Kyle Berg

Ten years ago we threw a surprise 40th birthday party for my Mom at Park Christian School. We “happened” to drive by the school and we scared her half to death by having Officer Bergquist place his police car outside the school with the lights flashing. Thinking something tragic had happened, she rushed inside, only to find a large gathering of friends, family, and colleagues awaiting her. I was an acne-faced kid whose main preoccupation was trying to make the basketball team, Paul was still hoping his voice would drop some day, dad’s dream car was a Buick, and mom was sporting quite a voluminous perm. My how time flies and things change. While today I’m dependent on the Internet to write this and keep in touch, back then we didn’t know we needed email, instant messaging, mp3s, or Amazon.com. Fast forward to today and mom’s retired from Park Christian, Dad has a cool truck, Paul not only has a manly voice, but a wife to boot, and I’m in Argentina and haven’t touched a basketball in a ages. Life is much different and, while I can’t throw a surprise party, I would like to pay tribute to my mother and wish her a happy 50th birthday.

My early childhood memories are few and mostly pertain to summertime baseball and riding bike. However I do know that I owed a debt of gratitude to my mother for preparing me for school. For my year of kindergarten at Hawthorne and first grade at Lincoln, mom was at home taking care of Paul and me. I cannot recall her methods, but she must have placed great importance on our education because I found my classes boring. I knew how to read and spell fairly well before starting school and, in first grade, the kids all whispered and asked me questions because, during math period, I had to leave the room and go to an advanced class with 5 other fellow nerds. Throughout elementary school the kids would despise me as we played “Around the World” with math flashcards and Craig Backlund and I dominated the class. This would eventually fade away as I fell behind in some of the more advanced math of high school. But the emphasis mom placed on learning was crucial to Paul’s and my development and would serve us well for years to come.

Just before I started second grade and Paul entered kindergarten, Mom accepted a secretarial job at Park Christian School. Paul made life interesting that year. Since he only had half days, we had to find some place for him to spend the mornings. He stayed with the Nevins and a few other families and even locked Mom out of the car in protest one day. (See Dad. You weren’t the only one for whom he made life difficult.) Early every morning, we would get in that old green 1978 LeBaron and accompany Mom to school. If winter weather became a problem, we had to leave especially early and be careful because the car had no rear defrost and skidded on the ice with its rear wheel drive. In other circumstances, if we were running late, Mom could be maniacal and it was off to the races. But on those snowy or icy days, she guided us carefully and whenever we’d go into a slide, she’d shift the car into neutral and straighten it out. My most fond memory of those early mornings was our occasional trips through McDonald’s drive-thru for breakfast. Mom sometimes had 7 a.m. meetings and we had no choice but to go with her. Her peace offering was 2 sausage McMuffins with egg for me and 2 without egg for Paul, accompanied by glasses of large orange juice. We knew things were tight financially and this was a special treat, so we felt like kings as we sat in the carpet gym at Park and ate our breakfast.

In third grade we made the move to extreme South Fargo, thus eliminating any possibility of taking the bus to school. We continued riding with Mom, arriving before 8 a.m. and leaving at 5 p.m. or later. Those were long days filled with boredom and a never ending search for something to do. Paul and I spent hours together in the gym, computer lab, wandering the halls, or sitting in the office watching the clock. We were too young to understand the sacrifice Mom was making and her dedication to the school. All we saw were the long days and the other kids going home at normal hours. During one especially intense week of work, we stayed until 9 p.m. two or three nights in a row. Along with the pressures of work, Paul and I were wearing on Mom and Paul did something or made some smart comment that crossed the line. Being without her wooden spoon, Mom frantically searched for something with which to spank him. She selected a square hairbrush made out of plastic but designed to look like wood. One swat on the behind and that thing snapped, and so did mom. The tears flowed and I can only imagine the frustration she felt trying to explain the situation to two boys of less than ten years of age. It wouldn’t be until adulthood that we could see the importance of the work Mom was doing at Park Christian.

Elementary and junior high school were filled mostly with sports. In 1st and 3rd grade, I forgot my American heritage and played soccer. My husky build severely limited my mobility and I only scored 1 goal in those 2 years. But it didn’t matter, Mom was there to watch the game and bring me home. For each game, one family signed up to provide drinks for the whole team. Usually this meant bottles of Gatorade to cool us down. However, when our turn came, it was quite frigid and Mom decided to bring hot chocolate for everyone. It was a hit and everyone thought she was the coolest mom in the world. Between 4th and 7th grade, our basketball team rocked Fargo-Moorhead and the surrounding area, only losing 5 games. We usually ended up having to slow it down in order to keep from running up the score. Mom and dad made it to almost every game and, along with the other parents, made us feel as though we were Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls. They were nuts and I loved waving my arms trying to get them going even more. It didn’t matter who we played or where it was, my parents wanted to be there. They traveled to tournaments and cheered with all their might, even if we played 3 games a day. Even though I didn’t play much in high school, they still supported me, whether it was JV or 2 minutes of a varsity game.

In high school, I grew apart from my mom. She worked long days in Moorhead and I now drove myself to school in South Fargo. On top of this, I kept to myself and made little effort to seek advice from her or ask about her day. As it was for my Dad, I’m sure it was difficult to watch her son isolate himself. But Mom never lectured me and gave me space to figure things out for myself. Though I chose not to take advantage of it, I knew Mom would drop everything to talk with me or provide comfort. Even for a headstrong teenager, simply knowing my parents were available meant the world. It was only as an adult that I could appreciate this. I left for ORU in August of 2000 and couldn’t wait to get on the road and out of the house. We said goodbye and Mom did her best to hold back the tears and emotion of watching her firstborn leave the house. Each time I came home it was more difficult to leave and my tears matched those of my mother–but not usually until I was on I-29 somewhere in South Dakota. Mom and I became more like friends, but even then we were relatively distant. She loved me with all her heart, but we still didn’t connect like I wanted. But in July of 2007, something changed.

I flew home from Argentina and landed in Minneapolis on July 1st. From the time we first hugged, it was obvious Mom had changed (as had I). This was not the same woman I had left the previous October. She was relaxed, laughing and smiling more, and making more jokes than I had ever heard from her. I was even told she had used the phrase “Jeffy-weffy” to refer to my cousin-in-law Jeff. Who was this? Between July 1st and August 17th, I got to know my mom better than I had the previous 5 or 10 years. We spent time eating lunch, having frappuccinos at Starbucks, fixing her laptop, watching movies, relaxing outside, and just talking. Never had I dreamed I could connect with Mom that way. We talked several times about the difficult decision I had to make with Vanesa and her listening ear and insight were invaluable. I had thought my Dad was the rock and decision maker of our family, which he was. Dad may have been the spokesman, but he had support. I saw that they were a team. I realized that my mom had also borne a large part of the responsibility for my maturation both as a child and as an adult. She had instilled in Paul and me character and life lessons, just in a more behind the scenes way than our dad.

You see, my mom is one of the most intelligent, capable, and humble people one can ever meet. She is good at whatever she sets her mind to doing, but she will never toot her own horn or seek recognition. When I went to her for advice, really for the first time in my life as far as the BIG decisions of life go, I saw in my mother a quiet wisdom and strength to which I had been oblivious. She became a confidant and I valued her input as never before. That month and a half with her, more than eating American food, speaking English, or going to baseball games, made my trip special. I came back to Argentina feeling like I had made a new friend.

Since leaving the U.S., Mom and I have talked via Skype more than we ever did before. I enjoy seeing her come online and then having a dialog box pop up with a call from her. She always greets me with a smile and a pleasant attitude, even though we’re 6,000 miles away. I wish I could be there to give her a big hug and say “Happy 50th birthday,” both as her son and her new best friend. To my mother I would like to say, “I love you very much. Thank you for all you’ve given me and the support you’ve provided throughout the years. I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other better and I look forward to a lifetime of growing in my friendship with you. I love you and can’t wait to see you in May. Happy Birthday.”

Love,

Kyle