Borgman
“Let’s Scare Grandma” is a major source of entertainment for the grandkids. If someone jumps out from behind the sofa or from inside the hall closet, I simultaneously scream and jump like a WNBA player going for three.
But lately, I’ve lost my bounce. I just don’t scare like I used to.
There was a time when kids spent the night and one of them, dressed like a pirate and brandishing a plastic sword, slithered onto the bed in the early morning dark, I would bolt upright and scream.
These days I open one eye, roll over and say, “Cereal is in the cupboard. Make your own breakfast.”
Another favorite has been waiting until I’m doing dishes at the kitchen sink. Someone creeps outside, climbs on top of the hose box below the kitchen window, jumps up and yells, “SURPRISE!”
On cue, I would shriek and send suds and dirty dishwater cascading down the window.
These days? Nothing. Nada. I just motion for the kid to get back inside and help clear the table.
I wonder out loud if maybe I’ve mellowed — to which the husband emphatically says, “No.”
I recently accompanied an 8-year-old to an old wooden trailer in the woods where she has been catching mice. She lowers a PVC pipe with food in it and when a mouse goes for the bait, she tips the other end of the PVC pipe into a cage.
I don’t do mice. I’ve never done mice. But there I was, standing beside her looking for mice, breathing normally, trying to think of an endearing name for a small disgusting rodent.
Maybe I should see a doctor.
The real fright was when all 11 of them recently spent the night.
There were kids everywhere — on beds, under beds, on the floor, the sofa bed, and maybe even one or two on top of the piano. I can’t remember. It was a long day. The house was finally quiet, the kids were all sleeping, or pretending to be sleeping.
I tiptoed into our bedroom using only the light from the hallway. I took a pillow sham from the bed and saw something in the shadows that looked like it might be a ribbon or long piece of lace.
I picked it up and gently pulled it through my fingers. It didn’t feel like ribbon or lace, so I turned on the lamp.
It was a 4-foot snakeskin that previously belonged to a black rat snake.
Here’s the scary part: I didn’t jump. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hyperventilate. I gently tossed the snakeskin into the corner, crawled into bed and slept like a baby.
I must be losing it.
The next morning, I cornered two boys and asked which one put the snakeskin on my pillow. They pleaded not guilty and said they had heard their 6-year-old sister say she was bringing something fun to Grandma’s.
I feel terrible. The poor little thing was so disappointed.
Lori Borgman is a columnist, author and speaker. Send comments to [email protected].
