Inside Out

Hey Newt Gingrich, It's Not the Media

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 22:13:00 +0000

It was the cranky outburst heard round the United States. CNN's Republican debate moderator John King gave Newt Gingrich the chance to respond to an ABC interview with his ex-wife, and the candidate blew up. His rant against the media for daring air his dirty laundry just a few days before the South Carolina primary vote earned its place atop viral videos for at least a day.

And it left journalists across the country heaving a big sigh and rolling our eyes.

The hubris, Newt, the hubris! We media-types have better things to do than pick particular politicians to smear. We're too busy trying to ferret out the next hot story before our competition gets to it.

This is the lesson politicians need to learn: if it is there, it will be found . . . eventually. And reporters, be they small town media at places like the Democrat or "big league" journos at the New York Times or ABC News, don't look at timing from a politico's perspective. Instead we look at timing from ours. Is putting this story out there now going to benefit the reader, we ask? Is it going to ensure they know what they have to know when they need to know it?

That's our job. If we find out that a presidential candidate's ex-wife is willing to go forward with an interview that contains some rather explosive information, we have to question her angle. But once we affirm the information is the truth, the next step isn't to consider what this will do to a politician's career. To do so would be to allow bias to sneak into a job where bias is outlawed. Instead, we have to figure out how to get this true information out there as soon as possible. Because that's our job.
Our job isn't to slam politicians. It's to share the information that arms voters when they go to the polls so they can make informed decisions.

Is it hard? Of course. We are not automatons. We have feelings, and we have preferences.

But the job of a journalist isn't impossible for folks in other jobs to imagine. Take a grocery store clerk faced with a poor mom who is counting out her last pennies to buy her children dinner. Isn't it her job to say no, I'm sorry, if you can't pay, I can't allow you to walk off with that box of Cheerios? And yet, she's not without feeling. She's human. But that's her job.

When a slam against the media goes public, it gets a lot of nods all around. And yet, it's a job like any other. And we're doing it as much for the good of the world as for the good of our pocketbooks (which, in turn, goes into the grocery store clerk's or the shoe store employee's).

The media isn't the bad guy. It's the people who make the mistakes that we uncover that you should be holding accountable.

Image via Gage Skidmore/Flickr

Your Kid Will NEVER Be Cuter Than This

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 23:43:00 +0000

There is no easy way to say this. I don't think my kid can get cuter than she is with a big gap in the top row of her teeth.

I know that's wrong in that "Oh no, here she comes, the one with the plastic sheet of photos that folds out to display 100 pictures she'll expect me to ooh and aah over" way. You'd be wrong. I keep the photos on my iPhone -- plastic is so 2002.

Then again, it's probably just as wrong in the "Oh no, her kid is one day going to read this and may or may not have her self esteem completely wrecked by the fact that her mother said she can't get cuter." But I'm willing to go there.

Because there's a difference between cute and beautiful, isn't there?

She can turn into a beauty as she ages. But she will never again be able to grab hold of the privileges granted to children whose mouths appear to be winking at you no matter the words coming out of them.

Missing teeth gets you more than a visit from the Tooth Fairy (who brings $2 a tooth these days).

Cute gets you out of trouble when your mother comes downstairs on a Saturday morning to find the LEGO box threw up in the middle of the living room, and you haven't even bothered to feed the dog yet. You just smile your big gap-toothed grin and say "I love you, Mommy," and all is forgiven. Although you still have to feed the dog (and no, leaving your oatmeal bowl on the floor where she can lick out of it doesn't count).

Cute lets you get away with banishing said dog to the bathroom because she is going to somehow destroy the perfect LEGO creation that no adult can discern in that pile before she's had her caffeine.

Cute gets you a third story at bedtime when Mommy would prefer collapsing on the couch with bad TV.

Don't judge me. If you saw that face, you'd do it too.

And now, this just in -- there's a wiggler on the bottom. The entire house is in trouble.

The Truth That Drains You: Mothering Girls Lesson 3

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 21:20:00 +0000

Get a load of all that hair

I am not big on the comparisons between mothers. Let me make it clear: stay-at-home moms, work-at-home moms, work-outside-the-home moms -- they've all got it tough in their own ways.

But there exists a difference between parenting girls and parenting boys that cannot be ignored. I'm not talking about that thing (or lack thereof) between the legs.

But I am talking about the bathroom.

First, a disclaimer of sorts, lest I start some sort of mommy war. I am fortunate enough not to have to clean up the dribbles and drabs that come from little boys -- and big boys for that matter -- who have yet to get a handle on how to aim at the toilet. I raise a rubber glove in salute at the mothers of all those males out there who breathe in through the mouth as they tackle the urine stains.

But even as I see your pee pee problem, I raise you my hairy situation.

See, I have a girl. A girly girl. And with that comes looooooooong blond hair.

And what happens to loooooong hair? After all these years of shaving the head, I confess I'd forgotten. But the every-few-months major overhaul of the bathroom cleared it right up for me.

When your daughter has long hair, she sheds. And when your daughter sheds, it goes down your drain. And when it goes down your drain, well, presto, change-o, the process that used to take just a few minutes of the old-fashioned baking soda/vinegar trick that brought you back to your middle school science days is now a 15-minute vomit-inducing ordeal.

I have to pull it out of there, one gunk-covered strand at a time.

Just thinking about what that hair has collected (ahem, toothpaste, mouthwash-removed plaque and tartar, loogies . . . never mind, I can't go on) leaves me dry heaving.

Here's wishing little girls really were made of sugar and spice. At least that would dissolve in water.

Want more on mothering girls? Check out:

Asking Your Kids About Their Day Is a Waste of Time

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 13:46:00 +0000

It's a rare day when a working parent can get out of work early and pick the kid up from school, and I was trying to make the most of it. "So, what did you do in school today?" I asked.

"Nothing," was the answer.

"Nothing?" I joked. "What am I sending you to this school for?"

She looked at me sideways and glared.
"I dunno."

It was a pleasant change from "nothing," but not exactly what I was looking for. Ten points to the kid for outmaneuvering the mom. Zero points for quality time.

I should have known better really. Ask a kid about the hours spent behind a desk with pencil in hand, and "Nothing" is always the answer.

Whether they learned to master the multiplication tables or the entire cafeteria erupted into a food fight during lunch that concluded with your child being covered in a vat of tomato soup, it will always BE the answer.

"Why do you smell like tomatoes and milk," you'll ask. "I dunno," they'll say. If you're lucky, you'll get an eyeroll out of the deal too. My permission to do a jig - a double response means the kid is actually listening to you!

But I regret to inform you that you won't get much more. Nothing is the story, and they're sticking to it. This is the knowledge of six years of parenting. Kids are nothing if not stubborn. Unless you can promise them a pony. But we live on a third of an acre. It's not happening.

So I'm left with nothing.

She has learned to race her way through books not via the instruction of some dedicated educators but through osmosis. Uh huh.

Is it any wonder teachers are a misunderstood lot? We spend every morning fighting to get a tired kid out of bed and onto a bus with at least some breakfast in their stomach and the allusion that we've brushed their hair (and they've run a toothbrush somewhere near those teeth), and they come home to tell us it was all for naught. They went to school to twiddle their thumbs and stare into space.

No wonder these poor confused souls send home enough paperwork to make it appear the mission in first grade is to kill at least one tree a work. They need to prove to us they are actually earning their keep, and teaching our kids that 6 + 6 does indeed make 12 (frankly, they'll never believe US if we try to tell them, so it's a relief someone is trying).

Now if only someone would teach ME not to waste an early afternoon asking her about school.

What's your secret to getting the kids to talk?

Image via OrangeAcid/Flickr

Trashing Toys For the Win!

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 20:31:00 +0000

Someone help me: I let her get more.

There comes a time in every mother's life when she holds out her hand to her child and leads her into her bedroom for the biggest event of the year: the annual toy clean-out.

What does it tell you that I waited for the last week of the year and took a whole day off from work to get it done? Be afraid, folks, be very, very afraid.

It was a day off carefully chosen for the day after the day after Christmas, when most Americans headed back to work with a new scarf 'round their neck or their tootsies stuffed in brand new socks. I had the benefit of foreseeing Santa's sack overflowing onto my dining room floor and knew: it was time to move things out.

And like any major event, it was not without fanfare.

Like the wails that the hockey cards that were everywhere, bent halves of cardboard sticking out from beneath the dresser, must be kept because "Daaaaddy gaaaaaaaave them to meeeeeee." Yes, he did. Because he was actually going to throw them out two years prior himself. But somehow they'd made their way into her bedroom as floor tiles of a sort. And now they were helping fuel the soundtrack to our cleaning extravaganza.

I turned up the iPod and moved on.

"Hey kid, let's hit the stuffed animal bag," I called, quaking in my (now glitter- and sticker-encrusted) socks as I entered the fray.

Cue the tears.

"Not my stuffed animaaaaaaaaaaaaaals."

Yes, the stuffed animals. One or two of the approximately 576 in the giant green bag had to go. Maybe the Bert from Sesame Street won as a prize at a carnival three years prior and never played with by the now 6-year-old who is (her words) "too old for Sesame Street."

Or maybe the teddy bear with the creepy eyes who freaks her out at night and therefore has spent his entire life in aforementioned green bag?

Of course not! What was I thinking? She needs those. Of course. Right. Silly me shoved a few more hockey cards into the garbage bag while she fell back in love with Creepy McBear. Success!

Oh yes, and we got rid of Bert.

Small victories folks. Small victories.

So I'm Fat: What's Your Excuse?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 14:49:00 +0000

It's that time of year again, folks. The Christmas tree has shed enough needles that it hardly matters what size it was coming into the house; it's going out as a Charlie Brown variety. You, on the other hand, have grown like the Grinch's heart over the holiday.

Pleasantly plump going into the holidays, gargantuan going out; that's my motto.

Stinking cookies.

And chocolates.

And cakes.

And pies.

And have you had a piece of the Hanukkah kugel? It's to die for.

I'd ask why we do this to ourselves year after year, but it's a no-brainer, isn't it? There's nothing more American than opening one's mouth and filling it with something so sugary and delicious we just have to go back for seconds.

And here is where I could get all political, climb on my soapbox and rant about the third world countries and gluttony and obesity and, well, yeah, that's not the holiday spirit, is it? You threw some change in the Salvation Army bin and some toys in the Toys for Tots box. Enough already.

I'd much prefer to talk the traditions of other countries. You know it's rude not to eat what's offered in many spots around the world, don't you?

Yup, that's as good an excuse as any. And isn't it a compliment to the chef (or at-home baker) if you don't sample it all? Right, we'll put that one on the list.

Have you come up with YOUR excuse yet?

LEGO Goes Girly: The Real Problem

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 19:41:00 +0000

If you're starting to feel like the LEGO goes girly debate has already jumped the shark, my apologies. Because no one has hit on the real issue . . . at least not yet.

The Danish company so beloved by us parents for encouraging our kids to use their imaginations really put their foot in it this month when they unveiled the soon-to-come LEGO Friends line for girls. To whit, it looks like someone borrowed the pastel palette from the Easter M&M line and threw it all over a bunch of the bricks. And then there are the new minifigures, with back stories like "beautician" and "social butterfly."

Pardon me while I hold back the vomit.

Yes, the feminist mother of a daughter in me wants more.

But then there's the realistic mother of a daughter who went to the LEGO Store in New York City with said child in November. And like a throng of other children, she beelined for the "minifigure" station where kids could build their own three minifigures for the low, low price of $9.95 (hey, by Manhattan prices, it was a steal). Only the options were slim.

She wanted to make "girls" because, well, she has a vagina. And finding "girl" parts was near on impossible. I pawed through the headwear, and came up with two, yes, two "ponytails." As for the bodies, well we got one tank-topped girl but not much else. Fortunately kiddo had no problem with one of her females being a "school person" (aka janitor type), but much of the torsoes had CHEST HAIR. And I those little jet packs for the space men? Didn't fit on a body if she had "girl hair."

All my kid wanted was a minifigure that looked like her! She didn't need it to be a covered in sparkly hearts and glitter. But let's face scientific facts here people. She IS a girl. She roots for the girl on Jeopardy when we watch it as a family at night. She tends to pick the female characters in any movie (Holly Shiftwell in Cars 2, Kitty Soft Paws in Puss in Boots) as her fave.

Is it so damn hard to just give her some girls? And is it such a bad thing that she'd want some?

Seriously, folks, we talk about "girl power" and then get so down on girls when they dare to say they want to support the vagina crowd. Why should she have to make do with the Ninjagos because that makes her fierce? She is a girl, and at 6, is fortunately unashamed of that fact.

She likes princesses. And she likes LEGOs. She likes the Hess truck her Opa buys her every Christmas, and she is going to love the purple, glittery bike that her grandparents have picked out for this holiday.

Marketing to her isn't the problem. It's accepting she's more than one toy she plays with.

Scooby Doo Can't Solve This Christmas Cookie Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 22:29:00 +0000

Ask most writers their weakest point, and we'll look right, then left, and then ruefully shake our heads. "Numbers," we'll whisper, "they just don't make sense."

My apologies to my fellow scribes. I'm not whispering. I am shouting this one from the rooftops.

I am horrible at math. My high school geometry, algebra and pre-calc teacher (yes, all the same man, yes, I went to a small school in Sullivan County) can attest to this.

And so can my friends at Christmas time.

Because I always plan to have just enough cookies to satisfy Santa's taste for a little something sweet to eat after he plops down our chimney and sets a few toys beneath the tree plus enough of the sweet treats to finish off the holiday meal. And yet it never happens. Instead I have enough to feed a small Army plus man each soldier with enough goodies to pass out to the children of the particular third world country where they are stationed.

How does this happen to me? Year after year?

I plan just two major cookie bakes of the season: a kids day at the home of one of my childhood best friends and her son who has become one of Jillian's childhood best friends, then one at my house with Jillian and whatever visitor we invite along (this year and last it's been her babysitter). I limit the menu to the absolute favorites. Sugar cookies are a must, of course. And then there's gingerbread. And who can live without my chocolate chip crazies, made of whatever half-filled bags of chips happen to be languishing in the baking drawer from baking projects throughout the year. And then there's that really cute idea I saw on that blog. And maybe those orange cookies we made that one year. And . . .

OK, so it sounds like a lot. I know.

But I am aware of my waistline. I know I have to protect it by being proactive. And so I always send home goodies with the guest baker. I get them out of here! After all, that's what good hosts do; my friend and her son have a box prepared for Jillian to take when we leave their home.

Oh. Wait.

Cookies brought home + cookies baked = enough for Santa + Christmas dinner + the army.

See what I mean about the math problems?

The Santa Lie Is a Reporter's Downfall

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 19:18:00 +0000

There's really just one guiding rule of journalism: tell the truth. Every other one - be unbiased, be observant - comes back to that one.

And yet, there's one time when it's officially acceptable to bust that rule. And as a proud member of the Sullivan County Democrat staff, I am prouder still to say I've done it. I've smashed it to smithereens.

Folks, I'm talking Santa. You know, the big guy with the white beard and the belly that jiggles like a bowl full of jelly. We all know he can't make it to every place in the world to visit our kiddos, and so we all know that the guy you're taking photos of at this event in Callicoon or that event in Jeffersonville is not the same dude. My kid, on the other hand, doesn't know that. She's been schooled in the magic that is Santa's ability to clone himself, and that's all she needs to know. Well, that, and does he have the means to bring a LaLaLoopsy doll to our house this year?

The news that a television anchor in Chicago spilled the Santa beans in the middle of a newscast a few weeks back left me indignant on the behalf of the entire profession. It's an ethical decision, one I tend to believe should be taught in journalism school.

As I sit down to type up a quick caption for the photo of your little darling sitting on some random fat guy's knee (oh, I know, it's all fake stuffing Mister), I cannot bring myself to be the one who breaks that news to the kids.

Because what do parents do when they see a photo of their child in the paper? First we smile, then we shriek, and then we call the kids over to get a look. And with my little voracious reader, I'm more than a little aware that the caption is part of the whole shebang.

I'm sorry, journalism diehards. My apologies to Edward R. Murrow and the rest of the gang. I refuse to be the one who breaks a child's heart at Christmas.

If that makes me a liar, well, he can bring me coal this holiday. I'll take my lumps!

Would you want a reporter to tell the truth about Santa? Really?

Teaching Kids to Read Is an Epic Mistake

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 13:57:00 +0000

When they tell you about the day your child finally learns to read, it's always in glowing terms. They use words that, honestly, your kid won't actually get right away. Stuff like pride! Heart 'a blazing. Satisfaction!

And they're right. Of course they are. Generations of kids have learned to read before yours, and yet the first time they perfectly pronounce the name on a billboard, you will preen like they're the very first to get it so soon. Even you couldn't have been such a prodigy when you were a kid.

Now here is what they don't tell you.

This is just the beginning.

Sounds like a ringing endorsement, doesn't it? The sort of thing that makes you nod, "yes, yes, I want her to read more! She could plow her way through War & Peace by bedtime, and I wouldn't think it's enough."

But it isn't War & Peace you should be thinking about.

It's the refrigerator magnets that someone bought you before the kids came along.

Your heart isn't the only thing blazing when they read the first one out loud, let me tell you.

And then there are the newspapers.

"Ooh, Mommy, it's Justin Bieber! What's a love child?"

Um, a child that everyone loves, honey, just like you! Right. That will shut her up. For now.
It won't, however, shut her eyes or stop the march from ABC's toward said boring, er, lengthy tome by one Leo Tolstoy. It's time to bid farewell to spelling secrets right in front of her. And to leaving the mail on the counter or the laptop open.

Can't you tell I'm proud? I can't stop boasting . . . but my cheeks are roasting.

Come on, spill -- what have your kids read to you . . . and made you cringe?

Curse the Day Lalaloopsy Was 'Born'

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 13:48:00 +0000

It never fails. The big toys are packed away in the corner of the attic, the stocking stuffers are squirreled in a closet. And then she makes an announcement.

"I want X for Christmas."

Needless to say, attic and closet are positively brimming with L,M, Q and even Y. There may be an A in there, possibly an E . . . things are packed so tightly in there it's hard to tell anymore.

But alas there's no X.

Because until today, you'd never heard of X. You didn't know she'd heard of X.

And did I mention X is nowhere to be found on the store shelves?

Lalaloopsy Doll, I curse you and the cute little curls that have wrapped 'round my 6-year-old's fingers. Figuratively of course. Because if it were literally, I wouldn't be the mother who was "done" with her Christmas shopping who somehow has found herself back and square one.

Her button eyes taunt me from the other side of my computer screen. Just $25 more dollars and she can join the array of toys begged for and forgotten in Christmases past. Too bad I spent that $25 a week ago on another begged for item with less little pieces.

Too bad I went for L and M when I should have waited for the discovery of X courtesy of some other little girl on the playground.

What good is the magic eye in the back of a mother's head if it can't anticipate a little girl's absolute delight at driving her mother up the Christmas tree?

Seems I need to make space for Lalaloopsy. Anyone want to trade for items M and R?

Nothing Like a Parent/Teacher Conference To Make You Feel Like a Kid Again

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 19:33:00 +0000

Listen up fellow marchers on the path toward wrinkles and grey hairs. I have discovered the fountain of youth. It really does exist!

All it takes is showing up for parent/teacher conference night at your kid's school, and you too can feel like you ought to be wearing short pants again.

I could blame the chairs, so tiny beside your body that you get an idea of how Gulliver felt around the Lilliputians. I half expected the seat to cave beneath my behind, four legs splaying outward, small plastic square meant for a child's hiney smashing to the floor in loud protest.

It didn't.

If only that was the end of the worries.

The door to the classroom closed (we were early), perching carefully on those chairs, it was hard not to recall with a shudder the threat of being "kicked out" of the classroom. Being sent to sit in the hall was - in its own way - as horrifying for a kid as being frogmarched to the principal's office. Huddled there, waiting with no clock to mark the passage of time, you were left with nothing to do but think of the possible punishment awaiting you. If you think a child can come up with creative ways to get themselves in trouble, it has nothing on the methods of castigation their minds can conjure up.

And then my stomach rumbled, and I did it.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the pack of gum kept there for moments such as this. A breath freshener. A bit of flavor to tide me over.

No sooner had I popped it in my mouth when I remembered: I was eating gum! In the hall! In an elementary school!

What was next? Would I cut the cafeteria line? Run in the hallway? Talk out of turn; without raising my hand?

If you want to feel young, it doesn't take much. Just take a whiff of freshly sharpened pencil, and you'll be right back there . . . and eager to get it all over with . . . and fast.

Do you feel like a kid when you go to your kid's school?

Image via frankjuarez/Flickr

Raise Your Kid in the Country (They'll Thank You Later)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 13:10:00 +0000

It happens every time. There I am, traipsing through Manhattan, the sickly sweet scent of roasted chestnuts assaulting my nose, the pollution-clogged air making my country-fied eyes water. And I wonder, why the heck did I ever leave this place?

Why am I not raising a child in the heart of the action, where there's a cultural delight around every corner, and her palette could be stretched by introduction to a different type of cuisine every day of the week?

I mope.

I moan.

And then I come home. And I remember.

As I said, it happens every time. I should be used to this by now. And yet, the sadness of my days in the city are so elusive when I'm caught up in that fast pace of city life. I walk faster. I talk faster. I come alive.

And then I come home where I calm down. And I remember:

Bald eagles.

A backyard with trees for climbing, where a kid can spend hours, literally, hours, without a helicopter parent hovering above, always watching, never allowing the fun to happen.
Squirrels who steer clear of human beings because they have nuts to find -- they don't need to beg for no stinkin' cupcake in the park.

Grocery store clerks who know your kid by name, and your mother, your father, and your brother too.

Walking barefoot in the grass.

Leaving car doors unlocked.

Driving.

Fresh air.

Adventure.

Peace and quiet.

It's a list I'd carry with me if I didn't think it would ruin the fun of the moment. Sometimes it's nice to forget.

But it's even nicer to remember.

The Most Freeing Election of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 16:53:00 +0000

If only election season were a season in the way that summer is. The long days and summer's sun moved with blink and you missed it kind of speed, while the drudgery of listening to politicians backbiting drags on.

But this year, I have discovered how to make the headache end early.

I got my absentee ballot. More importantly, I mailed my absentee ballot.

Planning to be out of town on election day, I'd applied for and received my form weeks ago. But when it seemed my plans for election day were changing yet again, I hesitated. It was all marked, but did I send it in or trash it? Did I try to show up at the polling place now that I'd be in town?

The New York Board of Elections website offered little help (ahem, Albany . . . ) on what I had to do, so I bit the bullet. Last week I sealed my own fate. I mailed that bad boy to Monticello.

And the weight lifted right off of my shoulders.

At first I was sad to be one of those people who'd have to wait to see how much her vote really counted until days after the election had passed, but now I'm wondering why I didn't do this years ago. It's liberating!

My husband can gripe about campaign signs, but it just rolls off my back. The fliers can mount up in my mailbox, but I just chuck them in the recycling bin.

Politician knocks on the door, I throw it wide with a grin and announce, "You're too late!"
Politician stands in town reminding me to get out do my civic duty, and I grin even wider. "Did it already!"

I did my due diligence. I checked out my candidates as I do every year.

But unlike every other year, I'm not sitting here weeks after my decision's been made still listening to people trying to snag my vote. It's too late folks. Decision's done.

Election season's over in my house!

Image via alancleaver2000/Flickr

The Real Internet Danger for Your Kids (Hint: It's Not the Pedophiles)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 15:02:00 +0000

Several weeks have passed since a blogger with a complete disregard for the laws of the Internet hijacked a photo of me with my daughter and used it on a site that ripped me to shreds for something completely unrelated to my parenting. The photo itself is down; although he continued to ignore the illegality of his actions, repeated reminders that this was an innocent child's photo seemed to shame him into submission.

It was a move that scared even me, the proponent of the first amendment, the parent who has declared so many others over-sensitive to the fears of the Internet.

And yet, I stand by my original assessment of parents who maintain a terror of the camera. A photo of your child on the Internet is no more going to make them a target of a pedophile than they already are walking, talking, breathing on public streets every day. Trust me. You can check the child molester websites every day and you still won't know of some of the darkest, dirtiest sickos hiding in your town (I say this having learned from a cop friend just the other day that there's now one living around the corner from me . . . and no, he doesn't pop up on any websites).

The perverts on the Internet don't scare me because a sane, normal (read: won't end up on STFU, Parents) mom or dad does not put photos out there that could be used in an inappropriate manner. If you don't take porn-esque photos, they don't end up in a porn collection.

No, the threat to our kids is much simpler, and much harder to put a stop to. It's cruelty.

The mean people.

The cyberbullies.

The troll surfing the web with little purpose beyond making themselves feel better about their miserable existence by trashing another person's psyche, and who will stop at nothing . . . not even hurting a child . . . to convince themselves they've got the upper hand.

I take, for example, the person who logged onto Facebook late last fall, found a photo of my daughter that had been used to illustrate a story on one of the blogs where I was writing, and pronounced her "an ugly white child."

She is indeed white. She is a child.

As for ugly, well I'm her mother. I will never see her that way. As her mother, the comment made me angry. But it's as a human that the comment made me sad.

Because someone saw the photo of a little girl smiling out at the world and just had to demean her. To hurt her. And for what? To ensure that in X years, when a kid plugs their name into ol' Google that they will find a photo of themselves with an insult beneath it?

Will that effect world peace, solve world hunger, balance the federal budget?

The anger and vitriol on the Internet surrounding the political game is frustrating but at least marginally understandable. These is the state of our nation we're fighting about.

Fight over abortion. Fight over gay rights. Fight over the cost of gasoline.

But when you sit over a keyboard, fingers itching, smile spreading because you've just launched a zinger at a little kid for the most shallow of reasons -- her looks -- here's a thought for you: if you don't have anything nice to say, sometimes it's better just to shut up.

Image via DeclanTM/Flickr

My Vote: Up for Sale!

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 22:44:00 +0000

In the scheme of things, snow before Halloween isn't the worst thing. It chills the moldy pumpkins so they don't smell quite so ripe, and relatively warm sidewalks make for easy removal. There's even the notion that this may be the one thing that finally convinces the costume designers to finally craft outfits for kids who don't live in Florida!

I'm prepping my "snow boots" and "winter coat" plus costume pictures for them now.
Yes, the snow was an inconvenience.

But this weekday Halloween thing is really going to kill me.

The Monday Halloween may well be the worst for parents. First there's the obvious difficulty: e have to figure out how to complete all the regular after-school activities plus trick or treating. And we have to do them all before it gets too dark. Oh, right, and teachers would like our kids to show up for school the next morning bright and chipper rather than tired and suffering from a sugar hangover. I can't blame them. I wouldn't want to deal with my kid after too few hours of sleep and too many Snickers either.

But I digress.

Because it's one Monday.

But it means Halloween won't fall on a Friday or weekend for years to come.

Literally. Years.

This is what keeps parents up at night, knowing that by the time Halloween is finally semi-sane, their tots may well be out of the dressing up stage.

As if we didn't spend enough time with a calendar before we had kids, trying to make sure junior wasn't born on Granny's birthday or force Mom to go through a hot summer pregnancy. Who knew we should have been keeping track on the trick or treating too? Add this to lessons you learn in parenting just a wee bit too late.

I've heard rumblings that people in politics have pondered turning the October 31 tradition into a "last Saturday of the month" suggestion. If they want to move here, I'll give them my vote gladly. If they have a photo of a parka-clad kid in a costume too, they can be my best friend.

Winner! Melissa McCarthy's Children's Place Fave!

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 19:10:00 +0000

Snow-tober meant my kid got to put the owl hat favored by celeb mom crush Melissa McCarthy to good use. I can now officially tell you it keeps the ears warm during snowman-making and snowball-throwing.

And the better news is somebody else officially gets one of The Children's Place cute animal knits!

Giveaway winner time (unofficially) sponsored by the helpful generator at Random.org:

That would be Megan, who wants to be contacted by banana phone . . . um, I hope that means she's reading this?

Thanks to all who entered. Don't forget to fan Inside Out Motherhood on Facebook to make sure you don't miss the next one and um, just keep reading my random ramblings?

This Photo Tells Another Story Entirely

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 15:12:00 +0000

If there's a photo that tells the story of my daughter, it's the one on the wall in my kitchen. Blue eyes wide and shining. Mouth opened wide to show off Chiclet teeth. Nose scrunched up the way her father's does when he laughs.

And skin absolutely coated in dirt.

But it isn't that picture that this column is about.

Instead I'm marveling over another photo, discovered by happenstance as I combed through an overwhelming archive of digital images on my computer looking for a copy of "dirty face" for a project. Because like a good portion of photos that I've snapped of my daughter, that one was captured while I was wearing two hats. Mom and reporter.

In my archives are hundreds of photos taken as the latter, many of which ended up in the pages of the Democrat at one time or another. It's surreal at times to know that across this county there are hundreds of cut-out photos plastered on refrigerators and pasted in scrapbooks with my name below them.

Beside a few seconds that I spent gathering the requisite caption information, for many of those people it's the only connection we have.

Many of those people.

But not all.

Because as I worked my way through the album from the first ever Jeff Fest in Jeffersonville, on the hunt for the digital copy of the photo hanging on my kitchen wall, something caught my eye.

A girl, blowing bubbles.

I remembered the photo; remembered taking it, remembered submitting it to the paper, remembered it appearing in the paper.

I'd simply forgotten who was in it.

Because when I took it, that girl was just a cute girl blowing bubbles. Today she's more like an addition to my family, the teenage babysitter/adopted big sister to my daughter. For two summers, she's helped my daughter while away the non-school hours so I can concentrate on work. For a year and a half, she's joined us on car trips and movie nights, she's carved Halloween pumpkins and made me birthday cupcakes.
She's walked by a photo of my dirt-covered daughter hundreds of times, and not once did it occur to me that the subject of the OTHER photo I shot that day is standing in my kitchen. For once, I know how the kid who's got a newspaper clipping with my name on it turns out.

It may be time to frame that photo.

I Am the 20% But I Found Help

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 23:06:00 +0000

The latest estimates on parents who hand their cellphones over to their kids should surprise you. Twenty percent of Moms and Dads have used cellphone as pacifier.

WTF? Just 20 percent? I think I smell some burning pants.

Just this week, I was dealing with a sick husband and a 6-year-old who just couldn't take the quiet anymore. She'd played with her LEGOs. She'd read books. She'd colored. She'd thrown a "tea party." And bless her heart, she was about ready to burst from all the being good.

Until I handed over the iPhone.

Yes. Angry Birds is part of my parenting arsenal. And I'm not ashamed of it.

I was, however, finding that the very thing that saved me from going nuts on a parenting level was making me nuts on a phone owner level. The iPhone 4 battery is not designed to meet the attention span of a child PLUS the usage requirements of her mother.

I don't know how many times I've gone to check email only to see the ominous warning that only 20 percent of my battery remains.

I was ripe for a sales pitch.

And then it came. Hey blogger lady, want to try our handy dandy smart battery for the iPhone? With the amount of PR pitches I get on a daily basis (and make fun of on Facebook), you have to dangle something really good to get me to bite.

But I was easy pickings this time. I am the 20 percent. I needed help.

And I'm relieved to say that I don't have to write back to the public relations peeps and say "this thing sucked." The Third Rail Mobility System ($89.99) is pretty sweet, and this week it allowed the 6-year-old to get on with her bird flinging for a good long time.

It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to my Perry the Platypus cover. Not just a sign that I "get" what 6-year-olds are talking about, it has borne the brunt of my attached-at-the-hip-with-my-iPhone ways, and has the missing chunks of plastic (cellphone went airborne as I tried not to get hit by a bus, and no, I don't want to talk about it) to prove it. But the Third Rail requires you to put your iPhone in a case that can be synced with its battery, so I swallowed my love for all things Peeeeerry.

Why? Because when my phone is screaming "all you are is want, want, want, and all I do is give, give, give, and I can't take it anymore" I just hook that little battery to the back of the case, and she settles right down. It begins recharging the phone's inner powersource, and I can ~~play Freecell~~ check my important work email.

As for why I'm going out on a limb and calling this thing my lifesaver where anyone can read it, can we talk about the option of not having to leave your phone on a charger? I mean, you can, and you should. But while you're out getting stuff done with a fully-charged phone, you can leave the little Third Rail at home to charge by itself. So when you don't have time to be away from your phone you don't feel like you have to ration every precious ~~Facebook-checking~~ working moment.

And if this doesn't convince you that you reeeeeally need to do something about how your kid is sucking up all the good battery life on your phone, I'll be the one sitting in the doctor's waiting room with the quiet child. Keep yours away from mine, m'kay?

Oh, by the way. To all you people who are all haughty that you already got the iPhone 4 S, it works for the new thing too. Maybe Siri can help you hit the Third Rail site to get yourself one.

Are you a member of the 20 percent?

Disclosure: Third Rail Mobility gave me a system to test at my leisure. They didn't pay me for the commentary on this post. Funeral services for the Perry case were on my own dime.

'Winnie the Pooh' Movie: Closing the Generation Gap

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 23:39:00 +0000

The release of the new Winnie the Pooh movie on DVD and Blu-Ray today made the blogosphere buzz with giveaways and gushing from all the usual sources. But it was celebrated in a much quieter way in our house. My daughter clutched her two Tigger dolls to her chest as she caught up on sleep on a sick day home from school.

Her blond hair spread across a pillow, a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal in her arms, it was like peering into my past. Only my hair was never quite that blond, and my favored Milne-inspired stuffie was a Pooh bear, a remnant of my own father's childhood.

With such good memories wrapped up in the stories of Pooh, Disney's decision to add to the Pooh movie collection wasn't one I took to easily. Sent by The Stir to Los Angeles (via a Disney-sponsored trip), I pounced Tigger style on the directors the moment I could. Did they understand that these were iconic characters? Did they put the appropriate weight behind their efforts?

I was a tough act to sell to, and they delivered.

I sat in a theater on a Disney-owned lot, and I giggled. I guffawed. And I awwed.

But that was me. A Pooh fan from the day my mom first read of Christopher Robin's trek to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

The bigger test would come later, when I was finally able to share Winnie the Pooh 2.0 -- as I've been calling it -- with my daughter, the person who I hoped would fall head over heels in love.

And so we sat down together (while my husband snoozed) and watched. Breathlessly, I waited. We'd read a Classic Pooh board book over and over and then over again when she was just a toddler. But this was, admittedly, different. The Disney Pooh has the look more people know, based on the classic stories of A.A. Milne.

And then she giggled.

And guffawed.

And she leaned over to whisper in my ear, "You didn't tell me it was THIS funny!"

She's now decided she's going to be Tigger for Halloween (although it will have to wait until next year; the Tiana costume is already bought and waiting). And her two Tigger toys -- one a gift from my trip to LA, the latter, ironically the very first stuffie gifted her by her dear uncles, Dan and Will, in the maternity ward -- are her constant companions.

Winnie the Pooh 2.0 is that funny. But it's more than that. It's gifted my child with a love of the very characters who made me smile as a child.

Want your own copy? The folks at Disney sent me one to check out with my daughter, and they're giving Inside Out Motherhood readers $5 with this coupon!

Sleep Is Wasted on the Youth

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 15:16:00 +0000

You've heard it said that "youth" is wasted on the young. That's ridiculous.

It's the ability to crash into bed well past one's bedtime and spring from the depths of a warm comforter at the crack of dawn both bright-eyed and bushy-tailed that is squandered completely on the people too short to peer into a mirror at the bags under their eyes.

Not that they have any, naturally.

It's the parents who were up even later than "well past bedtime" who have the lion's share of the bags. The suitcase on the left side is from rising on Saturday mornings to make oatmeal before the sun's come up. The duffel on the right side from being asked if it's time to get up yet at 4 a.m. Funny thing: teach a 6-year-old how to read a (digital) clock, and they'll spit the numbers right at you, without debating their meaning. Four, Two, Two is said with the sort of triumph otherwise reserved for the no-handed ride on the bicycle. "Look, Ma, I know my numbers!"

There was a time when I could sleep until noon on a Saturday, climb out of bed, putter around the house, and still be yearning for a return to the comfort of a pillow top mattress and warm flannel sheets. Now I'd give up my iPod and my iPhone to keep both eyes clamped shut past 8 a.m. Even life with a husband who believes in the share and share alike method of parenting -- whereby one weekend morning is mine for sleeping, the other is his -- doesn't prevent the inevitable jolt awake caused by a bony elbow to the guts at the same time a pillow pet comes sliding across the nose.

Doesn't this kid understand what she's missing?

Even as the teen years leave me frozen with terror at parenting, gulp, a teenage girl, I can't help savoring the thought of sweet relief. Sweet science will demand that she imitate a lump until at least 11 a.m. Of course she'll want to stay up late then too, but at least it will be inside the confines of her room, likely with door slammed and music blaring in her ears.

It can only be an improvement over the thump, clomp, thump that signals another escape out of the room and down the stairs for water, to pee out the water, for a missing stuffed animal, for a friend for the missing stuffed animal . . . that means I'll be up late again tonight doing what can't be done when she's awake.
If only I could sleep in tomorrow.

Giveaway: Melissa McCarthy's Children's Place Fave! Ends 10/31

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 15:26:00 +0000

Allow me to geek out here for a moment: I watched Gilmore Girls as much for Melissa McCarthy as I did the witty repartee between an impossibly hip young mom and her impossibly precocious teen daughter. Because way before there was fangbangin' Sookie Stackhouse, there was Sookie St. James, kooky sidekick to the equally quirky Lorelai Gilmore. And Sookie could actually cook.

The world is all suddenly "yay, that funny chick rocks" what with Melissa hosting Saturday Night Live, making Bridesmaids that much funnier, and grabbing Emmy Awards for Mike & Molly. But those of us who have been girl crushing since she made Sookie sound more like a name, less like a nickname for your pacifier (my apologies to any real Sookies out there, but really? You never thought it?) are happy to say "uh huh, told ya so."

Hey, I'm not hating. I'm happy the comedy queen is finally getting her due. She was the celebrity catch at The Children's Place a few weeks ago, when they snapped a photo that sums up exactly why she's girl crushable. Melissa McCarthy doesn't care what people think of her.

This is the woman who is getting into plus-size design instead of trying to fit some Hollywood body type. She's not the fat, funny sidekick. She's the plus-sized hilarious leading lady.

And did I mention she rocks the new knit animal hats from the Children's Place? I spotted the photo and reached out to the company because it made me laugh (in other words: they're celebrity catch is TOTALLY eye-catching). She's a Fashion Institute of Technology alum who planned to get into textiles before deviating into stand-up, so it's fair to say she's got an eye for what's worth modeling. And she also happens to have two little girls -- just the right age for CP clothes. This was the rare celebrity I felt like I could trust guiding me on what to get the kiddo.

So I asked the Children's Place if they'd let me give one away, and they agreed to send one my way to see if it's as cool as my beloved Sookie thought it was.

The result? Check it out for yourself:

The inner lining is soft, the braided strings long enough to tie off but not so long that they become annoying. And the owl is just plain adorable. My kid has been wearing it all week, even on days when the temperature has hovered in the 50s (proof of its cuteness: how many kids do you know who are willing to OVERdress for the weather).

All that, and they're just $9.95. I'm sold!

Not crazy about a white hat for a kid? How about a black dog with a pink bow that you'll spot from anywhere (even hidden under the couch)?:

Want one for your kiddo? Leave a comment with your favorite Gilmore Girls or Mike & Molly reference.

For extra entries:

1. Become a Facebook fan of Inside Out Motherhood, and leave a comment telling me (and drop by to leave me a comment on there too if you want -- I'm a glutton for looooove).
2. Follow me on Twitter @jeannesager and tweet this giveaway -- you MUST have an actual link to the giveaway in the tweet, or it doesn't count. Leave a link to your Tweet in the comments below.
3. Grab my blog button (you'll see it at left), post it on your blog, then leave me a link in comments so I can come visit you and say hi!

I think that's it. Oh yeah -- make sure I have some way to contact you if you're the winner. If you're a blogger and have a contact on your blog, that'll do so you don't have to put your email out there for the world to see. But if not, how about a Twitter handle, something, so I can reach out. Or you can check back. The contest will end October 31.

Campaign Signs Aren't Worth Your Vote

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 20:32:00 +0000

Here we go again. Election season. When the yards of the county are littered in signs proudly shouting "Look, I care! I'm involved in the electoral process."

The signs are nice.

I guess.

But if every yard represented a person who attended actually showed up at a town board meeting to get a look-see at their candidates in action, the average board meeting would look drastically different.

Hey, it's tough to get to every one. I get it. I'm paid to do it, and there are times where I have to call my editor and admit "I got a beastly sunburn because I was too busy slathering up my kid with the SPF 70 to remember to do myself. I can't leave my house in the indecent state of dress that my raw shoulders demand. I'm not showing up at that meeting."

It happens.

Life goes on.

But today marks just about a month until Election Day. There will be board meetings in the next month, dozens of them. It's time to make time.

Not time for a host of meetings, but for just one, maybe two. Time to make a political decision not based on the prettiest sign in the neighbors' yard but on the value of a candidate.

My old social studies teachers should be proud, because even today I marvel at the gift we have been given in this country: to play a role in picking our leaders.

And at the local level, I taken on a hokey sort of pride that I am not just casting a vote when I show up at my polling place. I'm making an informed decision.

We don't have that advantage on a national level. We don't get to show up at a meeting of Congress. We can't sit in on a State Senate session -- or at least, very rarely can we make that trip to Albany.

But one night, one town board meeting, is just a few minutes away. Don't you want to know what that sign stands for?

Image via hjl/Flickr

Sugar My Kid Up . . . Or Else

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 19:56:00 +0000

There's been a system in place for years, existing within my own head, whereby anyone who sends my kid home from their kid's birthday party, fist clenched around a bag full of kiddie crack, shall find a noisy toy among the rubble of opened presents at the next party.

I have railed against the candy filled party favor bags long and loud. But today, I put down my bullhorn.

Sugar that kid up.

But do not send another piece of plastic junk into my house.

See, today we celebrated Christopher Columbus planting his flag in somebody else's yard and saying "buzz off bitches" with family time in the playroom. Also fondly known across that great country Columbus found as "throwing some shit out because one kid can't possibly play with all these toys."

Today I was forced to reason with a 6-year-old that the abandonment of one plastic snake purchased at the dollar store by some random mother is not going to ruin her life. Thanks to a county recycling program that lets you put all plastic in one jumbled mess at the curb, it's not even going to ruin the environment.

Today, I called it quits on the "let's get healthy campaign."

Give her sugar, I beg you. She'll blow through as much as she can before her stomach starts to ache, and I have to drop the rest in the garbage -- or better yet, the compost.

Sugar will not sneak its way out of the playroom and slither across the living room, decamping from her pile of playthings to nest under the couch with the dust bunnies. Sugar will not become a possession never played with but suddenly prized as it sails through the air from one side of the room toward the trash can. Sugar will not make me feel like I'm a bad citizen for clogging the landfills, like a bad housekeeper for its sudden appearance in the middle of the kitchen floor when a guest drops by, like a bad mother for starting the whole "but it has to go" fight on a national holiday.

Sugar my kid up or whistles are in your future.

Your Kids Will Make You a Liar

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 14:00:00 +0000

It's about now that you begin to realize one thing about your kids. They know how to
make a liar out of you.

First it's in the promises you made that they so quickly undo. You won't let your living
room become a second toy room? Sure, go ahead, see how long that lasts.

You won't let your kids sleep in your bed? Eat candy? Go to school with mismatched
socks? Read children's literature so boring it makes your eyes bleed?

Good luck with that.

It's all happened and then some.

And 6 years in, you'd think I'd learn something about being proven wrong by the sheer
power of a child's will.

Two weeks ago I confessed she was better at soccer than I'll ever be.

This week, she took a page out of her Mom's playbook.

Play with your hair. Play with your shirt. Play with your nose. Play anything, really,
besides the game of soccer.

This is parenting. Realizing that the kid you knew a day ago is another one entirely 24
hours later.

They change that fast.

Our job is even more nebulous. To parent, of course. But to do so from the sidelines,
carefully munching on the words so naively spoken not a few moments ago. You must
chew at least 25 times before swallowing, naturally. No guzzling. And for goodness
sakes, don't do it with your mouth open; you weren't raised in a barn.

Or maybe you were. Because we are, of course, older than dirt, the hills, and Methuselah combined, and we unfurled fully grown from our own mothers with the sole purpose of being THEIR mommies and daddies. There was no time for learning all the social niceties when you had to hit the ground running with the knowledge on everything from how to accurately pinpoint the exact location of the Big Dipper (thank you Google Sky) and appropriately affix a set of cotton candy pink shin guards to a stick thin shin.

Liars we may be, but at this time we are still geniuses, knowers of all that needs to be known, thinkers of all that needs to be thought. Who has time to think of the repercussions of a certain declaration when there are math problems to be solved and there's macaroni and cheese to be made - by scratch - before bathtime?

I may be a bit of a liar, but I'm making up for it.