I have a close family member who held a very high position in a listed Swedish company for many years.

Like many SpaceX employees today, he was offered the choice of receiving his full salary in cash or converting part of it into company shares.

This man is extremely cautious with money — very risk-averse. So he declined the offer.

The years passed. The company grew strongly, and so did the share price.

Throughout his career, he became friends with the cleaning lady who took care of his office. She had chosen the opposite path and bought shares with part of her salary every month.

After almost 15 years, she looked him straight in the eyes one day and said with a big smile:

“Now Tage, now we are rich.”

The cleaning lady had become significantly wealthier than the high-ranking executive — simply because she dared to take the risk he wouldn’t.

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My mother apparently didn’t learn from the famous “dolme” episode at Stureplan.

A few years later we were staying at the Mandarin Oriental in Kuala Lumpur. After a wonderful dinner, she wanted to compliment the chef. She called over the head waiter and said, loud and clear:

“Give my compliments to the cock.”

The poor waiter looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him. The rest of the table immediately shouted in unison:

“The CHEF! Give our compliments to the CHEF!”

My extremely prudish mother had, of course, meant to say “cook” but pronounced it “cock”.

Having boomer parents really is a full-contact sport.

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Before mobile hotspots existed, we used something called a dongle — a little USB device with a SIM card for mobile internet on your laptop.

This was right before mobile hotspots became common. My mom, who has always loved new technology, decided she wanted one. I helped her order it from our operator, 3.

A few days later she went to pick it up at their flagship store at Stureplan 4 in Stockholm.

I was working in the office when my phone rang. It was my mother. Very loudly and agitated she shouted across the store:

“Liza! They don’t have any dolme here for me!! In what name did you order it?!”

(For my international readers: “dolme” is Swedish slang for dildo.)

I almost dropped the phone. I quickly hushed her and whispered: “Mom… it’s called a DONGLE. Not a dolme.”

She got her dongle and left the store.

Incidentally, my mother is extremely prudish, so I didn’t explain what “dolme” actually means until she got home.

Needless to say, she never set foot in that store again.

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A few years ago we were on vacation in Phuket, Thailand. One day we were all sitting under an umbrella on the beach when my dad suddenly shouted across the entire beach:

“MaryAnn! This sunscreen doesn’t work at all! I’m just getting redder and redder!”

My mother, who had bought SPF 50, looked confused. After 57 years of marriage she knows my dad has his moments, so she went over to investigate.

It turned out that for two full days my father had been generously smearing himself with aftersun lotion, firmly believing it was sunscreen.

There wasn’t a single spot on him that wasn’t bright red. He looked like a boiled lobster.

Every single summer I’m reminded of this story. And every single time I laugh just as hard.

Some things never get old.

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As I’ve mentioned before, we have “forced” our son to save 50% of all the money he has received as birthday, Christmas, and Easter presents since he was 7–8 years old.

In this account, he gets to choose the stocks himself. Over the years he has bought everything from Roblox to Nvidia.

This has been going on for more than 11 years. In the beginning there were many tears and a lot of complaining, but now he has gotten used to it.

In exactly one month he will start his first summer job. For three weeks he’ll be working at a playground in Stockholm, earning around 11,000 SEK gross.

This is where our financial upbringing will face its first real stress test.

The big question is: will he invest 0%, 10%, or 50% of his salary?

I don’t dare guess what he’ll do — because knowing me, I’d probably jinx it anyway.

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Yesterday was graduation day, and the world’s most perfect teenager officially received his IB Diploma.

I asked him if he was happy now. He looked at me and said: “Mom, this is more of a participation prize for surviving the entire IB programme. The real prize comes in four weeks when I get my actual grades.”

I understand him completely.

Imagine studying intensely for two years, only for your final result to be decided by 13 exams squeezed into a three-week period. Nothing else matters — not your performance throughout the course, not your assignments, not class participation. Just these 13 make-or-break exams.

So no, he can’t really relax and feel proud yet. Not until he knows how he actually did.

I’m incredibly glad he and his girlfriend are heading off to Croatia for two weeks next week. At least the waiting will happen with a view, good food, and some distance from all the pressure.

…though of course, as soon as he leaves the country, I immediately get a brand new thing to worry about. Because that’s what mothers do. There’s always something.

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Before our small student reception at the end of this week, we decided it was finally time to polish the champagne cooler that had been sitting untouched for far too long — now completely black with tarnish.

My husband found what he claimed was an old, proven housewife trick online: put the silver in a bucket with water, aluminum foil, salt, and baking soda. According to the tip, it should become shiny all by itself.

After digging through the cupboards, we finally found a can of baking soda.

The only problem? It expired in 2024.

I’m not sure what’s worse — that we actually own baking soda, or that we’re slowly turning into our parents.

Everything in this house is either old, expired, or both.

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On Thursday it’s finally “the graduation run” (utspring) day at our son’s school.

The students will come running out of the school entrance wearing suits or dresses and graduation caps for the official photos. After that, they’ll quickly change into their white overalls, climb onto the back of a flatbed truck, and be driven around Stockholm with loud music and waving.

There’s something magical about seeing all these flatbed trucks full of happy, screaming graduates driving through the city. The pure joy radiating from them is contagious. My husband and I always try to walk around town just to wave and celebrate with them.

Of course, it hasn’t always been this wholesome. In the past, it was common for the students to fill the flatbed trucks with a lot of beer, leading to empty cans being thrown everywhere and people getting sprayed. There have even been tragic accidents when drunk students fell off the trucks. That’s why alcohol is now banned.

We’re deep in preparations for Thursday’s celebration. Since our son didn’t want a big reception, it will just be us, his grandparents, godfather and godmother.

He casually mentioned something about decorations… so naturally I went all in. I’ve ordered a 5-meter balloon garland with over 350 balloons, a two-meter-high balloon column, door decorations, and plenty more.

My husband gave me a thumbs up when I showed him the plans. He’s now regretting that decision deeply. Every time the doorbell rings with another balloon delivery, I hear him muttering about how we’ll soon have no room left in the apartment.

I love balloons. He… tolerates them.

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In two weeks we’ll receive our tax refund — nearly 40,000 kronor each for the world’s most perfect husband and me.

This summer is quite chaotic for our son: first real summer job, trip to Croatia with his girlfriend, IB results, and then the wait for university admissions. Because of all that, we’ve decided on a relatively short trip within Europe this summer.

Which actually suits me perfectly right now. The tax refund will go toward making some nice summer memories instead of new investments.

And honestly… I’m completely fine with that. Because once it’s invested, it’s invested — and right now, these particular kronor are staying out of the market.

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Which, in teenage language, apparently means he “bombed”.

I’m still not fluent in teenager, but I’ve learned the most important phrases the hard way.

I do understand the immense pressure these kids are under. One preparatory year + two intense years of study all condensed into 13 exams that will determine their final IB Diploma result.

Both my husband and I went to what was then considered one of the best municipal schools in the world. Since then, the pendulum has swung from the era of our parents — where physical punishment was routine — all the way to today’s Swedish “flum school”, where everyone passes… even if they can barely read or write.

On a brighter note, my son and his classmates will finally get their grades and learn whether they passed the IB Diploma — just two weeks after graduation.

School really does prepare them for adult life, doesn’t it?

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