The Bering Blog

I Didn’t Hear the Train Either

The Great Plains are exactly that: a grand flatness that stretches as far as the eye can see. The wind has nowhere to stop and noises carry for miles, never lingering in one place.

This wide open space scares me sometimes. Its vastness is daunting and powerful like a god. I feel small and insignificant standing in a field of rocks and prairie grass or driving along a dirt road that is straight and seemingly never-ending.

Yesterday I went to the railroad tracks where my husband was killed 24 years ago. No one would know anyone died there. It’s just a ditch like any ditch anywhere. The intersection is a dirt road over a couple of tracks with a stop sign at the approach. This place of death was quiet as always – just a few cows mooing in the distance, a few birds chirping. Yesterday it was foggy and misting.

I parked 10 feet from the tracks and got out of my car. I heard a train blowing its whistle several miles north. The sound was faint, but it was traveling in my direction, the same direction the train came when it hit Bruce’s tractor. Southbound. In the meantime, I grabbed some raw cauliflower out of the veggie bag I’d packed and ate it as I approached the tracks. I took a few photos and let whatever I needed to feel be felt. It was mostly the same old same old – regret, sadness, anger; the same old question to Bruce: How do you NOT hear a train coming? I felt cocky. (To give you some perspective, click on the photo to make it larger. That’s our farm in the center. Bruce was less than a mile from home)

I wondered for a moment if I should stay there and wait for the train, watch it pass, recreate in my head the time a similar freight train sent Bruce’s tractor reeling and his body through the windshield glass and into the ditch. Did I want to feel the engine’s power? Feel its wind? Hear its roar? I walked back to my car, tossed the veggies on the seat and sat down in the driver’s seat. I left the door open.

I wrote a little to collect my thoughts. Yes, I thought. I’ll stay and wait for the train miles away. Since Bruce died I’d not been to the tracks when a train was going by. I thought staying would bring me closer to his final moments. And so I waited.

A minute passed. I glanced to the left and watched birds fly out of a field. Then I lowered my eyes to the paper I was writing on, read a little, and then glanced non-chalantly to my right. I sucked in a breath. There it was, barreling toward me like the freight train it was. The whistle blew as it approached the intersection, but I didn’t hear it coming. It was like white noise, nothing anyone would ever pay attention to given our world of never-ending surround sound. 

I had barely a second to get my camera ready and jump out of the car to take a photo (click on photo to make it larger). All the while its whistle blew, but I didn’t hear it. I simply didn’t hear it. I just didn’t hear it.

Six weeks after Bruce died I had a dream. In it he and I were sitting on the couch in our living room. Even in my dream I knew he was dead and I asked how did this happen? How was it that he could be killed by a train going across tracks he’d known were there all his life? Bruce answered me calmly, as was his manner, “I didn’t hear it.”

Didn’t hear it? I didn’t understand that. “How do you not hear a freight train?” I asked him. He smiled and said, “I love you. I have to go now.” And I woke up.

Yesterday I stood at his death place, the intersection of railroad tracks and gravel road, our farm a few acres in the distance. Bruce told me in a dream 24 years ago that he didn’t hear the train, and yet know-it-all me didn’t listen. I chose, instead, to carry anger and regret in my heart and so much unforgiveness. But Bruce had never lied to me before, why would he lie to me in a dream? It was like Jesus saying to his disciple Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

My friend Rodney helped me understand what might have been going on in Bruce’s head that day as Bruce approached the tracks, oblivious to the train noise. Rodney is the father of a beautiful 5-year-old girl, and after she was born he said to me: “Bruce obviously loved you and Carlene very much. And I remember those heady days after Katie was born. When it seems like you have the world by the tail -- a loving wife, a job you love, the home you've always dreamed of and wanted and especially when a new little baby daughter has entered your life -- well, I remember I felt invincible, like I would live forever and nothing bad could ever touch me. I can, I think, get a notion of what was in his mind and heart that day. On the tractor, which is always a good feeling, all that horsepower at your fingertips, ready to turn the land, pull the harvest. The open air of the countryside (even in the tractor cab). Beautiful young wife at home preparing a meal, your new daughter ready to be held in your hands. I believe when that sudden and tragic end came, Bruce was one of the happiest men on earth.”

I left my anger at the tracks yesterday, and Bruce was there in my moment of stark realization. In the winds blowing across the Great Plains, in its vastness and acoustic starkness, his voice said, “I didn’t leave you on purpose. I love you and I love Carlene. I simply didn’t hear the train.”

My dear, dear Bruce. I know, my love, what you tried to tell me in that dream. Stubborn me finally understands. Rest in peace in this prairie ground surrounded by the wind and the rocks and the never-ending vastness. We are never-ending. No train can stop that. I understand now what you tried to tell me.

Let the Road Trip Begin

My mother always told me never to wear clothes I plan to take on vacation the day before I leave because you don’t want to risk getting them dirty. Since I’m taking most of my wardrobe with me on this trip, I dug out a pair of blue knit shorts and an old t-shirt that reads “Love is a Dirty Word.” I even have on a pair of seldom-worn pink polka-dot underwear.

Saving cream, razor, bar soap, body roller (gotta work out that sciatica along the way), Tempur-Pedic seat cushion, measuring spoons…

If I could pack one of my dogs I would, probably Mathilda, only she gets car sick . I’ve been eating up the leftovers and not replacing the cheese, sour cream, milk and other food staples, totally forgetting that my husband will still need to eat this week. Oops. He’s quite capable of grocery shopping and cooking for himself, but I really should leave him a few eggs and some orange juice for the morning.

Pillows, iPod, cell phone, cell phone charger, camera, camera charger, jacket…

I’ll pack the cooler tomorrow morning, throw in a bottle of wine of course, and then pack the entire car. I don’t have the spatial genius of my dad or older brother, but I’m pretty good at utilizing space. And if it doesn’t want to fit, I’ll make it fit.

Gift bags, gym bag, work bag, drugs, journal, crossword puzzles, eye drops…

I made sure everyone and their brother has my cell phone number and I spent the better part of an hour yesterday plugging in the cell and home numbers of all the people and places I’ll be these next 10 days. I wasn’t a secretary for 10 years for nothing, you know. Organized is my middle name.

Watch, clock, favorite blanket, case of water, Sirius radio, Tic Tacs and Altoids…

I have a column due in a few days, and at some point next week I have to conduct a few interviews for a few articles due next month, so my laptop is charged and ready to go. Just a few short years ago, I’d never dream of bringing a computer along on a trip, now it’s a given. Just as parents buy portable DVD players to entertain their children on long trips, I’m addicted to the electronic connection. Which reminds me, I need to go to the library and check out some books on CD.

Photo albums, AA batteries, glasses, backup glasses, hair dryer, backup hair dryer…

The weather this time of year in Minnesota is so iffy. Do I bring along a bathing suit? Parka? Mukluks? I guess there is that little Mall of America out there. I’m sure I could find something there to buy if the weather turns and I’m not prepared. Of course if I went to the Mall of America I would have to go on the Mystery Mine Ride. And the log ride. ….sigh…I love Camp Snoopy, I can't lie.

Hubby vacuumed the car, gassed up the car, cleaned the pup-kiss off the windows…

I think I’m set. If I’ve forgotten anything, I probably don’t need it. And so, my friends, I bid you adieu. I will stay in touch from the road. Just as I was “blogging in Memphis” last November, I shall attempt to blog in Chicago and Jasper and Minneapolis and Breezy Point, complete with photos, of course.

Let the road trip begin.

Ms. Bering Goes A Travelin'

I made cinnamon rolls early yesterday morning, my final act as stepmom this summer visit. Andy and Kevin were soon on the road to New York with their dad and our dog Cooper, and afterwards I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed their room and folded blankets and washed sheets. Another trip done, my heart a little empty, but not too much. I’ll see them Labor Day weekend when they fly to Minnesota for the first ever Haraldson Brothers family reunion at Breezy Point Resort. All my siblings and everyone from my dad’s brother’s side of the family will be there, about 40 people in all. Procreating is something we Haraldsons do well.

I’m in full planning mode. I’ve selected the suitcases I’ll use, plugged everyone’s phone numbers into my cell, started a list a mile long of things to bring with me. My daughter (the one who’s not pregnant) and I are driving out because to fly and rent a car is ridiculously expensive. Besides, they won’t let me take food on board. You know, fish, soup, low-fat cheese, spinach. I pack like there are no grocery stores west of the Ohio border. I’m the most anal retentive eater you’ll ever meet.

Our trip starts Saturday at 8 a.m. First stop: Chicago. We’re staying with the daughter of one of Larry’s Purdue friends. Yes, my Purdue Friends Summer Odyssey continues. Sunday we’ll take off for Luverne in southwest Minnesota to visit my late husband’s mother, Carlene’s grandmother. This leg of the trip will also include my side trip to Jasper, my hometown, the place of so many memories it makes me a bit frightened to go there.

I’ll stay with my cousin and visit several friends and my mother’s sister Mavis. The friend I’ll have dinner with that night, Lisa, was my maid of honor when I married my farmer husband, Bruce. She married Bruce’s best friend, Curt, a few months after Bruce died. They now have five children. Their life best reflects what “could have been” for Bruce and me if he hadn’t died.

It’s been years since I’ve seen them, but it will take us no time to be reacquainted. Time has no relevance to us. Lisa and I have so many mutual experiences that unite us on the same plane that there’s no way she’d ever be a “What ever happened to…” kind of friend. We’ll probably rot in the same nursing home together.

After Jasper, it’s on to Minneapolis. I will see more friends I haven’t seen in years; friends who know almost as much about me as Lisa. I’ll stay with my parents, where my siblings will converge. The five of us haven’t been together in 6 years, not since our dad’s surprise 70^th birthday party. It’s not easy getting everyone together when three of us live in three of the four corners of the U.S

On Thursday we’ll gather at my little brother’s house to celebrate my mom’s 75^th birthday. As a group, we’re….how do I explain this….not unlike most families, I suppose, but more like “The Big Chill” without the sex.

The day after the party, we’ll head up north to the resort and be joined by the other Haraldsons. I can hear my accent changing already. I’ll come back to Pennsylvania talking like the Lutheran lutefisk loving Norwegian I once was, you betcha.

It’s true, you can’t escape your past. I’m drawn to Minnesota like a moth to a flame and a woman to her lover, all at the same time. I live in Pennsylvania, far away from where I grew up. I make cinnamon rolls for children and a husband who know the me who lives here. Yet I am Minnesota and all the good and the bad times that came before. This trip will remind me of that me. I’m a little scared, a little apprehensive, but mostly excited. I’ll blog along the way. That’s the universal me that has to do that. I’ve been keeping a diary since I was 10. And living in Jasper……

Goodbye To The Blond

With apologies to my very blond, very smart little sister and the awesome trainer at my gym, I said goodbye to my blond the other day. I realized that blond is an attitude I can’t sustain. I’m much better suited as a brunette.

I started out life with jet black hair, the only sibling of five to do so. Gradually it turned kinda sorta blond. Never as blond as the rest of my sibs and no matter that I am of Haraldson-Peterson-Hagebakken-Myklebust decent, as thoroughly northern European as you can get.

Family lore has it that there are a few of us “dark-haired” Norwegians in our extended family tree. We’re the ones the family looks at with raised eyebrows. Dark hair (which my family defines as anything darker than dishwater blond) pops up every other generation or so, vestiges, no doubt, of some gene from some Mediterranean Don Juan who wandered into Norway, perhaps in the 18^th century, before the family moved over to the New World.

My hair turned slightly darker before I was a teenager, but in my 20s it turned brown. You could always pick me out in photos - blond older brother, blond older sister, blond little brother, blond little sister, and then me, the one not only with dark hair, but the only one with curls, too. My mother, in a low voice, would always tell me, “Well, Grandma Sondra had long dark hair, you know. And your aunt Mavis has curly hair.” She always says it like it’s some kind of family secret, a skeleton in the closet. It’s hair, for cryin’ out loud! 

In my 30s, my hair started getting even darker, almost black in some places. That’s also when the gray moved in. Patches of it spattered here and there all over my head. No rhyme or reason to it. That’s when I introduced myself to Miss Clairol. When that no longer worked and the gray put up a real fight, I met Ashley. Ashley is a gray killer, no doubt, and my hair’s best friend.

For a year Ashley’s colored my hair its most recent “natural” color (sans the gray – I refuse to believe gray is “natural” when I’m only 44) with some blond highlights. Nothing outrageous, just a little lighter here and there. Life was good, my hair looked good, so I don’t know what bee crawled up my butt a few months ago when I said to Ashley, “I want to be blond. REALLY blond.” What happened to me? Was I bored? Pining for my childhood? The words were no sooner out of my mouth when Ashley and her brush and foils made me blond. And I loved it.

I immediately felt entitled. Entitled to what I don’t know, but being blond made me a part of a secret network of blonds. I seriously had “blond” moments, the ones we all laugh about in blond jokes – forgetting things, doing something stupid and laughing about it. And I didn’t care!

Who the hell was I? Paris Hilton? Nicole Riche? I knew a lot of intelligent, strong blond women and yet I was emulating blond ditzes. I couldn’t handle blond. It takes a stronger person than me to be blond AND strong AND smart without falling into the pitfalls of “Did you hear the one about the blond …”

Remember at the end of “It’s A Wonderful Life” when George Bailey ran back to the bridge after seeing what his life would have been like if he’d never lived? “Clarence! Clarence! Help me, Clarence! Get me back! Get me back, I don't care what happens to me! Get me back to my wife and kids! Help me Clarence, please! Please! I wanna live again. I wanna live again. Please, God, let me live again.” After my last blond moment on Tuesday I went running for my phone, called Ashley and said, “Ashley! Ashley! Help me, Ashley! Get me back! Get me back, I don’t care what happens to me! Get me back to my brain and maturity! Please! I wanna be smart again! I wanna solve a crossword puzzle again! Please, God, let me think again!”

And so it was that I went to see Ashley this week and was returned to my nearest-to-natural color. Whew! That was a close one. A few more weeks and I might not have returned from the light. I'd have been stuck forever in "Oh my god!" land.

Happy Birthday To Me!

I’m 44 years old today, a number divisible by 1, 2, 4, 11, 22 and 44. Not prime, but a good number anyway.

I wasn’t going to celebrate this year. Too much going on. Like last year with my daughter’s wedding, my birthday this year is buttressed between two larger events – my husband’s surprise party a few weeks ago and the Minnesota family reunion in a few weeks. I’ve been in planning mode for months, no time to think about my birthday. I thought I’d want to let it slide, let it be just another day. But that little kid in me woke up this morning and said, “It’s your birthday! Yay!” Same feeling I had when I was 5 and 8 and 12 and 20 and last year. I can’t suppress that birthday-happy inner child.

So bring on my birthday.

I’m starting off with a cup of my husband’s coffee. No one makes coffee like he does. Not Michelle’s, not Starbucks, and certainly not me. Then later, my youngest daughter will be here to take me out to lunch, and she’ll bring with her my family present: a new papasan chair (click here to see what it looks like) and ottoman, perfect for the Zen room.

It’s always seemed funny to me that I was born on a date I consider so serene. I love prime numbers – harsh, lonely prime numbers. But my birth-date is hardly harsh. Here’s how I figure it: The word “August” is a lovely word, starts with a vowel. I like words that begin with a vowel. The number 14 – it’s even, looks pretty, and is divisible by my fourth favorite number, 7. The year I was born, 1963, is not a prime number, but it is divisible by my third favorite number, 13. (For the record, my favorite number is 23, followed by 19.)

It’s also always seemed funny to me that I was born in the summer, my least favorite season, two weeks before the March on Washington and a few months before Kennedy was assassinated. I’ve never felt like a Leo. I always thought I’d make a better Libra. Being a summer baby, I was almost the youngest in my class and I never got to bring treats to share in class like the other kids with school-year birthdays. In fact, my birthday meant school would start in a few weeks. No wonder my mother loved celebrating my birthday.

Kidding aside, Mom always made each of us kids’ birthdays special. We got to pick what we wanted for dinner and dessert and she’d make it, no questions asked. I always wanted tater tot hotdish and chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Tonight, I won’t be eating tater tot hotdish, although that does sound very good (potatoes, cream of something soup – how can you beat a combo like that?). I’ll probably just have some fish, but I know there’s a bottle of champagne in the back of the fridge leftover from my husband’s big birthday blowout. I think I’ll dig that out.

So happy birthday to me! Let the inner kid run amok!

Here's What You Do....

If you’re in pain and the whole world feels sucky, grab an apple and go sit in the sunshine. Why? Because an apple still tastes good, birds and tree frogs still sing, daisies still bloom red and purple and yellow, the sun still warms your skin and sinks deep into your joints, the breeze still moves your hair into and out of your eyes in erratic rhythm, and the dog laying at your feet still waits patiently for you to be done eating that apple so he can have the core, even if you’re in pain.

Just make sure it’s a good apple, firm and crisp and brightly colored. Time’s too precious to waste on a mushy one.

Never settle for bad apples. Or wilting lettuce. Because sometimes sorting through pain is like picking a piece of eggshell out of a bowl of egg whites. It’s frustrating, and the little sliver slips through your fingers the first and second and third time you try to get it out, and you’re left with sticky fingers and swear words on the tip of your tongue. But in the end, good apples and green lettuce can be your reward.

That’s how today was – a mixture of pain and pain-relieving joy. It's just that getting to the joy was like the eggshell in egg whites. So I sat in the sun for awhile. It seemed to help. 

Just How Does One Person Consume Ethically?

A few weeks ago I read about a woman who, for one year, didn’t buy goods made in China. Sara Bongiorni wrote a book about her and her family’s experience. You can read an excerpt by clicking here.

I haven’t read her book, but reading the excerpt made me more aware of all the things I own and buy that are made in China. And Thailand, Ecuador, Peru and some countries, I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve never heard of. I noticed today that my hummingbird feeder was made in the U.S., but not much of anything else I have is.

I have no solutions in this blog. Just questions and thoughts on buying and consuming ethically. There are so many websites out there, so much to think about – the polar ice caps, what exactly goes into the toothpaste produced in China, how to go green.

Someone sent me a link to a blog entry about buying a bra that was produced “ethically.” Click here to read it. I guess I should assume the Victoria’s Secret over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder I’ve got on right now was made in a sweat shop somewhere, oh let me see, give me a second to take the darn thing off to find the tag…..Indonesia.

So my question is, do I investigate every company that produces every piece of food, clothing, candle, CD case, and durable good I purchase to be sure they don’t operate what we would consider sweat shops or that produce goods in an environmentally challenged way? And just what constitutes a sweat shop? If I don’t buy a particular product, and thousands of others (out of conscience) don’t either, does a woman or man or child who desperately needs a job get fired because consumption is down? I seriously don’t know the answer to this.

On the bra blog, the author mentions a site called Rawganique. They are a small manufacturing group in Canada that produces hemp clothing as “clean” as they possibly can. I went to the site and there’s no doubt they produce great clothes. I love their concept. But I can’t afford to spend $49 on a pullover. That’s the problem. When I need a t-shirt, I buy Hanes or Old Navy at $5 a pop. If I need a dress, I go to the Limited or New York & Co. to find cheap and pretty. Am I wrong? Probably. But I don’t have the money to spend on ethical.

Going “green,” on the other hand, seems a bit easier. I can at least take baby steps with that. I’ve changed many of the incandescent light bulbs I have in my lamps to the twisty florescent kind, for instance. Even though they’re a little pricey up front, the money I save in the long run is nice. The same cannot be said for clothing. I also found a website that will help you reduce, and perhaps eliminate, junk mail. Click here for more information on GreenDimes.com. While a for-profit agency, they will plant trees when you sign up to have them contact the companies that bug the crap out of you daily in your mailbox and tell them to stop sending you junk mail. I’m all for that. My mailman probably is, too.

If any of you have information you’d like to share about consuming ethically, please pass it on. As much as I’d like to be a global good citizen, it really does come down to economics.

Oh, oh, oh! And before I let ya’ll go, I was listening to the Jay Thomas Show yesterday as I was getting the hell out of Pittsburgh before another flood hit, and he was interviewing Alan Weisman who wrote the book “The World Without Us.” Seriously great website, too. The world would probably do much better without us hanging around, but as Weisman said in his interview, our species deserves to be here just as much as any other species. We just have to stop destroying everything.

That’s all I have to say today. Lots of posed and unanswered questions. Just a little something to think about this weekend. I want to go shopping at Penney’s to see if they have any good summer clothes on sale since they’re bringing in all the fall and winter stuff, but I feel a little uneasy about it. I know nothing about the companies that produced any of the clothes I own so looking at the tags tomorrow will do me no good. What to do, what to do. Suggestions?

Forget A Burning Bush, God Is A Little Old Lady

God came to my gym today. I was riding the recumbent bike at the end of my workout to cool down. I kept my headphones in my ears, but I had the music turned off. I just wanted to think and pray and have some Zen time. My eyes were shut and I was talking to God in my head when I felt someone standing next to me. It was one of the very nice little old ladies at my gym. She touched my arm and asked me, “Are you OK?” I smiled and said, “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?” And she said she was just wondering. And then she smiled at me and left.

God and I haven’t been speaking to each other much lately, so it makes sense God would come find out for personally if I was alright. God and I haven’t been fighting or anything. We just both get busy with other stuff, I suspect.

But God being God figured something’s up with me (maybe God’s been reading my blog) and it is. I’ve been wondering lately what other body part is going to go to hell next since I found out last week that I probably have a torn rotator cuff and a humeral cyst in my right shoulder.

“What caused it?” I asked my hand specialist doctor, the same one who told me in January that the osteoarthritis in both of my wrists is the worst case he’s ever seen. He just sort of smiled and looked at me with a mix of sympathy and uncertainty and so I said, “It’s just the way I am, isn’t it?” And he nodded.

I’ll have an MRI on September 5, although the lady at the scheduling desk is getting used to my phone call every morning wondering if someone cancelled an appointment so I could get in sooner. I’m not a wimpy baby when it comes to pain usually, but my shoulder hurts like a son-of-a-bitch and my arsenal of drugs is turning my insides to mush. A cortisone shot won’t do a damn bit of good, but acupuncture might. Yet another thing my insurance won’t cover. But I’d give up Trader Joe’s ranch dressing for a year to pay for acupuncture if it helps relieve this pain.

I think God’s a lot like my doctor. God, in the form of that sweet little lady this morning (who, for the record, has no idea about my rotator cuff), smiled at me in that “I’m sorry” way that lets me know that the pain, while all mine to feel, is not all mine to deal with alone.

Addendum To My Earlier Post About My Stepsons

Anticipation’s a bitch, isn’t it? There I was this morning, all underwear-in-a-bunch, worrying about this visit with the boys, anticipating the worst, dreading, sad, whatever. And then they get here and it’s like they were just here. And I remember why I love when they visit. The anticipation of the stress is now in its proper perspective.

We had a great evening. My head’s on straight. I’m ready to be the mom they know me to be – funny, authoritative, the one not afraid to tell them what’s what (remind me to tell you how lucky me got to answer Kevin’s question last year: What’s a blow job?) Good times are ahead. Stressful times, too, I’m sure. But I’m remembering what is good, not what is wrong. And when what’s wrong happens, I’ll deal with it. I always do. We’re a good little family that way.

The “what ifs” are always worse than the what is. Why do we anticipate the worst? Why is the positive not the first thing we think about and meditate on? Why such a penchant for the negative? I guess if I had that answer I’d write a book and sell it on the Oprah show.

So far there have been no snorting nose issues and they were reminded that Mr. Kleenex is their best friend in the mornings. Andy shared the videos he made at video camp (yes, they have such a thing – who’d have known?) and both Larry and I were proud of his work. Kevin told us about Boy Scout camp, and it was a little heartwrenching because the older boys were idiots and called him a wimp when he pulled a tendon in his knee, and as strong as Kevin is, he had a hard time dealing with their ridicule. I got all puffy-chested mom-like and wanted to go slap those stupid boys and tell them they were ugly and had small dicks or something like that. God I get protective easily. Anyway, Kevin felt comfortable telling us this information and that made me glad that he felt loved enough to reveal what he was feeling. Oh, and video games never came up once. Yay!

The insecurities I have about this stepfamily that I shared in my earlier blog are securely in my head and not displayed in my actions. I love these guys and I’m glad they are here. The house is full and so is my heart.

This Is Not A Feel-Good Post About My Stepsons

I write a lot about my stepsons (ages 14 and almost 16), put a funny spin on their antics, but the truth is, being a stepparent is bizarre and I don’t always look forward to their visits.

Don’t be looking for a feel-good realization at the end of this blog entry because the reality is what I’ve already said: I don’t always look forward to seeing them, especially when they’ll be here for two weeks or longer, and it takes a lot of positive talk to prepare me mentally for their visits.

They’ll be here today around 5:00 or so. My first concern is always that my husband will get to the pick-up site safely and then home safely. He’s my main concern in all of this. My second concern is that I won’t have an ache in the pit of my stomach for the next 13 days of snorting and chewing with their mouths open and reminding them to brush their teeth and take showers and to think about people other than themselves.

It’s non-stop doing and talking the minute they walk in the house. There is no quiet unless they’re sleeping or playing a video game or reading, and even then they are a heavy presence in a fragile quiet that can be and is disrupted in starts and fits, and it sets me on edge all the while they’re here.

We have three dogs who like the boys just fine, but aren’t used to roughhousing or being “on” 24-7. The boys have their own dog for that and so I remind them to let our dogs just groove the way they always groove – a message that mostly falls on deaf ears. I’m glad they have a dog they love, even though he’s a total lunatic dog who has taken on the hyper personality of the boys’ mother. They try to show me the hundreds of stupid cell phone photos they’ve taken of their dog (Keaton sleeping, Keaton eating a rawhide, Keaton snoring, Keaton licking his hind end) and I simply tell them I don’t want to see any more photos. It seems rude of me to not care, and I struggle with this guilt all the time, but I can’t will myself to give a shit. I’m not talking about one or two stories. I’m talking constant, consistent, insipid.

It’s like that when Kevin talks incessantly about video games and how good he is. He talks very fast and I can’t understand a word he says and I simply tell him I’m don’t give a damn about video games and he needs to stop talking to me about them. Again, I feel guilty, but not enough to care. I love Kevin and want him to eat fruit and vegetables and tell me his thoughts on the world and life, not how many people he kills or blows up on a video game. It’s stupid and I hate it.

I’ve written humorously about how they don’t use tissues and they inhale their snot. The truth is, I hate this, too. Very much. It literally makes me nauseous listening to it. But when I tell them to get a Kleenex, they act like I’ve hurt them somehow. This is because at home, their mother tells them they are the center of the universe – EVERYONE’S universe – therefore everything they do is pure and good and if they don’t want to use Kleenex, well, that’s OK.

I realize much of their behavior is typical of teenage boys, and I’ve learned the difference between typical and atypical. My expectations really aren’t that high. They do the dishes when asked and they don’t complain. They pick up the dog poop and don’t complain. They are good travelers and don’t complain.

So what’s my complaint? Why do I have such a problem with their visits? It’s this: Even after 11 years, I feel like strangers move into my house, invade my space, a few weeks a year, strangers who are being raised in a far different environment than they would be if they lived with us full time. The lifestyle they embrace, their priorities, the expectations of their mother are not the way we live our life here, and so I’m torn between feeling sorry for them for having to learn two different ways of living, and feeling sorry for me for having to repeat and repeat and repeat every time they’re here our rules and expectations. 

I’ve been told by their mother than I’m not a “real” parent to the boys. Bitch. What she doesn’t realize is that being “real” is the only way I know how to parent. She chooses to be their friend. I choose to be their authority. I also choose to maintain the peace I need to stay true to myself, and that means telling them when I don’t want to engage in their silliness, to remove myself from the room when I’m feeling smothered by testosterone.

Nine hours and my world turns upside down for two weeks. Two very long, very stressful, very trying weeks. Yes, there are fun moments, there are loving moments. But mostly it’s difficult. I can’t find the balance.