Lori Borgman

Parents are giving credit cards to children so young that some of them aren’t able to make their own beds or cross the street alone. These newly minted cardholders are buckled into car seats whenever they travel and wear water wings at the pool but have credit cards linked to their parents’ account.

One mother said she and her husband added their 2-year-old and 1-year-old as authorized users on their bank card in hopes of teaching the children about money at an early age and establishing a good credit history. Their toddlers purchase snacks once a week at the grocery store and pay with their credit card.

I can see it on the college application: “Able to tap plastic at age 2.”

The article did not say how such young children pay for their purchases when the statement comes due. Perhaps parents garnish the kids’ tooth fairy money.

Where do credit card holders not yet potty trained keep their credit cards? In the dresser drawer with their jammies? Under their pillows? Maybe they keep them in a magnetic wallet attached to their cell phones.

This new trend alters the benchmarks of child development.

Year One: Waves bye-bye, can say “Mama” and “Dada,” able to grasp credit cards between thumb and pointer finger.

Year Two: Kicks a ball, eats with a spoon, knows how to tap, swipe or insert the chip.

Year Three: Learns colors — silver is for Citibank, red is for Macy’s and blue is for Lowe’s.

Year Four: Strings beads, dresses self, joins Amazon Prime for free shipping and Prime days.

Year Five: Speaks clearly, uses all parts of speech, can tell a simple story using full sentences about getting a $200 year-end rebate on the Costco card.

We gave our youngest a credit card when she was 18 and went to college. We can’t remember why we never gave her older sister or brother a credit card. Perhaps we were still in the tough love phase of parenting.

If I’d had a credit card as a young child, I would have bought the Barbie Dream House, the pink convertible, and multiple Ken dolls so Barbie had choices.

Who am I kidding? I had a wild streak and would have been the five-year-old buying boxes and boxes of candy cigarettes.

Let’s hope these young users learn how to spend within their means. Credit card debt can weigh you down faster than a soggy diaper.

 

 

The last time we sold a house was 40 years ago, so we were unfamiliar with the current concept of “staging a house” before selling it. When our youngest daughter and husband mentioned staging their house, we thought live music and refreshments might be involved. Wrong again.

Staging a house means you declutter, deep clean and enter all your earthly goods into the Witness Protection Program. A second option is to rent a large storage unit.

Staging a house involves removing family pictures, personal mementos, wall décor and all 400 magnets plastering children’s artwork to the refrigerator door.

Bedside tables are cleared, leaving only carefully curated hardback books that make the owners look like tech wizards or movie buffs.

Bathrooms must look unused and sterile.

The washer and dryer can stay in the laundry room, but no dirty clothes are allowed. Some suggest hiding empty laundry baskets so as not to remind potential buyers of unpleasant chores.

Kitchen counters are to be virtually bare. One staging expert claims that visible cords to coffeemakers, toasters and mixers on a counter look uninviting. I don’t know how we live with ourselves.

To keep the house looking neat, clean and unlived-in, our daughter, her husband and three kids moved out of their house and into ours.

Fortunately, our house is not for sale, which means people are free to use the bathrooms, leave sand and dirt in the bottom of the tub, kick off your shoes anywhere, run up and down the stairs while dragging your hands on the walls and weave all the electrical cords on the kitchen counter into macrame plant holders.

Which reminds me of another “must have” for staging a home: a live plant in every room. Who decides these things?

After four days on the market, multiple showings and no offers, our daughter felt we should stop by the house and freshen things up. Perhaps prospective buyers had messed with the staging.

She was correct—a chair had been moved 10 inches from the dining table. The aging carpet in a hallway had a small visible wrinkle in it. The two of us were on our hands and knees pushing the excess carpet into a bedroom, under the bed and up against the wall.

Perhaps the house wasn’t selling because a sofa was on the wrong wall. Careful not to scratch the floor, we picked up the sofa and moved it to an adjacent wall.

Thirty seconds later, we picked it up and moved it back.

Perhaps the bedrooms needed vacuuming. No-line vacuuming is preferred for staging, but if the vacuum does leave lines, they need to be straight. Despite her apprehension about my initial vacuum lines, I soon got the hang of it.

Three days later an offer came through and they moved back home that weekend. The ‘fridge was once again plastered with artwork and handprints, tennis shoes and flip flops blocked the entryway, the dog lounged on the sofa, pots and pans sat on the stove and dirty dishes stood in the sink.

Home sweet home.

Turquoise colors the early morning sky as a granddaughter and I leave the house for a donut run. We turn out of the neighborhood, zip past the strip mall, clear two stop lights, lean into a roundabout and begin cruising a lovely stretch of road bordered by magnificent estate homes with manicured lawns and swimming pools.

My backseat passenger asks how long it will be before we get to the store and comments she has never been on this road. The implication is clear: These are not Grandma’s neighbors. Grandma could be lost. Donuts could be at risk.

“I know exactly where we are. Look to your left up ahead,” I say. “There’s a house under construction that is so big you can’t tell where the front door is. Sometimes there are as many as 20 work trucks there at a time.”

She sits up tall, cranes her neck and says, “Whoa!” which is what most people say when they pass the house.

“Looks like they’re building a wall around the property,” I say. “They could be worried about people trying to break into their house. If I had that much money, I might be worried, too.”

“I’m worried,” comes a soft reply.

“Why are you worried?”

“Because I have a lot of money.”

“How much?”

“I have 40 dollars at home and 100 dollars in the bank.”

“That’s a lot of money, for a girl who just finished kindergarten. I’m sure your money is very, very safe. You don’t need to worry.”

“OK. But I still worry.”

“About what?”

“I worry about my dog. I worry she might run away.”

“Your dog is never going to run away. She loves living with you and your family. She loves her dog bed, all the cuddles you give her, the tricks you’ve taught her and the bell she jostles to go outside. She would never run away. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Silence. She’s thinking.

“Want to hear me spell picnic?” she asks. “P-i-k-n-k.”

“It’s actually p-i-c-n-i-c,” I say.

“It’s the c,” she says with a sigh. “Sometimes it sounds like k and sometimes it sounds like s. Aren’t there some rules about c?”

Now I’m worried. Who knew worry was contagious? There are rules about c, something to do with the vowels that follow it, but even for $140 dollars I can’t remember them well enough to guarantee accuracy.

I spell picnic a couple of times; she spells it a couple of times and the language arts crisis passes. Another worry left in the dust.

“Look at us!” I say. “We are taking an early morning ride in the car together under blue skies and puffy marshmallow clouds, and you’re about to pick out a donut. Today is a good day. We don’t have a worry in the world.”

Silence.

“Strawberry frosted with sprinkles!” she says.

 

 

 

I may be only one bag of Miracle-Gro away from going officially overboard on the whole garden thing this year.  I blame it all on a long, hard winter. My survival kit during snowbound months with no sun and sub-zero temps consisted of chocolate and mail-order seeds.

Starting seeds indoors was how I convinced myself winter would one day pass and spring would again return. I threw myself into the project with such passion that I even bought a grow light.

Grow lights are small but mighty purplish UV lights on flexible arms that can illuminate an entire room. The lights were so bright that, from the outside, the upstairs of the house looked like a cannabis farm.

Not wanting to be awakened at 2 a.m. by a SWAT team, I cut the grow lights and started moving seed trays to follow the sunlight each day. Morning sun poured in by the fireplace, noonday sun filled the family room and the days ended with seedling trays perched on cookbooks, catching late afternoon rays in the kitchen.

The things we do for love—and garden-fresh vegetables.

On a visit to Monticello, we saw the fantastic greenhouse room where Thomas Jefferson cultivated seeds and kept detailed notes. My maternal instinct prompted me to begin keeping notations on seed development as well.

March 20th: Roma tomato beginning to crown. Soil dilated to 2.

April 1st: Shocker! Twin peppers birthed over night!

When we went out of town for a long weekend, I asked if the plants could stay with one of our girls. She gave me the look. “We watch your kids,” I said. “Surely, you can watch my babies.”

I wasn’t so far gone as to leave page after page of written instructions, however, I did call a few times. I had separation-vegetation anxiety.

And I may have asked her to send pictures.

And I may have texted: “Tell the herbs Momma will be back in no thyme and let the basil know I’m rooting for him.”

No response. I think she blocked me.

What I didn’t plan on was such a hearty crop. We now have a small vegetable garden overflowing with cucumbers, pole beans, tomatoes, peppers, herbs and red potatoes.

They are so robust that they all scored in the 95^th percentile at their last well check.

Get a group of women together and chances are they will talk about relationships. And shoes. More specifically, relationships with shoes.

The conversations are about shoes somebody loves, shoes somebody used to love (but broke up with due to plantar fasciitis), and shoes somebody dreams of meeting in the future.

These are women in crisis grappling with the reality that they can no longer live in fashionable heels but need to wear comfortable shoes. Transitioning to comfortable shoes is a major life change that aging experts fail to mention.

My closet is a melancholy walk down memory lane. It cradles shoes that I shouldn’t wear, and can’t wear, but can’t let go of. This is known as shoe separation anxiety.

Yesterday, I pulled a dusty box from under the bed to feast my eyes on a beloved pair of boots I can no longer wear. It was sole food.

Sadly, my most comfortable shoes are a pair of well-worn hiking boots. That’s a hard one to pull off at weddings and funerals.

The last shoe convo I had in a group of women went like this:

“I love Hoka. They’re like wearing clouds,” said one.

“I can’t do clouds,” countered another. “I need support.”

“The On tennis shoes are good,” chirped another. “They have so much cushioning on the bottom you could use them for a flotation device.”

If you happen upon a comfortable-shoe conversation, think twice before sticking your toe in the water.

I first noticed my shoes were unbearable at a wedding two years ago. Silver heels. You should see them. You still can—they’re on the closet shelf. I kicked them off under the table during the reception and, when the wedding was over, walked barefoot on gravel to get to the car.

Two weeks later I was in a podiatrist’s office. He said I needed orthotic inserts. I questioned that. He explained in detail how they would help. I said, “OK, I stand corrected.”

Orthotic inserts are so expensive that I keep them in the safe deposit box at night. Comfort comes with a cost.

Costly as they are, comfortable shoes are such a relief to hurting feet that they quickly become both necessity and obsession. The search history on my computer sadly reveals 98 percent of my searches are for shoes with arch support. I toe the line.

I now know why Dorothy in the “Wizard of Oz” kept saying “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” while clicking her ruby slippers together. Home was where her comfortable shoes were.

The morning after a storm that snapped tree branches, sent people scurrying to their basements and trash cans blowing to the curbs, I was sitting in a line of traffic adjacent to a small family-owned garden store.

A woman out front of the garden shop struggled to untangle flagpole ropes twisted in the storm. Hunched over in an awkward position, she couldn’t seem to get a grip on them. I wondered why she wasn’t using both hands when a swatch of red and white peeked out from under her arm. She was holding a folded flag beneath her elbow pressed tightly to her side.

With the flagpole lines finally free, she attached the flag, taking care that it didn’t touch the ground. Old Glory was halfway up the pole when the traffic resumed moving.

The woman who raised the flag has probably done that hundreds of times, but I was glad to be there at that particular time, to see her respectful handling of Old Glory and to watch the stars and stripes reach for the sky.

My dad fought under that flag, as did two of his brothers, one who was killed in combat. I have a total of six uncles who served under that flag. Two made the military their careers. My mother-in-law, brother-in-law and our son-in-law all served under that flag.

“Served” sounds so easy. Bombs, gunfire, tanks, makeshift hospitals, sleeping in tents, land mines, Agent Orange, suicide bombers and open burn pits.

Nobody ever comes home the same.

Some never come home.

The lives of those who serve are upended just like the lives of everyone who loves them, prays for them and waits for them.

June 14th is National Flag Day. We fly the flag from our front porch almost every day. To us, it is a reminder of the long and bloody road to freedom and a nod of gratitude to all who have served.

There is power in that flag. Those red and white stripes, and stars on a field of blue are so powerful they can temporarily unite opposing teams on football fields, baseball fields, soccer fields and basketball courts. That flag can trigger the roar of the crowd at the Indy 500 and NASCAR races.

In rare moments, that flag can even quiet warring political factions at our nation’s capital.

Old Glory represents our shared history as well as our shared hope for the future.

I called the garden shop and told the man who answered the phone that I’d watched someone raise the flag in front of their business that morning and appreciated it.

“You know why we have that done every day?” he asked. “My dad served in World War II.”

I find myself still pondering the surprise announcement from Warren Buffett, age 94 and CEO of Berkshire Hathaway, that he is retiring because he was “beginning to feel his age.”

I keep wanting the man to expand. Specifics on “feeling his age” would be helpful and greatly appreciated.

He did say he noticed he was operating at a different speed. Did he try a second cup of coffee?

Was there a day he dropped something on the floor and had to stop and think about which knee to go down on first so he could get back up?

Did he discover he could only sleep on his side, no longer on his stomach or back?

Did he suddenly find he loathed all his pillows? This one was too hard, this one was too soft and not a single one was “just right”?

Were neighbors asking him to turn down the volume on the television?

Was there a day that he was jolted because he needed spreadsheets printed in larger type?

Were there times he planned on telling a group of investors three things, but could only remember two?

Did he turn on the television one night and discover “Antiques Roadshow” was exciting? Did he start building his schedule around the program, “Discovering Your Roots”?

Was music in restaurants so blasted loud that it sometimes made him cranky?

Did he read those snippets on famous people having birthdays, not know most of them and think, “Who cares?”

Did he find himself grunting when moving furniture, hoisting large suitcases or pulling out the wooden cutting board?

Was he finding he often wore a heavy squall jacket when everyone else was in shorts and T-shirts?

Was he gazing out a window for long periods of time wondering if one of those cute little nuthatch birds would stop by? Or maybe a chickadee?

Had he started feeding squirrels and naming them?

Did he get a thrill one day when buying spray paint at Walmart a clerk demanded I.D. for proof of age?

Did someone give him an electric blanket for Christmas, and he later realized his thanks was over-the-top effusive?

I’ll miss Warren Buffett in the investment arena. He was a steady table in a world of three-legged chairs.

I couldn’t get into spring cleaning this year. I couldn’t get into fall, winter or summer cleaning either.

My housekeeping may be slipping. There was a time when I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom every week. Now I just write “SEND HELP” in the dust on my desk.

When people come over, see that and ask if everything is all right, I hand them a dust cloth and can of Pledge.

I’m not lazy; I’m conserving energy.

There comes a time in every woman’s life when vacuum tracks on the rug cease to be a thrill. Why else would so many homes have hardwood floors these days?

I used to clean smudges on windows and doors every morning with spray cleaner and paper towels. These days I am content to pretend there’s patchy fog outside.

I still clean the bathrooms thoroughly every week. I also give them a quick clean every day or two—not because I’m a germaphobe, but because I’m still working my way through all the bleach wipes left over from COVID.

One of the best housekeeping tips I ever received came from our son-in-law who is a West Point alum. Before cadets had white glove inspection of their rooms, they sprayed furniture polish on the door frame at the same height as the inspector’s nose. Genius.

Don’t be surprised if you knock on our door and smell Lysol.

I read a sign that said a clean house is a sign of no internet connection. Our internet works great.

If you want to be philosophical, cleaning a house over and over goes against the laws of nature. Nature takes a year, 365 days, to run a full cycle.

A house can complete a full cycle in only 24 hours. A house can start the day “Martha Stewart lives here,” slide to “casual clutter” by noon, hit “there may have been a medical emergency” before dinner and reach “full-on whirlwind” by bedtime.

Our nemesis is paper. Whoever said the world has gone paperless hasn’t been to our house. We specialize in newspapers, books, journals, articles my husband clips for me to read, articles I clip for him to read, and interesting things we clip for our kids to read—things which they’ve already read online, but that doesn’t stop us.

A measure of ongoing chaos is inherent to all of life. I offer the definition of entropy as proof. Theoretically, it is a component of the second law of thermodynamics, but it’s really about keeping house. Entropy is “the randomness, disorder or uncertainty in a system.” Or in a house.

I rest my case.

And my vacuum.

So many people have food restrictions these days, that I usually go down a checklist before having someone over.

Are you gluten-free, sugar-free, meat-free? Are you dairy-free, dye-free, born-free? Sorry, word association.

In our extended family of 19, we have gluten-free, sulfa-free and one that can only eat fowl and fish. And not a single one of us looks underfed.

I came across a new one you might want to be free of: titanium dioxide.

It sounds like something Superman packed in his school lunch, but is an inorganic compound that comes from an ore and has a whitening and brightening quality. It is considered safe in some circles and an element to avoid in others. The component is used in paper, plastics, cosmetics and foods, primarily candy and baked goods. It is also frequently used in frozen pizzas. Yum.

“But wait—” as the man hawking chef’s knives on late-night television used to say “—there’s more!”

The “more” is that titanium dioxide can also protect from UV rays, which is why it is a common ingredient in sunscreen. Talk about versatile! You can eat it in your frozen pizza and slather it on your body at the pool.

Question: If you eat pizza containing titanium dioxide at the beach, does it give you sun protection from the inside out?

Alas, the ingredient finds itself in the realm of controversy. This is not the first time an ingredient considered to be the best thing since sliced bread one day (very, very white bread), is considered bad for you the next.

Recipes from my mother’s generation called for margarine. Margarine was declared revolutionary and butter melted into the past. Then, after a time, butter slid back into first place and margarine melted into the past.

I have a copy of the recipe book my grandmother received as a wedding gift. The spices women commonly used before the Depression were cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. The book also includes recipes for raccoons. Cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger continue to be staples with most cooks, raccoons not so much. In one day; out the next.

I reminded the husband yesterday that we would be practicing the ever-popular trend of “eating clean” again. Eating clean means consuming foods as close to their natural state as possible. Fresh from the dirt is preferred.

Our take on eating clean means cleaning out the ‘fridge by eating all the leftovers. Our ‘fridge overfloweth.

Our clean dinner consisted of 6 red potatoes (circa. Easter), a large quantity of fresh green beans (the grands didn’t eat as much as I thought they would) an old yellow onion sprouting a green top, and two aging strips of bacon (part of the husband’s required nitrates).

For dessert we had apples.

We have two more shelves, a chill drawer and a fresh drawer to go before reaching our food goal—leftover-free.

 

 

 

 

 

I have come to the realization that I do not have the time nor patience for all the high-tech innovations designed to make my life more marvelous. I have all the marvelous I can handle right now.

This morning, I replaced a burnt-out kitchen light bulb. It was 9:16 when I started the process. Replacing the old bulb took less than a minute, using the last bulb from a three-pack we had on hand. Five other lights just like it in the ceiling glared at me in a threatening manner. Knowing light bulbs relish burning out in tandem, I went to the computer to search for more bulbs.

Of course, I was also online for cost comparison. Saving a dollar or two won’t compensate for the stock market’s dive, but it is therapeutic. I blew 30 minutes being therapeutic, searching site after site for bulbs with the same specs of the one I just changed. No success.

I went to my archived online orders, found I had last purchased these bulbs four years ago and clicked, “Buy Again.” Finally—light at the end of the tunnel.

The screen said, “currently unavailable.” The suggested alternative comes with color control adjustment, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi capabilities.

I warmed up my coffee, then visited multiple websites and watched YouTube videos on the differences between, and the benefits of, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi bulb connectivity and control.

I then took a short break to grab a Tylenol. After that, I scanned a QR code that landed me at a tutorial with instructions on how to control light bulbs containing microchips by downloading an app.

I am not completely unfamiliar with the process of remote-controlled lights. I once watched grandchildren at their home while their parents were out and was unable to turn on lights that were off, or turn off lights that were on. I was spooked and wondered if the house had wiring issues, but soon learned the lights had been set to timers on the phone of the kids’ tech-savvy daddy.

Still not finding bulbs with the specs we needed, it was now time for lunch. I opened the door to the ‘fridge and the light went on. I felt a glimmer of hope.

Still, I pondered what would happen when all the bulbs become “smart bulbs”? There we would be, two dim bulbs glued to our phones trying to figure out how to turn the lights on and off.

I checked the cabinet once more where we keep spare bulbs, hoping I had overlooked some. A reflection at the far back caught my eye. It was an old glass kerosene lamp my parents had.

If push comes to shove, it would beat sitting in the dark.