Wednesday
Sep012010

that's one way to show forty who's boss

DateWednesday, September 1

Early morning fog lifting off Hyalite Lake. Photo by Erik Petersen.

Think of all the stereotypical ways a man might deal with turning 40 (dare I call that number, "mid life"?).

When Shawn turned 40 last September, I asked him how he wanted to make peace with that crossing. I threw him a party, but that wasn't enough. He said he wanted to do "something big."

Okaaaay. Maybe a trip to Vegas? A getaway with buddies perhaps, no questions asked?

I remember when my dad turned 40. My mom threw him a big bash and hired a belly dancer to serenade him. But she didn't stop there. She also rented a hot tub on wheels, which was parked in our driveway for swimsuit-optional friends to take a dip. I grew up in a predominantly Mormon Salt Lake City suburb. A belly dancer? Hot tub on wheels? Liquored adults? At 18 I was both fascinated and a little mortified.

But really, given my upbringing, I was ready to concede to a bit of "adults behaving questionably" to mark Shawn's 40th.

So what was that something big?

"I want to run to Yellowstone," Shawn replied.

Come again?

"I want to start at our house and get to Yellowstone National Park under my own manpower in one day," he clarified.

Well, that sounded dumb. Yellowstone is like AN HOUR DRIVE to the closest boundary. And there are some big mountains between here and there. Wouldn't he perhaps just like to see something naked for that "something big," and call it good?

Well no, actually.

So I went along with his plan, thinking it would probably never happen. He had until September 15 to pull it off before turning 41.

Last weekend, he went for it.

Shawn nearing the Grotto Falls parking lot, up Hyalite Canyon. Photo by Erik Petersen.

He woke at 5:30 a.m., ate some toast, and got on his road bike. He pedaled for two hours to the top of Hyalite, a nearby canyon. Then our friend Eric and I drove there to meet him with water and snacks, and he and Eric spent the next six hours running up and down mountains along a route called the Devil's Backbone, covering 25 miles.

Erik and Shawn, starting their 25-mile run in the early morning.

I was to drive and then hike up to the ridgeline at the end of the 25 miles, meeting them there with a hefty backpack full of sandwiches, clothes and more water.

Of all the dumb ideas...

When I got in the car again it was pounding rain, and lightning lit up the sky. I dreaded the three-mile hike to meet them, but was glad the remainder of the journey would likely be called off.

When I reached the pass where we were to meet it was cold, foggy and drizzly. I waited until bodies emerged from the fog. They were fine, a bit tired, but happy to see me. In fact, happy enough that there was no mention of abandoning the trip.

Photo by Erik Petersen

So we pounded some calories, gave Eric the heavy backpack to head down to the car with, and Shawn and I began running towards the remainder of his goal, which I WAS TOLD was approximately 16 miles away.

Soon, it resumed pouring. Lightning sliced the sky. The rain turned slushy. I wore a raincoat, but my pants, not rainproof, hung like a sloppy, wet tent over my legs. We struggled for traction on the muddy uphills, and I fought to keep my feet beneath me sliding downhill. Bear poop littered the trail, and Shawn chattered on about who knows what until I told him to zip it. I was too stressed out to listen, even if the noise kept bears informed of our presence. When the lightning continued, we split up, lest one of us was struck and the other needed to run for help.

 Strange as it might sound, I wasn't having fun.

"All this just for you!" I said at one point, flinging my arms to the heavens.

About five hours into the hike/run, I started doing some math as I encountered trail signs. The 16-mile trek was going to be more like about 22 before we were done. It was 7 p.m., and my legs were finished. Still, I was awesome and didn’t sit on the trail and cry.

Wait. Is this story about me, or him?

Whatever.

We made it to the end, and here’s how it all added up for Shawn: It was a 65-mile journey from our house to Yellowstone National Park, accomplished in one day. He spent two hours on a bike, then 12 hours running with just a 20 minute eating break, and two fabulous friends to accompany him.

An epic way to cross over to 40.

END NOTE: NEVER run 22 miles with someone who just covered 65. You won’t get any attention for it.



AuthorMegan Ault Regnerus | Comment9 Comments |
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Sunday
Aug292010

making friends with being alone

DateSunday, August 29

Have you seen the movie Date Night, with Steve Carrell and Tina Fey? While not one of the top movies I watched this past year, it was entertaining, and had some great moments. One of my favorites was when Carrell is talking to his wife, Tina Fey, about sexual fantasies. Their marriage has become ho-hum, and Carrell wants to spice things up a bit so that she doesn't get bored and leave him. He admits he's always fantasized about Cyndi Lauper, while Fey (a busy working mom) pauses and says the only thing she fantasizes about is being alone. Eating her lunch completely alone, and maybe enjoying a Diet Sprite to polish it off.

It made Shawn and I laugh, because I've mentioned the same fantasy. And every fall when Shawn and the boys go hunting, my fantasy comes true for a few delicious days. As soon as the door shuts behind them, I clean the house while the Hallelujia Chorus plays in my head. I'm always amazed when I wake up the first morning after they've left and guess what? Happy day! The house is STILL clean! It always takes me at least a day to unwind, my thoughts to quiet enough for those seemingly unthinkable questions to bubble to the surface: What would YOU like to do with yourself today, Megan? What would YOU like to eat? Would you like to watch TV, or curl up with a book and read all day? Can I get you a glass of wine or a plate of nachos?

See, it's pretty awesome.

Only lately, with the boys all teenagers and into their friends more than ever, I see the writing on the wall. They're all going to pack up and leave one day, and the house will be very quiet. If Shawn or I die well before the other, would we be able to make a nice life for ourselves alone? I see both our sets of parents getting older, married for decades, and wonder if each of them is emotionally prepared to be alone in the world.

I have a longtime friend who went through a divorce before I did and was a comfort to me when I went through one too. She has been through a series of boyfriends in hopes of remarrying, the latest for the past three years. The relationship was rough from the start, and hasn't gotten better. I try to be there for her by asking questions to help her find clarity: If he doesn't change, would you be satisfied to live with things the way they are? (No.) Has there been any improvement or sign that he's listening to your needs? (No.) Can you somehow find contentment with your life with him right here, right now? (No.)

It seems pretty clear to me that she needs to move on, but she doesn't want to be alone. Somehow her brain has tricked her into thinking that being in a bad relationship is better or safer than being alone. I don't know how I would (or will) react when Alone stretches out endlessly before me and isn't just an island of precious time each fall. But I want to tug on my friend's hand and say, "I like you. I think you'll like being with you, too. Come on, you're going to be okay."

I want to show her this video I found on a friend from high school's blog to show her the empowerment and peace she might find.

AuthorMegan Ault Regnerus | Comment15 Comments |
Thursday
Aug262010

one for the baby book

DateThursday, August 26

Middle Son, about 9 months old in 1997.

Okay, I never really kept baby books for my sons or journals documenting their childhood, but if I did, this recent conversation would score an entry. Middle son had two friends sleeping over, and we were roasting marshmallows over a backyard fire. The mood was jovial, his friends unusually friendly for 13 -14-year-old boys, so I clapped my hands and said, “So, let’s all name our top three favorite movies of all time.”

Middle Son: Go shit in your hand.

I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but I have some permanent hearing loss which means I often ask people to repeat themselves. (I’m not convinced I’ve got what it takes to rock a hearing aid yet.) So I was pretty certain I hadn’t heard Middle Son right.

Me: What did you say?

Middle Son’s Friends (MSFs): Ugh! Dang it! Darn! Unbelievable!

Middle Son: Go shit in your hand.

Me: Did you just tell me to GO SHIT IN MY HAND?

Middle Son: Yes.

MSFs: (Laughing) You won.

Me: Wh — ? What?

MSFs: We had a little competition going to see which one of us would say that to their mom first. But it had to be in front of the other two.

Middle Son: It’s a line from a movie, actually.

Me: Congratulations.

Middle Son: Thank you.

I salute his impressive timing. I didn't have a wooden spoon in my hand, and he knew I wouldn't use the hot marshmallow poker on him.

That’s my little Butterlump, my little achiever.

AuthorMegan Ault Regnerus | Comment9 Comments |
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Monday
Aug232010

worry, it's what i do

DateMonday, August 23

Our house at the beginning of this summer.

I was listening to NPR recently, and heard that the nationwide unemployment rate has hit an all-time high. Unfortunately, we're part of that club in my house. Three years ago Shawn saw the writing on the wall that his job working for a non-profit agency was getting cut. So he did a brave thing for a guy looking 40 in the eye: he went back to college. This past spring he completed certification for teaching high school science.

When he first told me he wanted to go back to school I encouraged him, but worried. It would cost much of our savings, and require me to be the only one with a paying job for a few years. As managing editor of several magazines owned by a newspaper company out of Seattle, I experienced some difficult changes in my job while he was studying. Like most newspapers nationwide, I saw co-workers lose their jobs only to have their duties heaped on remaining staff, along with pay cuts. It's an emotional rollercoaster feeling interchangeably relieved to actually have a job, and resentful that that job no longer pays the bills or allows creativity anymore, just stressfully rushing to meet deadlines.

I've been looking forward to Shawn getting a teaching job, allowing me to perhaps renegotiate my current position back to a place where I enjoy it again, or find another job. But when it came time to apply for science teaching jobs last May, only two were posted. Many people applied for them. Shawn applied for both, interviewed for one, and didn't get the job. We were bummed going into the summer, although we had a bunch of materials already purchased to continue remodeling our house, and Shawn threw himself into it, collapsing into bed each night.

Our plan this year is to have him substitute teach because even though it pays half of what a teacher makes and doesn't offer benefits, it makes sense for him to be seen in classrooms right now. Little worries smolder, though. We can't afford another year of subbing after this. What if a job doesn't come through? Do we send him out of town to get a teaching job and have him commute home on weekends? (We've agreed not to move the boys away from their friends or their dad as teenagers.) He could probably get a job if he were willing to relocate. I know couples endure this out of necessity sometimes, but wow, that would suck. I rely on him for physical and emotional support every day. Do we have him take a non-teaching job just to pay the bills? Would you like fries with your order today, ma'm?

It's just a vortex of yuck, this job-fretting.

I was visiting with a girlfriend the other day who's supported her husband, a carpenter, while he's struggled to find work amid a collapsing construction industry. She said it's been hard on their marriage. "I've felt resentful that I'm the only one working, but I feel like I can't express it because he has such low self-esteem about the whole thing."

While I'm far from the point where my friend is, I can see that this situation can wear marriages down over time. Luckily, Shawn and I have been able to talk and make plans together to deal with our finances as we go. At one point my friend said that she and her husband had to set up ground rules for this chapter in their marriage. "You can't grill me on what I did with my day," he finally told her. He felt that she didn't trust that he was using his time productively while she worked. It felt condescending, rubbing his nose in what he was well aware of: that they weren't equally contributing to their household.

Truthfully, I don't feel that inequity. Shawn has been keeping track of the boys much of the summer, and often works well into the evening on projects that make our life better. Problem is, equity in the house won't pay our bills right now. Writing this, I realize that even though I haven't shared much about this particular stress, I started this blog last summer as a lifeline of sorts. It coincided with my need to continue doing creative work when that opportunity was disappearing in the office, along with worries about pay cuts, how/when we were going to return to a double income, what we were going to need to give up to make ends meet in the meantime...It's been good to have a place to write it all down. Sometimes we carry a heavy load of bricks and don't even realize it until we set one of them down, and feel lighter. Sometimes things we dare not write down are the ones that need to be voiced most.

Our house now, with beefed up insulation and new siding thanks to Shawn, his dad, and a little help from Oldest Son.

AuthorMegan Ault Regnerus | Comment6 Comments |
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Wednesday
Aug182010

i say dumb things, and other parenting mistakes

DateWednesday, August 18

Middle Son enjoying one of many great meals we had in NYC. Photo by John Porter.

I feel disconnected from my boys lately. A few years ago, Oldest Son used to slay me by randomly saying, "Mom? I'm into you." And I would try not to melt right there on the floor, because I've learned not to make a big deal about ANYTHING boys this age choose to share with me.

I don't hear "I'm into you," anymore. At ages 12, nearly 14 and 16, the boys are into their friends. Friends are more important than sleep, even. When they got home from three weeks in Minnesota with their dad last month, they gave Shawn and me a quick hug and wasted no time locating friends they could have sleepovers with.

In any case, I still attempt to connect with them — I'm not ready to concede their emotional emancipation just yet. When Oldest Son was in middle school I took him on a special trip (promising his brothers that they would each get a special trip alone with me as well). We went to an orphanage in Hermosillo, Mexico, and worked for a week. We came home closer than when we left, and still talk about that trip years later. So when I went to NYC last week I took Middle Son with me for his trip. Very different from his two brothers (not outdoorsy, musical, loves computers and movies), a first trip to a big city seemed just right for him.

Family generously showed him around the city while I was at the BlogHer conference, and I reserved several days after the conference to explore with him as well. We packed light (no luggage, just backpacks), so were able to be adventurers landing at JFK, taking the bus, then the subway to City Boy's apartment in Harlem. Coming from such a white, middle class town as Bozeman, walking with Middle Son in neighborhoods where we were the only white people was invigorating.

Anyway, a bizarre thing happened while we were out exploring. Middle Son reached over and grabbed my hand. Have you ever seen a 14-year-old boy hold his mother's hand? I hadn't, until then, and I know it's something that would never happen at home — I had to go to NYC with him for that.

He held my hand while walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, while ordering crab rolls at a farmers market and navigating crowds of people in Times Square. A few times he even put his arm around me while walking, and I reluctantly had to tell him it was just too freakin' hot for that.

All this is not to say we didn’t have our moments, but our renewed connection allowed me to clear a few things up.

“So what do you hate about me so much?” I asked once when I was clearly getting on his nerves.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Do you want to know what bugs me about you right now, or in general?” he clarified.

“In general,” I said. “Let’s work on the big picture.”

“Well, sometimes you use really dumb words,” he said.

“I do?” I said.

“Yeah, you use words like shindig. It makes me want to punch something.”

“Shindig?” I replied.

“Ugh!” he said.

“Okay, okay. What else?” I asked.

“Well, when you laugh one eye squints and the other pops out. And you do this stupid rocking back and forth thing,” he said, demonstrating. Apparently I’m a freak show when I laugh.

Thank goodness someone finally had the guts to tell me.

Really though, I can’t say enough about taking kids away from their friends, computers, phones, etc. and taking a trip together when teenage drift sets in. It was reaffirming, and so far I haven’t cracked and said what I’m really dying to say…

I’m envisioning Middle Son’s friends over, all of them ignoring me when I bust in with, “Hey, son. I know! After having so much fun together at the hoe-down, how about we put together a little SHINDIG for you and your friends tonight?”

AuthorMegan Ault Regnerus | Comment9 Comments |
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