Lori Borgman

We just found out one of our granddaughters is planning her wedding. We were as surprised as anyone. She is 8.

Naturally, her mother was the first to know—as it should be. She became suspicious when Little Miss began wearing her best cardigan to school, the white one with pearl trim around the collar, over her best dressy dress, the one with the large floral print and billowing skirt.

“Why are you dressing up every day?” her mother asked on the way to school.

Giggle, giggle. “Because there might be a kiss at recess.”

“A KISS?” her mother cried, nearly veering off the road. (You can still see the skid marks.)

“And a wedding!”

Who’s getting married?” her mother asked.

“Me, my friend and the groom.”

Now her mother veered to the other side of the road.

It turned out the wedding wouldn’t be for all three—and don’t you know her mother sighed a great sigh of relief on that point—the wedding would be between the groom and whichever girl he chose.

The plot thickens and the competition stiffens.

Fortunately, the groom-to-be is the son of one of our daughter’s good friends.

For those who do not believe history repeats itself, our daughter was in kindergarten when she came home and announced she had spent free time in the kissing center.

I asked where the kissing center was. She said it was in the corner of the classroom, in the treehouse, and there was a curtain you could pull closed. I didn’t believe it, so I called another mother who confirmed there was no kissing center in either kindergarten classroom.

In essence, our daughter tossed the bouquet and her daughter caught it.

When our daughter texted the groom-to-be’s mother, asking if she knew anything about a wedding at recess, she said yes, her son told her that two girls had been chasing him at recess. He said when one of them asked who he liked best, he screamed “NEITHER!” and began running as fast as he could.

That was one week ago. The intended groom could be at the Florida state line by now.

The girls have been sternly warned there is never, ever, ever to be kissing or weddings or chasing boys at school.

They were fine with that and announced they have moved on to imaginary boys.

I imagine they will be easier to catch.

The physical changes of impending motherhood are stunning. Though new curves and nausea can be dramatic, physical changes are only the beginning. The changes that create the deepest imprints happen in the heart.

The first change you notice is a depth of love you never knew existed. You cradle that newborn in your arms and a deep swell of wonder encompasses your entire being. That tiny nose, those perfect little lips, those delicate eyelids. Are you floating in a third dimension or is this real?

Your senses blossom into fuller measure.

A faint rustling or soft whimper awakens you from a deep sleep.

You go with your gut when it tells you something is wrong.

Even your vision changes. As your child grows, so does your ability to see around corners and behind your back.

One day, you find you have grown tiger claws—and instead of trimming them, you sharpen them.

Your level of patience changes. You run short. You sometimes snap, bark, growl, grow impatient and ask yourself, “Who is this crank?”

Some days it feels like you absolutely cannot do one more 24-hour shift. But you do. “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night . . .  nor colic, nor teething, nor lost pacifiers . . . nor adolescence, nor a driver’s license . . .”

Over the years, your heart and emotions silently intertwine with your child’s. Your child succeeds, you enjoy the accomplishment. Your child suffers, you suffer. You even wish it was you suffering instead of your child.

God have mercy if you are a mother whose child dies before you do. Yet not even death can sever the tie between mother and child. A mother’s body is a child’s first home. A mother never forgets the life that once beat and grew within her.

I recently asked a friend about his wife, a mother of four, grandmother to nine and brand new great-grandma to one, the woman with snow white hair, an easy smile and clear blue eyes. She has Alzheimer’s and resides in a memory care unit now.

He said the deterioration is progressing. She was restless the other day, so a staff member gave her a baby doll to hold. They sent him a picture of his wife, calmed and at peace, holding the doll. Then they sent a second picture—she was giving the doll a kiss.

He shared the picture with one of their daughters who said, “Once a mom, always a mom.”

Years ago, we would pick up our son downtown after he took the Megabus home from college. He would get in the car and we would routinely ask, “Where’s your luggage?” He would respond by holding up a small brown paper bag most people use to pack a lunch.

The kid was a walking definition of “travel light.”

These days he occasionally travels internationally for work. To our knowledge he has never checked a bag. We’re not sure he knows how.

I had a grandma who gave up her home when she was in her 80s and went from one adult child’s home to another. She never brought more than one suitcase when she came to stay for weeks at a time.

There was a time I traveled light. In my younger days, when I went somewhere overnight or on a short trip, I could easily get everything I needed into a small green bag the size of a bowling ball bag.

All these years later, my husband and I are both fond of saying we travel light—but we don’t. We travel like we are heading out for the Oregon Trail.

Seems we take most everything we own with us except for salt pork, beans and a spare wagon wheel.

We took an overnight trip out of town last week and I packed four pairs of shoes—high heels for my speaking engagement, flats for when the heels became excruciating, flip flops, because I have a phobia about walking barefoot on hotel carpets, and running shoes.

I looked at that bag of shoes and realized I have officially become high-maintenance.

I also packed an entire cosmetic bag with nothing but moisturizers and lotions for my face, neck, arms, hand, legs and feet. What I really need is a showerhead that shoots out moisturizer, not water.

When I traveled with that little green bag, my only cosmetic was a tiny jar of Noxzema. I didn’t pack a blow dryer, curling iron, two hairbrushes, mousse, gel and hair spray years ago—I simply channeled Carole King.

My husband packs light in the way of clothes but weighs in heavy with all the extras. He throws in a computer bag, two cameras, a camera bag, a tripod, at least three hardback books, old issues of the Wall Street Journal he’s been meaning to read and several file folders with loose papers falling out.

He has finished loading the covered wagon, I mean car, when I yell, “Wait! One more!”

“What’s in this little lightweight bag?” he asks, tossing it into the cargo hold.

“My clothes,” I say.

When our kids were young, I briefly considered homeschooling. Then I was teaching our son to play piano, found myself with the John Thompson Book for Beginners rolled up in my hand, ready to swat him on the arm, and realized I was not homeschool material.

We paid a neighbor for piano lessons. She taught all the kids in the neighborhood and never once swatted one of them with a piano book.

Here I am these many years later and homeschooling. Sorta.

For several years we have been homeschooling three of our grands on Tuesdays when their mother works.

We refer to our school as Old School. At Old School, we often begin the day developing culinary skills—as in making a coffee cake. Welcome to home economics. “Careful with that crumb topping, girls! It’s all about even distribution!”

Coffee cake won’t be on a standardized test one day but give these girls a box of blueberries and pantry staples and they will deliver the goods.

Following Baking 101, our three students heave their 90-pound book bags (which should count for P.E. credits) onto the kitchen table and unload books, books and more books.

Our primary function is to check their work. Their primary function is to check us checking their work. Then we check why they checked our work, and they usually go mum, which indicates they have had instructions from home that Grandma and Grandpa sometimes veer off the path.

Someone checked me this week asking, “What is a homonym?”

“You. Ewe,” I said.

“Me?” she asked.

“No, I said you. And ewe.”

“Who?”

“YOU-WHO!” She laughed and we had our first knock-knock joke of the day.

Humor is one of the many electives we offer alongside cooking.

She giggled but resumed quizzing me, asking me to define synonym and antonym.

“Why are you quizzing me?” I asked.

“I just want to see what you know.”

It’s always good to vet the language arts teacher, even if she is a writer.

Math has taken a sharp turn as two of them are into algebra. They are solving for every letter of the alphabet to the power of 6 or 7 or 12 with random parentheses and fractions thrown in to increase the fun in “showing your work.”

One of our students writes somewhat large; showing her work for one problem can fill an entire page.

The Old School superintendent (the husband) loves math and numbers. His handwriting is small, but he could fill 20 pages showing his work for the many ways to solve 5 plus 5. He helps the girls solve problems and then offers multiple variations of the problem until the girls crawl under the table to see if he notices they are gone.

I prefer doing problems in my head. That way nobody can check my work. I tend to be brief and succinct.

At Old School, we insist students demonstrate they have mastered a concept by teaching that concept to one of us.

One of the girls recently learned a new math concept, after which her detail-loving Grandpa said, “OK, now teach it to me.”

To which she said, “Can I teach it to Grandma?”

 

I took the bait and I’m not even embarrassed to say what the bait was.

It was a fishing scam. Not trout, bass, anything you throw back in the water, or cook on the grill—fishing with a “ph.” Phishing.

Phishing is when online fraudsters try to scam you out of money by enticing you to open an email or text without first checking the web address to see who sent it.

It’s a “too good to be true” concept. It’s the powerful lure of F-R-E-E.

The truth is, we can all be hooked with the right bait.

What’s your bait? Sometimes you don’t know what your bait is until it appears on a screen before you.

The husband, who frequently lectures others about not falling for scams, took a tumble himself. The email was from a chain drug store we frequent. The bait was a free Ring doorbell.

The doorbell we have doesn’t even ding half the time. Naturally, the thought of a doorbell that would ding, show who was at the door and record video of people not picking up their dog poo, was simply too good to be true. Is this a great country or what?

He clicked. And then he kicked himself.

A young man we know who is extremely sharp and very tech savvy, fell for free concert tickets.

You want what you want. Somehow fraudsters know exactly what you want.

A friend recently received notice that a package she sent could not be delivered because it was short $1.10 in postage. Concerned that she had sent a package to a loved one that would not be delivered without additional postage, she took the bait.

Hook, line and sinker.

The thing about good bait is that it can stir your heart, spark your emotions and create unquenchable desire that overrides your brain.

The bait that almost reeled me in? Tupperware.

That’s right. I could be bought for Tupperware. A 26-piece storage container set, to be specific.

If I would just take a short survey sent to me by a well-known big box store, I would receive a free set of Tupperware.

Be still my heart.

A 26-piece set of storage Tupperware meant I would organize my kitchen and my life. I would never go to a dollar store again. I would never have to tell grandkids where to dig for the cookies or pretzels again. They would be able to see the cookies and pretzels!

The first question on the survey was a giveaway. It asked how often I shopped at the store. I have their store credit card; they know how often I shop at the store.

After I glanced at the address of the sender, I knew there would be no free Tupperware. (A moment of silence, please.)

One of my most vivid memories as a teen is of my dad sitting at the kitchen table, saying, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Over and over. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Or a free doorbell.

Or free concert tickets.

Or free Tupperware.

Sigh.

Some lessons take a lifetime to learn

My husband and I have experienced some hearing loss. The most frequently heard word at our house is “WHAT?!”

More pressing than our physical hearing loss is our selective hearing loss, something that happens to couples who have been married a long time.

Just the other day, the husband was working on his laptop at the kitchen table with his back to me as I was scurrying from the stove to the fridge to the cabinets, making dinner and simultaneously telling a riveting story.

I’ve forgotten what the story was about, but I remember that it was a good story. I know this because all my stories are good stories.

I suspected he wasn’t listening to me, and that wouldn’t matter, but he was missing a good story.

I told him as much.

No response.

I continued with my riveting story and still no response.

I was quiet for a few minutes and then I said, “Your hair is on fire.”

Still no response.

I then walked around to where he could see me, got his attention, and said, “I just told you that your hair is on fire.”

To which he said, “Huh.” So there was some response, but not much.

The man is not easily riled. That’s OK, I can make up for that deficit, too.

Our hearing issues boil down to a frequency problem. I talk frequently; he talks infrequently.

The are only two things he hears 100 percent of the time. The first is, “Dinner is ready.”

It doesn’t matter if the man is upstairs, outside mowing the yard, or blowing leaves off the garage roof, if I say, “Dinner is ready,” he is front and center.

The second statement he always hears is, “The car needs an oil change.”

His priorities are clear: food and car maintenance.

I have learned that if my opening line involves something about food, I exponentially increase my chances of holding his full attention.

There is a concert series I’d like to go to, so I say, “How does bacon sound and what do you think about tickets for the summer series in the park?”

Bingo! BLTs and a concert series just like that.

He has gone so far as to say my hearing is worse than his. The other day he told me I should get a hairy chest.

“Why would I want a hairy chest?” I snapped.

He looked shocked then said, “I didn’t say hairy chest—I said you should get a hearing test.”

To which I said, “WHAT??!!”

I left home without my phone the other day. I considered turning back but decided against it.

As I continued on my way, I felt a growing sense of euphoria. It was as though a weight had been lifted—a small electronic weight that would fit in a pocket, a purse or rattle around in a cup holder in a car. It was freeing. For a short distance anyway.

Then came a moment of doubt. What if I needed my phone? What if I was in a fender bender, or worse?

Surely, I could run a few errands untethered. I’ve lived two-thirds of my life without a cell phone.In my 20s, I criss-crossed the country without a cell phone. Everyone did. And yes, it was after the covered wagon. If you needed directions, you stopped at a gas station. A guy pumping gas with a grease rag in his back pocket could get you where you needed to go.

Gas stations were where you stopped for amenities like bathrooms. ‘Round back. They were often filthy bathrooms that you had to ask for a key to use. It was survival of the fittest. And, looking back, we may have been more fit.

My dad made sure that I knew how to change a tire. He had me practice in the driveway. Today, I could no more change a tire than I could leap the Empire State Building or throw a rock across the Potomac. But I do have our insurance company’s roadside assistance number—in my cell phone. Which is back home.

I decided to forget about the phone and walk on the wild side. The new me—fearless nonconformist.

It was invigorating. I felt as though I were 16 again, armed with a new driver’s license and about to drive on the interstate for the first time. Alone. Windows down, hair whipping in the wind and “Wild Thing” blaring on the radio.

I ran my errands with a lighter step. I glided in and out of the UPS store, sashayed through the grocery and floated up and down aisles of a big box store.

Then I stopped at our youngest daughter’s house to return some things. “Where have you been?” she snapped, hands on hips.

“Running errands.”

“Well, you need to call my sister, because she’s called me twice, frantic because she’s been trying to call you forever and you don’t answer, and she’s tried calling Dad and he doesn’t answer and she’s wondering if something happened to both of you because neither of you answers!”

All that in a single breath. She’s good.

If I walked on all four and had a tail, I would have tucked it between my legs.

I said I would call her sister and explained that their dad was working outside.

The bubble of freedom burst before my eyes, not to mention the eyes of three little granddaughters alongside their mother looking at me like I was incorrigible.

Once again, I felt like I was 16 – and about to be grounded.

My grandma used to say she could forgive, but she couldn’t forget. This was always in reference to a comment made by a neighbor about pickles my grandmother had entered at the fair. The neighbor criticized the pickles for being sliced as rounds instead of spears, or maybe it was the other way around.

Grandma was a good woman. Hard worker. Married to a farmer. Raised six kids during the Depression and had a seventh when she neared 40. She did not have a mean bone in her body, but when the best you have to offer in hard times is criticized in front of friends, family, neighbors and fair judges, you might forgive, but you don’t forget.

Of course, it was never really about pickles. It was about humiliation—a humiliation you may forgive but, no matter how the years pass and how hard you try, you never completely forget.

Forgiving is often a complicated and multi-tiered work in progress, particularly when you are the one doing the forgiving.

I am always stunned when someone gives a victim statement in court and announces they have forgiven the one who inflicted unspeakable evil on a loved one. My first thought is always, “Did you not once think about jumping over that courtroom railing and taking a swing?”

Maybe they did. Maybe jumping and swinging was their first, second and never-ending thought for days, weeks, months and years. But maybe they kept thinking, processing, praying, crawling over broken glass, and somehow, some way, by the grace of God, made it all the way to forgiveness.

Forgiveness can be a lifetime achievement.

But even when we commit to the act of forgiving, we can’t always forget. Memories return out of left field, sitting at a stoplight, in the middle of the night, there you are back at square one.

It is that time of year when many are deep in thoughts of forgiveness. Lent spans the days of contemplation; Good Friday commemorates Christ’s work of forgiveness on the cross, and Resurrection Sunday celebrates the splendor and glory of an empty tomb and new life.

In addition to extending forgiveness, God does something humans often cannot—He forgives and forgets. “I will forgive their inequities and remember their sins no more,” says the book of Hebrews.

Forgiving and forgetting is the slate truly wiped clean.

We began married life in a 1930s Craftsman bungalow with three small bedrooms. Each bedroom had a closet the size of a telephone booth. Everything fit.

We added a baby to the mix. Everything fit.

We added a second and third baby. Everything fit.

Today, we live in a four-bedroom house with double-wide closets in every bedroom and a small walk-in closet in the master bedroom.

The three babies grew up and left home years ago. It is just the two of us.

Nothing fits.

Something is wrong with the math. We decreased the number of people in the house, increased the amount of available closet space, but are out of room.

Critical thinking and analysis are required every time we switch out cold-weather clothes for warm-weather clothes and vice versa in the semi-annual Changing of the Closets.

No article of clothing escapes rigorous scrutiny.

Take the black velvet jacket with a tucked waist and shoulder pads. I last wore it when Bush was President—41 not 43. Does this fit me anymore? It might if I could stop breathing. Are NFL-size shoulder pads in style? They might be tomorrow. The jacket stays.

Does the dress with the smocked top and free-flowing skirt make me look like someone from Little House on the Prairie? Yes. Is the dress flattering? Only in a funhouse mirror that elongates. Is the dress comfortable? Yes. The dress stays.

Off-season clothes rotate to one of the kid’s old closets and in-season clothes return to our closet.

There is a place for everything and everything is in its place. If I could just keep track of all the things and places.

Assorted jeans that vary in fit, depending on my salt-intake and water retention, and my husband’s worn jeans, suitable only for yardwork after dark, stay in a bedroom closet that also holds office supplies. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to remind my him, “Your work jeans are under the padded mailing envelopes and next to the toner cartridge!”

Clothes of dubious status move to the closet filled with board games, Legos, Lincoln logs, puzzles and three bridal gowns.

Why we have three bridal gowns when I have only been married once, I am not sure. I suspect closet squatters.

The last closet is crammed with suitcases, computer bags, backpacks, tote bags and four towers of boxes of classroom supplies from when our youngest taught first grade. This is also where we keep all the things I plan to donate and treasures for the neighborhood garage sale.

It is the final resting place of closets.

After going through the Changing of Closets again this spring, I finally understand why pictures of those enormous high-end designer closets the size of our first house all have an upholstered chair in them. All the sorting and rotating is simply exhausting.

 

 

One of our sons-in-law, a combat veteran who works out on a rowing machine and treadmill, lifts weights, runs five miles in scorching heat and freezing cold for fun, and often grabs a protein shake to tie him over until dinner since he works from home and rarely has time for lunch.

Because we have so much in common—the part about working from home—I decided to try protein shakes as well. Sure, I could scrape together some leftovers for lunch, but our leftovers have spawned so many aging leftovers, they could chart themselves on ancestry.com.

When I turn to the ‘fridge for lunch, I usually come away with salad. Lettuce, carrots and cucumbers do not have protein.

I need protein. I know this because I hear this and see this all the time in pop-up ads, and commercials and messages from extremely fit and well-paid health experts. You know what has protein? Things that moo, oink and cluck have protein. My taste for meat has developed an inverse correlation to age. The older I get, the less it appeals to me.

So I bought some of those little chocolate protein shakes, the brand with a picture of a wide-eyed cow on the label. One protein shake has 60 grams of protein. I am basically drinking two chicken breasts for lunch. Chocolate chicken. Yum.

Over the course of a week, I probably consume all the protein you would get from an entire side of beef. Consequently, I feel taller, stronger, younger and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I am sailing along, feeling good about life and protein, when some of the grands drop by and swing open the door to the ‘fridge to see what we have to eat.

A voice says, “Grandma, when did you start buying chocolate milk?”

“That’s not chocolate milk, girls. That’s my protein shake,” I say, exuding an air of confidence that says I am in the know and on top of things.

Silence.

“It’s not a protein shake, Grandma. It’s chocolate milk.”

They hand me the bottle with the wide-eyed cow on the label and point to type at the bottom that says, “Chocolate Reduced-Fat Ultra-Filtered Milk” and drop to the floor laughing. I have been drinking chocolate milk for lunch.

I have since switched to the real protein shake, which fortunately gives me strength to endure the ribbing that keeps coming my way.

I wonder if the kid in me knew I was drinking chocolate milk all along.