Vegas, Baby!

“Hey, Mom,” my 16-year-old son said to me as we sat in our sunroom together one Saturday morning recently, “how are you going to spend two entire nights at Uncle DJ’s house and not fight with him?”

I paused, coffee cup halfway to my mouth, suddenly deep in thought.  “I hadn’t thought about that,” I murmured.  “Maybe we should cancel the trip.”

My husband and two teenagers and I were planning to stay at my younger brother’s house in Las Vegas for two nights before hitting the MGM Grand for a night, then driving our rental car four hours to Los Angeles to spend the last two days and nights of our spring break trip hitting every single tourist trap L.A. had to offer (update: it was amazing) before hopping on a plane to fly us all the way back across the country to Missouri.

My younger brother DJ has been in the military for the last 26 years and he’s always living in really exotic, faraway locations, so we don’t see each other very often.  Maybe once every couple of years; if we’re “lucky”, once a year. 

When he and I do see each other, we fight.

Once we even got into it on another continent, and I’m not going to get into all of the details, but I will say that the long-lost Polish cousin who had spent years painstakingly trying to find our branch of the family probably regretting reaching out with that first letter after all, much less inviting us across the ocean to his big, beautiful wedding. 

Or maybe we added an element of excitement, a little, “Look at those American idiots swilling beers and screaming at each other” to the party.  Polish people are so civilized and stoic; I’ll bet watching my brother and me acting up was like watching a couple of circus clowns traipsing about or maybe some zoo animals flinging poop at each other, and they were probably a little bit amused.

At least that’s what I like to hope.

My brother and I fight about everything.  Even things we agree on.  He’s a hothead idiot, that’s why.

I’ll hear his voice start to rise and I’ll stop for a moment.  “DJ,” I’ll say, “why are you yelling at me?  I simply pointed out that the sky is blue.”

“Yeah, and it looked really pretty today and you didn’t even stop to enjoy it.  WHY AREN’T YOU MORE THANKFUL FOR THE THINGS THAT YOU HAVE?”

My 16-year-old son is a really good cook, and while I’m very proud of his talent, he’s also really obnoxious about it.  (I promise this has something to do with the story and I’ll bring it back around.)  I’ll be making spaghetti or something, and he’ll sidle up to the island, where I’m preparing my ingredients. “Oh my GOSH, Mom,” he’ll say, twisting his whole face into a grimace that’s pretty dramatic for a manly football player, if you ask me.  “What do you think you’re DOING with those spaghetti noodles?”

Honestly I get sick of his crap, so sometimes I don’t even answer, but no worries.  He takes that as a really bright green light to proceed with his taunts as he stands over my shoulder, commenting on every move I make.  “You’re NEVER supposed to break the noodles in half when you put them into the water.  It RUINS the ENTIRE dish.  And did you WASH your shredded cheese?”

It’s moments like these that I try really hard to remember that I’m the adult and he’s the teenager and really, I should take this as an opportunity to bond with him because at least he’s talking to me, right? 

And so I’ll take a deep breath and keep my gaze steady, making sure I stare directly at the task I’m performing so my eyes don’t accidentally execute a huge roll that would be totally fitting in the situation but might ruin the moment, and I’ll say something like “What the heck are you talking about wash my cheese?  Go find something to do and leave me alone.”

Oops.

But seriously, wash my cheese?

Anyway, my son has pretty exquisite taste in food and constantly makes fun of my palate.  One of his favorite activities is standing in the pantry and pointing out the disgusting food choices I make.

“Canned sardines?  Potted meat?  And how old is this beef jerky, Mom?”

“I usually take it to the pool to snack on, but last summer was so overcast I hardly went.  So that’s probably from, like, 2 ½ years ago, I guess?  But it’s fine…that stuff never goes bad.”

“MOM.”

What?

“You’re not 95 years old still having flashbacks of the Depression.  Why does your pantry look like you are?”

He makes the most fun of my love of smoked oysters in a tin.  As soon as I pop the lid on those oily, slippery blobs of fish, he’ll thrust the whole top half of his body into a fake gag, pull his t-shirt over his nose, and dash from the room.

I should start to carry them around for when he and his friends annoy me.  Just crack the top an inch or two and an entire football team disappears—like a magic trick!

This visit to my brother’s house probably marked only the second time my kids, 16 and 13, had ever met/hung out with my younger brother since we’ve always lived so far apart. My kids really enjoyed getting to know him.

One evening, my 16-year-old opened the door to my brother’s pantry and gasped.  I was on my way to the garage fridge for a beer and paused.  “What?”

“It’s just like our pantry at home,” my son whispered in awe/disgust.  “Ramen noodles?  Vienna sausages?”

My brother suddenly appeared at my son’s side.  “Oh, yeah,” he said with pride.  “There’s all kinds of good stuff in there.  You want some beef jerky, bud?”

But my son couldn’t answer.  He was speechless. 

When he regained his ability to speak a few moments later, he said, “Genetics are strong in your family, Mom and Uncle DJ.  You guys are exactly alike.”

“Ew,” my brother and I said at the same time. “No we’re not.”

My son looked at my brother.  “Uncle DJ,” he said slowly, “what do you think about canned oysters?”

My brother’s face lit up.  “Oh, MAN, those things are the BEST!”  He reached over my son’s shoulder to grab a tin from a stack on the top shelf and hold it out to him. “You want some?”

My son and I both turned to each other at the same time, giving our best gloaty faces (See?) because somehow, each of our individual points had just been proven. 

Then we burst into laughter.

We explained the oyster thing to my brother, who simply shrugged at my son and said, “Have you tried them?  You’re missing out, man.”

My son shook his head and walked away.  I imagine he had realized that there are some people you just can’t fix—especially if they’re not willing to accept the help that they so desperately need for an addiction to canned meat.

Later, in the car on our way to check out Fremont Street, my husband and boys and I were having a nature versus nurture discussion in the car.  Those kinds of discussions are especially fun for us since my older son is adopted and we wonder how much of him is our fault and how much is his biological parents’ fault.  (KIDDING.  He and his brother are amazing kids.)

“Do you think an appreciation for potted meat is in my and Uncle DJ’s genes,” I proposed, “or do you think it’s more nurture since that’s what we grew up on?  Grandpa B loves all of that stuff and we ate it all the time when I was a kid.”

“I’m not sure. But you guys are so much alike,” my son repeated.

And again, I balked.  “No we are NOT!  DJ is a huge, annoying know-it-all who thinks he’s always right—oh my goodness…” Now it was my turn to gasp. 

A hush descended upon the car as my family sensed realization washing over me and let me sit with it for a few moments.

Holy crap.

The next morning, as we were packing up the rental car to head to the MGM Grand, my brother came outside to the driveway to retrieve something from his own truck.  On his way back inside, he beeped his key fob to lock the truck—once, twice, three times.

My older son’s eyes widened.  “Mom…”

My brother heard him and paused, thinking something was wrong.  I was already chuckling because I knew exactly what my son was going to say. 

“Why did you just beep your horn three times?” my son asked my brother.

“Oh, I always do.  I like to triple check that it’s locked.  It’s not even like there’s anything to steal in there…it’s just what I do.”

“So does my mom.” My son laughed, shaking his head.  “It’s always three times.”

My brother looked at me, nonchalant because to him, it made all the sense in the world.  “You do three times, too?”

I shrugged. “Father, Son, Holy Spirit?”

My brother nodded.  “Totally.”

Twenty-four years of Catholic school between the two of us, my friends.