hug he can muster. “I love you, Mom!” he’ll say, his voice just dripping with feeling as he runs back to whatever he was doing.

But lately, Peter has been alternating between being a fierce and petulant pain. He is working hard to figure out his place in the world and the boundaries he has and how to negotiate them, very much like Mike did at this age. But even after living through this developmental stage once, I haven’t quite experienced it like this and I’m not sure if I’m handling Peter’s behavior correctly.

Because Peter, normally so full of love and giant hugs, will sometimes accusingly point his index finger at me if I tell him something he doesn’t like. He has been known to suddenly refuse to take another step forward when we’re walking somewhere and when I pick him up to carry him, he will flail, kick and scream.

When he acts like that, we encourage him to “use his words” to describe rather than show how he is feeling. So sometimes if I ask Peter something as innocuous as, “How about we brush your teeth?” he will respond, rather loudly, “How about this? No. And no. And no. And NO.”

Obviously Peter is a kid who could sometimes benefit from a few minutes to gather himself together and think about better ways to handle situations, which he does in timeout. I always try to help him figure out why he’s there — focusing on the behavior that was the problem instead of on Peter and how he could have acted differently.

Of course all of this thoughtful dialogue sounds good, but we’re not seeing any huge changes in Peter’s behavior. It’d be one thing if we put him in timeout and he actually seemed remorseful about how he acted.

But Peter is more inclined to sit in time-out and wave his index finger at us and stick out his lips in a giant pout as he rolls his eyes when asked why he’s there. Or, even worse, he’ll look at me with his head cocked slightly as he says thoughtfully, “I don’t really like you.”

Not really the answer I was looking for if you know what I’m saying.

I do see some progress though. When Peter grabbed poor Doughnut out of the dark closet, he cradled him to his chest and stroked his head. “Oh Doughnut,” Peter said as he rubbed Doughnut’s furless face to his cheek. “Even when you’re bad, I still love you. And I’ll always love you — no matter what.”

Which sums it up pretty well — because even with the finger-pointing, eye-rolling, hateful words and the occasional kicking, screaming and flailing — I am still amazed and overwhelmed at just how much I love Peter, no matter what he does or says.

Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column this week. The text is pasted in full below if you don't want to click through.

My children recently fell in love with a new library book about a little boy who builds birdhouses. He saws and nails and paints them into glorious creations and hangs them out in his yard, which soon fills with every kind of bird imaginable.

My sons, 5-year-old Mike and 3-year-old Peter, were smitten with the whole idea. “He uses a hammer — without a mom to help!” Peter exclaimed in awe. “He’s making warm and cozy houses for birds that usually have to sleep out in the cold!” Mike remarked.

Inspired, I bought a bluebird house kit, thinking we would recreate the book one birdhouse at a time.

You can probably guess where this is going.

Surprise, surprise! The birdhouse kit that was supposedly pre-cut and measured seemed to actually be cut and measured for a completely different project, say, building your own three car garage. Nothing fit.

The floor that was supposed to slide into place could not even be pounded into place with a hammer. Even the nails refused to be driven into the wood; it was like trying to hammer a nail through solid steel.

By the time I brought the saw into the dining room, the boys were disbanding to play with their toys.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked them. “This is supposed to be a fun project that we do together!” But they were off, already onto the next thing.

I sat at the table by myself and grumbled about my unappreciative children. All I’d wanted was to build a birdhouse and create some memories, but they lost interest!

Then Peter invited me to build with blocks. It seemed a little boring and old hat to me. I mean, I had bought a kit — we were going to do something new together and be happy doing it! But I set aside my saw and played with the boys and, I have to admit, we had a pretty good time.

My husband and I often wonder how our kids will remember their childhoods. The memories and experiences we try to make with them often seem to fall flat. For instance, over Christmas break we went to Yellowstone National Park where we saw elk and bison, listened to coyotes howl on a moonlit night, snowshoed deep into the wilderness, and soaked in the Boiling River. Upon Mike’s return to school, he was asked to write about his favorite thing from Christmas vacation, and he wrote “sleeping in.”

We do a lot of things together and certainly not all of it is as special as our trip to Yellowstone. In fact, I often feel as if we’re the only family in Montana that doesn’t jet off to Hawaii or California or have exciting ski vacations down in Big Sky. Much of the time, we don’t do much of anything except hang out in the backyard or inside our little house together.

The boys play and my husband and I play with them or we all just sit around talking with each another. I often feel guilty about this, that we’re not doing enough with them — that we are somehow inadequate as a family. It’s what inspires me to do things like try to create happiness and good memories by purchasing birdhouse kits, as if happiness and good memories come in a kit you can buy. Of course I know that’s not true, but I worry that my kids will grow up and say things like, “My favorite memory from childhood? Hhhhmmmm….sleeping? Does that count?”

However, sometimes sleeping counts for a lot. Last Saturday, for instance, we all overslept and it changed our entire day. By the time we were up and moving, it was impossible to make it to Mike’s basketball game at the YMCA. My initial reaction was to go do something special to make good use of this unexpected free time.

But the boys just wanted to play with their toys in the living room. So that’s what we did. We played with toys, snuggled under blankets together, read books, made popcorn and watched a movie.

By the end of the day, I felt relaxed, restored and happy. And so, it seemed, did everyone else as the boys chattered happily in the kitchen with me as I made dinner.

“That birdhouse project was one of the craziest things I’ve ever seen!” Mike exclaimed, laughing hard. “I’ve NEVER seen a nail refuse to go in a piece of wood before!”

“That was crazy!” Peter said, laughing along with his brother.

“That was crazy!” I agreed. “Whoever heard of a piece of wood that can’t be nailed?” And we laughed and laughed, proving that in a way, happiness can come from a kit, especially if it doesn’t all fit together the way it’s supposed to.

Montana Momoirs

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

I did it again tonight. I rushed the kids through bath time, cruised through some short stories, and hurried them up the stairs into bed.

You know that feeling, right? You’re just trying to make it through the day with the kids and you’re practically jiggling your knee with impatience for them to finish whatever they’re doing. But they just want to linger on a picture in a book or tell you a story that goes a little something like this, “And then, um, well, then, uh, you know what happened then? Um, I think I forgot what happened.”

The whole time, you’re thinking, “Come on … come on. Get on with it.” And as soon as they’re in bed, you do get on with it.

I always hurry downstairs, check our pantry for chocolate, look in the dryer and close it again with hopes that someone else will fold the clothes, and then I take advantage of some hard-earned time to myself by … wasting a bunch of time.

That’s not to say that eating chocolate is a waste of time; I mean, it’s practically been declared a health food because of its, well, something about antioxidants.

But the rest of it — checking my e-mail for spam, zoning out in front of the TV, checking e-mail again — when all is said and done, I’m not quite sure why I am so anxious to get the boys in bed so I can get on with my own life.

I used to do the same thing when the boys were babies. I would lie down next to them to help them fall asleep, and I would spend the entire time willing myself to stay awake. As soon as their eyelids fluttered closed and stayed that way for more than a nanosecond, I’d slither out of bed and hurry downstairs. To the pantry — to look for chocolate.

Now that they’re not babies anymore — and there are no more babies coming — I wish that I’d lingered next to them longer.

I wish that every single time I had held them in my arms I had breathed in their milky baby breath, nuzzled their fuzzy heads with my chin, and given into the urge to kiss their perfect little lips, red as a Valentine.

Part of me, the part that sometimes rushes my kids off to bed for no reason, thinks I’ll never learn my lesson. That I’ll always be hurrying them along so I can have a moment to myself. But the other part of me just can’t seem to let my kids, especially my 3-year-old Peter, grow up.

By the time Mike was Peter’s age, he was picking out his own clothes and getting himself dressed. He could put on all of his winter gear by himself, make his own lunch, and put away his own clean laundry. It was a matter of sink or swim; I had a brand-new baby to care for and my husband was gone at work much of the time. If Mike wanted something and he wanted it immediately, as 3-year-olds often do, he learned to do it himself.

But Peter — where do I begin? He’s my baby, my last child. He still sits in a high chair. Until very recently, he slept in a crib. I just can’t bring myself to cut his long, golden, baby-fine curls. And I carry him everywhere, slung over my hip, his arms wrapped tightly around me, which is the same way I carried him when he wasn’t old enough to walk. Except Peter is 3 years old, and he has been walking, running, climbing and jumping for over two years straight.

Of course, Peter makes sure to remind me every day that he’s getting bigger. For instance, this morning, after I opened the car door, picked him up, put him in his car seat, and strapped him in, Peter immediately unbuckled his seat belt, crawled out of his seat, got out of the car, and shut the car door. He then opened the car door, crawled back into the car, climbed up into his seat and asked me for help with the seat belt.

“I wanted to do that myself,” he said as I buckled him in, again.

There is a really lovely children’s book that begins with a mom rocking her new baby and singing about loving him forever. As the baby gets older and grows into a boy, the mom keeps rocking him and singing that she’ll love him forever, which is beautiful, right?

But I sometimes worry that I’m going to be the mom who breaks into Peter’s house in the middle of the night, drags his 40-year-old body out of the bed he shares with his wife, and puts him in my lap to sing to him that I’ll love him forever.

I really don’t want to end up like that. You know, with my son filing a restraining order against me.

Parenting is such a funny job. You have these amazingly precious and helpless babies and your goal is to help them grow up so they don’t need you anymore.

Of course I know this, and of course I want my boys to grow up to be independent and self-sufficient. But I wish I could just learn to appreciate and savor those special little moments a little more before I let them go.

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.