Inside Out

Too Hot For You? Shaddup

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Sat, 02 Jun 2012 16:07:00 +0000

Think it's time to clean the thermometer?

Well, it really is spring. Or as I like to call it, the time when I uncurl from my slug-like position on a chair by my computer and actually get something accomplished around my house.

I'm a firm believer in the warmer, the better.

I'm like one of those solar lights. I don't work without sun. Or chocolate. But that's another column.

See, while you moaned that you got a little sweaty over the weekend? People like me basked in the joy of knowing they didn't have to wear three layers of wool socks to pull weeds.

Have you ever tried to walk in three layers of wool socks? Enough said then.

There are people who hate the heat. And then there are the rest of us. We are the yin to your yang, the peas to your carrots, and all that. Point being? While you make the world work one half of the year, we're more than happy to take up the slack on the other end when the sun finally gets a clue and comes around.

You know your weekend was successful when your bedroom/attic are cleared of two bags of garbage plus another bag of clothes worth donating, and the dog no longer smells like something died and she rolled in it. I consider the latter part especially important for the peace and goodwill in my household. It was getting to the point where it was "the dog or me." And don't think those puppy dog eyes were coming from the canine.

I've been telling myself I couldn't bathe her until the weather warmed enough for her to have a good afternoon of drying off in the backyard. What kind of cruel human let's a wet dog stand in the cold?
OK, perhaps I was projecting a bit. Love my dog as much as I do, the other part of my brain was thinking "what kind of cruel dog gets so stinky that she'd make a human get wet in the cold just to give her a bath?" Because there is no staying dry when you wash a dog; at least not my dog.

So to all those random humans gloating in the grocery store that we barely had a winter, how about you shut your traps. Do you really want to jinx us? Because then I go back to the couch, and YOU go back to work.

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Junk Mail Now Starts at 6 (Years Old)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 31 May 2012 23:33:00 +0000

My daughter got a letter marked "personal" today. It was a blue envelope, marked with a non-profit's seal on the upper left hand corner of the envelope.

Did I mention she is 6?

Her first junk mail. At 6. A momentous moment.

I'm not sure whether I should shred it or put it in the baby book.

I jest.

Sort of.

Ok, seriously, why in the holy hell is my 6-year-old getting "personal" mail? Even if it is from a nonprofit. I know there are wonderful nonprofits. I also know the gay-hating morons at Focus on the Family managed to convince the IRS that they deserve a 501c3 designation. The word doesn't exactly sway me, capiche?

There is plenty of time for her to roll her eyes and chuck that stuff in the recycling bin right at the post office (did I mention we have a post office box because the world hasn't figured out that we rural folk do exist yet?). Right now, I'd prefer she not think about whether or not the funds in her piggy bank should go to "that" charity that's wasted its money on mailings and focus on important stuff.

You know. Stuff like whether Swampy the Alligator (for those of you not taking notes, he's from Where's My Water) is cooler than the Angry Birds. And whether that Disney movie Brave will kick some serious ass (I swear no one paid me to say that, but I'm betting it will).

What in the actual F-you-know-what are they doing junk mailing 6-year-olds?

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I Have No Shame; I'm a Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 29 May 2012 17:30:00 +0000

There comes a moment in every blogger's life when she has to take stock of her life and ask: do I have any shame left?

I have admitted a lot over the years, and it's all out there, ready for a Google search to bring it flooding back. Heaven help my child when I open the parental controls on her laptop.

Yes, I have read 50 Shades of Grey. And the two books after it. The writing was horrible, but I read 'em. So there!

Yes, I got married at 18. And let every reader who landed on the AOL homepage on the day I wrote about it know about it.

I've lectured Michelle Obama on talking about her girl's weight, after admitting I myself was bulimic.
I've admitted to watching cartoons. Alone. And liking them.

And yes, I have screwed up as a parent. Loads of times. And I'm not exactly embarrassed by it ... .
Ok, I liked. There was that one time when she fell off the front steps, when I was RIGHT THERE. Her face was a mess of black and blue and red, and we had to go to the district attorney's office the very next day for an interview for this here paper. And my kid looked like she'd been beaten senseless. That one was embarrassing.

But, I once let my child watch six hours of TV in a day. And I was called out as one of the worst parents in America by the parenting expert at Good Morning America for it.

Try inscribing that one on a gold cup! Because I am proud of my foibles, or at least my ability to admit them.

Because I can embarrass myself for the sake of all those other imperfect people out there who are afraid they're totally alone. You're not. We're all screwed up. Some people are just better at screwing up in public.

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Image via Alex E. Proimos/Flickr

I Am Now & Forever Shall Be ... A Bulimic

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Sun, 20 May 2012 22:46:00 +0000

In 20 years, we'll look back, and the Mother's Day present will be adorable. I hope. Crafted at school, it's a letter to mom, complete with lines for kids to "fill in the blanks" with details about THEIR mom.

My kid filled in my weight with a guess of 20 pounds. Twenty pounds. Looking at the number, I realize what it means. I'd be dead.

But when I unfolded the piece of paper, a grin swept across my face before I thought better of it. I saw 20 pounds, and I loved it. Hello, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, my old friend. I haven't missed you.

I've never kidded myself that I would get "beyond bulimia." I am, and forever shall be, a bulimic. Not throwing up does not change that. That I now actually weigh more than I ever have in my adult life, save for when I was ready to deliver my child, does not change that.

But I thought for awhile that I'd at least gotten past the insanity. The place where 20 pounds sounds good, where that evil part of my brain doesn't bounce up and down saying "who cares if it's unhealthy, woohoooooooo, woohooo."

Perhaps the worst part is that the grin spread wide in front of her as I read the words out loud. She has the most beautiful belly. A little birthmark at the base, just above the line to those little girl undies. A little pooch. Not much, just enough to show that she eats a nutritious diet. It's a pooch that comes and goes. When she's about to sprout up, it grows along with her appetite. In the days directly following a sudden spurt in height, it's non-existent. And then it comes back, a perfect little roundness from sitting comfortably, watching TV shirtless at home.

I would never.

I sit here, even now, today, in my own home, in a room by myself, with a pillow cross my lap. I'm dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but I feel the much larger roll of my belly, and I cover it.

She asks why, and I tell her I grabbed the pillow for my ankle. I lie.

Just as I lied when she asked why I was smiling so widely at her present I was nearly smirking. "Oh, Mommy's just happy," I said, burying my nose in her neck as I pull her in for a hug. "Mommy is just so lucky to have you."

Lucky because so far, by the grace of something, I have been able to separate the woman who stares into the mirror and shudders from the woman who stares into those big blue eyes and says "I love you, baby girl." So far.

I'm trying. Oh God, am I trying. I just don't know how much longer. Because if 20 pounds makes me smile like a maniac, what little devil is waiting behind the next corner, just waiting for me to grab hold and dive off the bulimic cliff with it?

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My Kid's a Pompous Windbag, Yours?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 18 May 2012 13:03:00 +0000

Here's the problem with allowing your kid to be photographed for a major American newspaper: she tells everyone. The guy at the car dealership. The waitress at the restaurant. Everyone.

Now, I know what you're thinking. It's a major American newspaper, did she really think people weren't going to find out? Duh!

Stop the eye roll right there. My brain hasn't been that numbed by all the Disney Channel and My Little Pony play.

The feature in the New York Times was about something I believe more parents need to be aware of: keeping their kids safe on the Internet. You could think you're doing everything right by keeping the 6-year-old off of Facebook and making sure she spends more time swinging in the backyard than on a laptop, and still end up as one of the "Oh my God, my kid saw X" stories in the New York Times.

Been there. Done that. Have the bragging first grader to show for it.

Yup, bragging. She's turned into quite the pompous windbag about this whole thing.
Yeah yeah, I know, that's what this whole column is, right? I guess she comes by it naturally.
But call this self-promotion thinly disguised as a lesson. What is a 6-year-old boldly interrupting the conversation between Mom and the mechanic to announce "I was in the New York Times yesterday."?

I'll tell you what it is. Embarrassing!

She's lucky she's missing a bunch of front teeth and favors her hair in pigtails these days. People insist she's cute. They don't see her when she's refusing to clean up her playroom, but hey, I'll take it. She certainly thinks so.

After her "modeling shoot," which was more like a news photographer telling her "a little to the right, more toward Mommy," she's getting hard to live with. Thank goodness I'm here to bring her back down to the earth, where mean moms make their kids clean their playrooms before play dates. You might be in the New York Times, kid, but you're still a bit of a slob.

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Get a load of the Times features:

So How Do We Talk About This?

Example 1: The Accidental Click

Image via The New York Times

This Paparazzi Parent Thing Has Got to Stop

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 10 May 2012 16:21:00 +0000

The cameras flashed. The video was recording. The dozens of little dancers danced their little hearts out on the stage at the college, and every step was captured for the ages.

This is what it is like to be a kid in 2012. If Mom or Dad isn't taking a picture of it, they're talking about it on Facebook. Or, for my poor kid, blogging about it.

The good. The bad. That time they forgot to wear underwear to school or fell backward off the swingset.

I could go on and on about the stupid things parents should really keep to themselves (hint: no one, not nobody, not know how actually wants to see pictorial evidence of the fact that your child is now potty trained ... least of all on Facebook). But can we talk about the kids for a minute here?

My cousin joked this past Sunday that he's glad he got through childhood in an age before everything was documented. With genes like ours, you can trust that his exploits were ... let's say interesting, shall we? He's got a real job now; we don't have to go there.

Not so for our kids. They expect to be photographed. They demand it.

"Look Ma, no hands!" has become "Look Ma, get this up on YouTube for me!"

I'm not going to stand on my soapbox and scream. I've got guilty practically written across my forehead. This is the column that announced her impending birth after all.

If she steals her father's sunglasses, she expects me to Instagram it.

I suppose it's good preparation for a world where she'll have to be Facebook photo ready at any moment lest she be tagged by a "friend" in a not-so-proper pose. But I'm beginning to think we're creating monsters.

How else do you explain the kid who tells his Mom what is OK to Facebook and what isn't? At 4? The kid who poses in the middle of her dance recital ... for the camera, not the choreographer?

I never thought I'd say this, but it may be time to stow the camera and slam the laptop shut so my kid knows what it's like to live without Big Brother on her shoulder. She's got those same genes after all; what she'll get up to in years to come may be better off un-remembered.

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The Avengers Red Carpet Vs. The Wrap I'd Rather Forget

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 02 May 2012 20:46:00 +0000

Image via Louise Bishop at Mom Start

Warning. This column will contain some bragging. I'm sorry. It can't be helped (well it could, but it wouldn't be that interesting).

I should have known it would happen. I was invited by Disney to cover the New York premiere of Marvel's The Avengers, and I had everything set. The dress was bought (yes, folks who are accustomed to seeing me show up at your events in jeans and a hoodie, I did indeed buy a dress). The shoes were bought. Four inches of heel with pretty pink straps.

Then I made the podiatrist appointment. I didn't even think about it. Raised by a nurse practitioner, when something goes wrong, you get it looked at.

So, when the ankle had an issue, off to the doctor I went. It wasn't until he said lift your foot and started wrapping the cotton around it that I started to get the funny feeling in my stomach.

Hmm. This is interesting.

And then he added the top layer. Some stretchy plastic-y stuff that has some official name, I'm sure, but all I know is it was rather ... bright. Brighter than those pretty pink straps by far.

I climbed off the table - well maybe oozed off it is more like; I was trying not to step too hard on this newly wrapped ankle - and then he dropped the bomb. So, you'll come back in a week, and we'll get a look at it. Leave the compression bandage on there until then.

Wait.

A week?

But I was going to the red carpet in three days.

I couldn't go with this bright pink thing on my ankle.

I threw out the only thing that came to mind. So what about washing it?

The doctor looked at me, his eyebrow raised.

"Don't."

That was it. Don't wash. Don't take it off. Don't rock the pretty pink strappy shoes with the black dress and own the red carpet.

I went home and moaned. A lot. On Facebook. On the phone. To my husband.

The ankle didn't hurt in the least (props, doc, you did that part right). But I felt ridiculous.

And then it was Friday, and I was leaving for the bus in Monticello to ride into Manhattan. And I had to make a choice. Do I take the strappy shoes or the flat flip flops? Decisions. Decisions.

I threw them both in the suitcase, and off I went, climbing into the car of the kind of true friend who throws her plans aside to take you to the bus station so your husband can collect your kid from the bus.

But I couldn't put it off forever. Saturday came. The big night. The closing of the Tribeca Film Festival. Red carpet night. With, I might add, Callicoon's most famous actor/activist talking about being a green superhero in both senses of the word (lost? Mark Ruffalo plays the Incredible Hulk ... stealing the movie from Robert Downey Jr., I might add ... and is of course one of the loudest voices working to prevent fracking from coming to Sullivan County. Green plus green equals, well, you get where I'm going with this.).

I looked at the flip flops. They've been worn around the country and back again. They've had their due.

But those pink strappy things needed their night. And hey, they're ALMOST as bright as the weird plastic-y stuff.

I put them on. Asked my pal to help me actually strap them around the thing on my ankle. And that was that. I went to the red carpet with a big pink THING on my ankle.

I got a thumbs up from actress Cobie Smulders for knowing how to work it.

It may not have been pretty, but it got noticed. And that's better than being ignored.

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Hanging with actress Cobie Smulders and a bunch of the other bloggers on the trip.

Disney covered my expenses to see Marvel's The Avengers.

I Took My Kid to Jack Daniel's (Or I Hope They Serve Whiskey in Mom Hell)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 01 May 2012 21:12:00 +0000

Jack (Daniel) and Jill

Yes. I know. I made a Tucker Max reference when I think he's a misogynistic toolbag. But then, I did take my daughter to the Jack Daniel's distillery this month, so in certain circles I'm already a crap person.

A disclaimer right off the bat: they don't serve alcohol during regular tours (it's a dry county, for one), and even if they did, I wouldn't have let my 6-year-old get a taste. I'm not crazy. I just enjoy a little bit of fun on my vacations.

And can we talk about the joyous occasion when a parent actually has a wee bit of fun on vacation? I vaguely remember when we chose a destination based on something other than its proximity to a zoo or amusement park. A jolly and gay time was had by all in those days. And yes, there may have been alcohol. Alcohol enjoyed by responsible adults who were ... ahem ... on vacation!

It made sense to make a stop-off in Lynchburg as we wound our way back north after a trip to the grandparents' house in Georgia. She'd had her fun in the sun (we went to Zoo Atlanta! She saw pandas! Her grandparents spoiled the ever living crap out of her), and we could get in a little bit of our own too.

But this being America, land of the sanctimommies, I have to admit I didn't really let loose a full breath until another parent wandered in with kids in tow. Turns out her younger kid and mine are only a few weeks apart. And yeah, I said younger. Meaning she had TWO kids there. Now who's the shittastic parent? (Kidding, kidding).

I was worried about the whole taking the kid on a tour of a distillery tour thing for a few seconds there. And I hated myself for letting these parents get to me.

Yes, America, it is OK to do things with your kids that is not 100 percent about them! Yes, America, kids can be around alcohol in responsible settings and not turn into raging alcoholics! Yes, America, I'm admitting this all to the interwebs!

When is the last time you did something on vacation that wasn't designed to keep your kid happy?

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You Know You're From Sullivan County If ...

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 21:11:00 +0000

My handsome cousin on a tractor

They say it's a mixed up world we live in. But there are some things you can always count on. You know you're from Sullivan County if any of the following hold true:

You consider the first day of deer season a holiday, even if you don't hunt.
Hearing national media refer to that big festival back in 1969 in "Woodstock, New York" annoys you.
There's a road named for your family (although none of your family live on it anymore).
You went clothes shopping at Sullivan's.
You explain where you're from to people who are out of the area by referencing the (probably defunct) hotel your house is closest to.
You've stood outside an ice cream stand licking a cone in a winter parka because goshdarnit, this is a sign of spring, and you're going to enjoy it!
You preface in-car (hands-free!) cellphone calls with "I'm going to lose you in about 5 minutes, so ..."
A cow ever made your school bus late.
You'll never get used to 17 being list as I-86.
You've seen so many eagles you forget to stop and look when they fly by ... but you've almost been in a car accident coming around a turn to find some out-of-towner stopped in the middle of the road staring at a nest.
You were in a car accident or other mishap, and were lucky enough to have volunteers show up to rescue you.
You wave to every car in the opposite lane because you know each driver.
Your sister leaned over to tell you that hottie you are checking out at the bar is actually another one of our cousins (and yes, you WERE embarrassed ... this isn't Deliverance country; sheesh).
You're used to eating in restaurants owned by people, not corporations.
You graduated with 33 people. In one class.
You know how to drive a 4-wheeler and have since you were 5.
You plan for snow by filling the bathtub with extra water, pulling out the candles, and making a pile of board games because it's going to be a long night without electric.
Buying a good pair of jeans means driving an hour.
You hear a car alarm and think, "Oh, it must be summer."
You've gone hunting for Easter Eggs in a snow storm.
Birthday party entertainment was "Go outside and play, kids."
You love a good tractor parade.
You've planned a weekend around a pancake breakfast or a roast beef dinner.
You grew up reading The Sullivan County Democrat!

Come on y'all, add to it in comments!

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Change? What Change?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 15:03:00 +0000

She even walks in the SAME Halloween parade!

We were driving through the town where my husband spent the better part of a decade during his childhood when it hit me. The more things change in the rest of the world, the more things stay the same back home.

Here we were in a town that looked virtually unrecognizable to a man who left it 20-some years before. Where there once were open fields, there were entire malls. Where there was a small neighborhood, sparsely populated, was a settlement district teeming with people.

This was just one town changed by time.
One week earlier we'd made our way through the town where he went to college, driven on major highways that didn't exist just a decade and a half ago, eaten at a restaurant built in a space where trees once overwhelmed the landscape.

And by Saturday evening, we were home, driving through a Callicoon that looks markedly like the Callicoon of my childhood. The pharmacy was claimed by a fire years ago. The firehouse has moved up the hill. The ice cream stand has undergone a major overhaul. And, of course, the Democrat building has gotten an outside update. There are changes if you look hard enough.

But it's the need to look, and look hard, that really stands out. My husband wasn't able to show our daughter much of his childhood on our spring break vacation because time has marched its way through the haunts of his youth.

But though just four years separate him and I, to look at the town of my childhood is to feel as though time has stood still. There is the movie theater were I saw my first film. And my second. And my 32nd. And so on.

There is the library where I borrowed my first book. And my second. And my 1,234th. And so on.
There is the headquarters of the newspaper that ran my birth announcement. And a photo of me at 1, picking out flowers with my mom. And my first bylined news story when I decided to get into journalism. And yes, this column. And so on.

There's both a comfort to it and a sadness.

I hated this town as a teenager enough to want to leave it, to fly South and marry the Southern boy from so many towns he has no one childhood story to tell his daughter. And now I'm raising my child here, in the same town, the VERY SAME town. I'm doing that because I learned to love it. Time stood still and gave me the chance to get there. Will it do the same for her?

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This Is When You Suck As a Parent: Bullying Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 18:43:00 +0000

It's about the time the kids go to school when the feeling of deja vu washes over you. Math worksheets. Lice checks. Playing boys chase the girls on the playground. Haven't we all been here before?

If only the walk down memory lane stopped there.

Because when it comes to bullying, I feel less like I'm walking, more like I'm being frog-marched.

This is a childhood memory I could have avoided reliving through my child thankyouverymuch.

And yet, there it is. It begins these days in preschool with mean girls who belittle. It grows through the elementary years with intimidators who steal the joy out of a little boy's recess.

It makes a stop-off in the classroom where a child who has just done the extraordinary, shaving his head to fight childhood cancer, raising money not for his own selfish childish pursuits but for a cause bigger than himself, is pushed down by the type of person who cannot fathom such selflessness.

This type is a complex sort: the bully. Some come from so-called "broken homes." Some from what others, outside-peering-in looky loos would call the "perfect" family.

I've wondered if the rampant bullying on the Internet, aided by the wild west feel of commenting anonymously and the chance to cut someone down without having to look them in the eye haven't pushed this along. After all, if parents are bullying on the Internet, how likely is it that they're looking into the eyes of their little ones and night and seeing the signs?

But there it is: the solution to our problems, the one chance we have not to fall over this hurdle of childhood. The parents.

The parents of bullies have a responsibility to realize their child is the problem. It's hard. None of us want to think of our kids as anything but the perfect angels they are when they're sleeping with a stuffed toy clutched in their arms. But this is the only way.

They have a responsibility to realize that the kind of kid who shaves their head for St. Baldrick's is the kind they should want their child to emulate not abuse. They have a responsibility to be honest with themselves.

If their child thinks that's funny or worth picking on, they're failing as parents.

If their child is stealing the joy of childhood from other children, they are failing as parents.

Once they start realizing their part in all of this, the healing begins.

And then we tackle math worksheets.

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Think childhood is too much "the same"? A look at why it's not:

20 Signs Childhood As We Knew It Is Gone For Good

No -- THIS Is How You Eat a Cadbury Creme Egg

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 13:34:00 +0000

Ladies and gentleman, listen up. It has come to my attention that people are defiling the Cadbury Creme Egg.

The Easter classic has been, get this, wrapped in pizza dough (pizza dough!) and plopped in a big vat of oil and fried. Fried Cadbury Creme Eggs? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

That is just fine for Twinkies people. They're rather pedestrian to begin with. Just some puffy cake-y substances with an unidentifiable white creme in the center. But let's make this clear: Cadbury Creme Eggs are oval-shaped bits of heaven.

Chocolate with two-colored nougat inside that indicates three layers of love for the mouth.

The only way to eat these treats, I'm here to tell you, is this:

Freeze them.

Now unwrap. Some of the bits of foil may stick to the goo that dripped out in the factory. Do not despair (unless you have fillings ... then you may want to scrape rather furiously at it) -- it's a small price to pay for what you are about to behold.

Now. Take a bite.

That right there? Yes, that is the best it's ever going to get.

Now, sally forth and hit the grocery store because time's a wastin'. Easter is this weekend!

By the way, I am this manic about the eating processes of several foods, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it. But at the moment I blame this obsession with "how to" on the arrival of a book called How to Eat a Cupcake in my mailbox (courtesy of its publisher). How does one see that and not want to read? Hmmmm?

Proof of my eternal love for all things Cadbury:

Cadbury Eggs ... For Breakfast?

Share My Cadbury's? The Things We Do For Love

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Image via jeffk/Flickr

It's MY Hair -- Leave Me the $#*& Alone!

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 21:05:00 +0000

If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me when I'm going to grow my hair out, I might be able to buy a cup of coffee. What? You were expecting something bigger?

Apparently you haven't tried to buy a cup of coffee these days.

But back to the hair.

For lack of a better word, short is my trademark. It's the style I've worn since a few months after my wedding, when I told my husband I was going out for a haircut and came back with no hair (more or less). A word to the wise: drastic changes like this are suggested during the newlywed phase; they're still pretty jacked up on love hormones and will let them pass. Going out to get a tattoo days after the birth of your baby, on the other hand, not suggested. You don't want to mess with THOSE hormones.

So where was I? Oh, right. The hair. This September, I'll celebrate 12 years of marriage. Any way you do the math, it's a long time to get used to this version of me.

It's been a little longer. It's been a Mohawk. It's been blond. It's been brown. For about 5 minutes one night, it was green. It's been completely gone, shaved to fight childhood cancer five times over (and once again this coming September in Roscoe ... be there!)

When I'm stopped in the street, in the grocery store, while I'm looking for mushrooms at the farmers market, I've stopped asking how this person I've never seen before could know it was me. It's the hair.

It's not that I haven't thought about changing. You try getting through the grocery store in under an hour when everyone recognizes you and wants to chat (but then again, such is life in a small town ... hey y'all).

At this point in life, there aren't a lot of other changes to be made - safely anyway. I won't grow any taller. I can only put so many holes in my body and still hold down a job. And I long ago accepted my bulbous nose as "memorable."

Hair is the only thing left to play with.

But I've been green. I've been blond. I've had a Mohawk. I've been bald.

What am I really missing?

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They're Like Training Wheels ... Only Better

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 22:02:00 +0000

The other way we keep her quiet

My kid is what you call a reader. And I know how that sounds. It sounds like this is going to be a blog post by a mom who is going to go on and on about how awesomesauce her kid is, and you're going to want to retch when you're done.

But I promise this is more of a "oh thank GOD, her kid is kind of a pain in the ass sometimes too" kind of blog post. And it comes with tips to keep your hair in your head instead of being pulled out in clumps ... by you!

So. Mentioning the fact that her bed has more books in it than stuffed animals is more of the writer's tool known as "setting the scene." And now we can move on to actually helping you turn your kid into one of those reader kids too.

MY reader kid has been driving me batty. She's in first grade, and she's actually good at this whole putting letters together to make words thing. And yet, hand her a chapter book, and for months, she's been looking at me like I've got just told her I am craving a steak (did I mention I'm a vegetarian? I guess I should have).

The same person who will stay up until 10 p.m. reading one "regular" book after another was insisting that she "could not" read chapter books. Explaining that several "regular" books read in a row is really the equivalent of said chapter book wasn't cutting it. She's the suspicious type.

Enter the graphic novel, otherwise known as chapter books ... with pictures! It was like the best of both worlds, and the kick in the pants she needed. Think of it as training wheels for chapter books. Only they're better than training wheels because they introduce your kids to the wonders of something that will occupy them for hours and help them get into college!

She now leaps through 89-pages in a night, and she graduated to the "real" thing from there. Now the books thumping on the bedroom floor as they fall out of her bed are more substantial by far.
Ay! Where have these been all my life?

I devoured The Adventures of TinTin, but otherwise there wasn't much in this genre for kids when I was a kid. But according to all the bookish places I've looked, that's changed big time in recent years.

And without further ado, the magical picks of the moment courtesy of one book-lovin' 6-year-old:

Babymouse series by Matthew Holm and Jennifer Holm: The cotton candy pink covers may have had something to do with her initial attraction, but the adorable little mouse (yeah, yeah, surprise, surprise) is equal parts quirk and ingenuity. Her current fave is Babymouse: Cupcake Tycoon but that will probably change this Easter when we throw a few more titles in the basket.

Squish series by Matthew Holm and Jennifer Holm: Thanks to the common authors, we tried the first in the series (Squish: Super Amoeba), and it's got the right amount of gross factor with a little science thrown in for the 6-year-old sense of humor.

The Flying Beaver Brothers series by Maxwell Eaton: To know a set of siblings is to know there's always one who's on the smarter side and one, well, you know. Meet Ace and Bub. They're beavers! And they're brothers! And yeah, you get it. Always fighting for good, always working together, they're rodents the way I like them ... in my kid's books, not running around my house.

OK, so how did you convince your kid to read real chapter books? Any good graphic novels I'm missing out on?

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Why Your Kid Is Up At the Butt Crack of Dawn: The True, Unvarnished Story

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 13:49:00 +0000

It is written, I'm sure, on a wall in a cave in some remote part of the world that we have yet to discover, that on the one Saturday morning when you most desperately need to sleep in, your child is to arise bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6:34 a.m.

They will enter your room and stand at your bedside, insistent that an adult is needed to assist with the most basic of tasks, so basic, in fact, that they have mastered it at 2. They are now 6 3/4.

This is your test, ladies and germs.

The waters are treacherous from here on out, and only the strong will survive. Prepare yourself, but don't try too hard. You want to pace yourself.

Will you, should you, leap from your bed, assuring little snookums that they shall not go hungry for 30 whole minutes that they could have spent sleeping thankyouverymuch (that last part is mumbled under your breath)? Or will you, should you, roll over so your face is now being cradle by the nest your head formed so perfectly in that pillow as it rested overnight, and mumble out the words, "Please, if you really believe in unicorns, and fairies, and the Easter Bunny, you will gimme 5 more minutes"?

I think you're guessing which path I follow. No overbearing helicopter parent here. Uh uh. No sirree bob. I'm raising an independent child. If she can't get her own bowl of Peanut Butter Cheerios now, she's going to figure out a way to get them or wait until 7:30 when the normal human beings who were given the gift of sleeping in and wisely took it actually arise from the warm depths of the comforter.

In 6 (and 3/4) years, this is what I have learned. Children will rise at a ridiculous hour whether that nagging cough they've been carrying around for a week and a half could use some extra shut eye or not.

Parents, on the other hand, need sleep. We gave up enough of it when they were newborns.

But a Mom with sleep behind her is a happier Mom, a kinder Mom, a Mom who doesn't accidentally pour Multi-Grain Cheerios into the bowl when she's supposed to be pouring a bowl of Peanut Butter Cheerios - thereby angering the 6-year-old and making Mom want to slam down the box of cereal and say "If you can do it better, do it yourself!" before stomping off in the direction of her bedroom.

Yes, oh parenting gods, I need my beauty sleep. Because otherwise I turn into ogre Mom. Watch out.

She bites people who judge her.

What is the earliest your kid has gotten up to torture you?

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I'd Rather My Kid Was a Muppet

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 23:26:00 +0000

Add this to the fight over "appropriate" role models for our girls. My daughter went to The Disney Store with my mother just before Christmas (and just after seeing The Muppets in the theater with me on Thanksgiving weekend) and fell in love with a stuffed Miss Piggy doll.

With a fabulous pink evening dress and her flowing blond locks, she was christened "Diva Miss Piggy" by my 6-year-old. I didn't even know she knew the word, much less what it meant. But she's right.

And I must admit that of all the Muppets, she's not a bad one to have your daughter swoon for. Is she self-involved? Sure. A little boy crazy? Is a pig pink?

But as we sat watching the new The Muppets Wocka Wocka Value Pack Blu-Ray (which goshdarnit has a free copy of the soundtrack I had to buy way back over the Thanksgiving weekend so Man or Muppet can be heard blasting from the kid's bedroom every night) I begged the dancing child to come back to the couch for a cuddle. And when she finally did, treating me to a laugh Tex Richman-style as she collapsed on my lap, I leaned in for a whisper. "You know you're pretty awesome just the way you are."

She grinned, flipped me an "I know" and returned to dancing with Diva Miss Piggy in her arms, blissfully unaware that she was so far off the beat she seemed to be listening to a completely different song. She didn't care. She was as happy as a pig in . . . you know.

This is the lesson of Miss Piggy. She is a little on the hefty side -- porcine perhaps? She is a bit of a flibbertigibbet. And she is absolutely sure of herself.

I only wish I could say the same. My habit of apologizing for myself, my tendency to hide my body in oversize hooded sweatshirts, and a bulimic past that isn't past enough are not the types of things I want to pass.

So I look for role models where I can.

And yes, I found them in The Muppets. In Amy Adams embracing her Party of One (might I encourage a "me party" the next time you just need a break? They're worth it). In Miss Piggy's utter faith that she is special, and goshdarnit, she doesn't care what other people think.

I'll be honest ... I'm sharing this this week because The Muppets is on everyone's mind, splashed all over the posters at your local box store, and up for "should it go in the Easter basket" debates. I was more than over the moon to get my mitts on the DVD (blogger disclaimer, I ended up getting a freebie from the folks at Disney so we could indulge in kid's new favorite pastime: watching bonus features ... she recommends you watch the blooper reel at least 20 times).

But I'm also sharing this because sometimes you need to interrupt movie watching with your kid, call them over and tell them how awesome they are. Hopefully, they'll already know.

Is The Muppets going in your kid's Easter basket?

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Sane Mothers Just Take 'Em Bowling (But Who Said Anything About Sanity?)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 12:32:00 +0000

Add this to the list of titles that should come with parenthood: glutton for punishment.

My kid went to a perfectly lovely birthday party at Callicoon's Kristal Bowl last week - her second of the school year, I might add. And by lovely, I do mean everything that puts stars in the eyes of a 6-year-old.

There was noise, there was cake, there was a place willing to give way to a bunch of boisterous 6- and 7-year-old because they actually understand childhood.

And it being a business, not a home, this party spot had everything that puts stars in the eyes of a parent: you leave, they clean up, you go home and relax (and did I mention they also have booze?).

So why, in the name of all that is holy, did I tell my daughter that we probably won't be having a bowling birthday of our own?

She left there happy as a clam. I dream of birthday parties that are no muss, no fuss. I even drop by the Krystal Bowl on occasion myself - with the kid and without. So it's not the place.

I have become a party monster. I need to make the cake - even if it means rolling out Starburst into little doggie tongues at 2 in the morning. I have to control the atmosphere - aka, clean my house from top to bottom and pray that the dog and kid don't undo my hard work before the first guest arrives to bear witness to the rare order and organization. And I have to go big. What's a party without all my friends and their little monkeys, an army's worth of my grandma's macaroni salad and the threat of rain hanging over our heads to drive my stress level through the roof?

I'd tell you, but I don't know exactly. I've never thrown a normal birthday party. I don't know how. Dr. Freud would probably say that biting off more than I can chew on the birthday betrays my working mom guilt or some other malarkey. Overcompensating for the fact that I make her eat whole wheat bread and organic peanut butter sandwiches for lunch maybe? Zeroing out my refusal to get her a pony (I'm in debt to the town for ensuring it remains illegal to keep one in my backyard ... but y'all may want to steer clear of one cranky 6-year-old!)?

Nah. I'm just a glutton for punishment. But I'm working on it. Perhaps we'll go bowling next year?

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Why Pound Puppies Will Make You Love Betty White Even More

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 20:56:00 +0000

When I grow up, I want to be Betty White.

I knew this when she showed up in that Snickers commercial during the Super Bowl. And was further convinced when she rapped I'm Still Hot at 89 flipping years old with a bunch of beefcakes fawning all over her.

But her appearance on the show Pound Puppies just put it over the top.

Yeah, I said Pound Puppies. Didn't you have one? My kid has a Pound Purry. It's rare and it's vintage. And it's been slobbered on and slept with, because that's how we roll with the old toys pulled out of storage.

But back to Betty. There I am trying to focus on a book (Being Lara by Lola Jaye if you must know, but more on that later) while the kid is watching cartoons. And then I hear a voice that sounds awfully familiar. Kind of reminds me of childhood, when my grandmother used to watch The Golden Girls while I read (you getting a sense about me?). So I look up, and there is this fabulous pearl-bedecked older gal with rad red glasses and an insistence that her pup from the shelter is going to kick some purebred tail.

Sniff. Sniff. Right after me "can't take her to the shelter because she'll adopt them all" heart. Betty White is 90 years old with great gams and a sexy, sassy attitude. And she is still trying to convince the world that four-legged doesn't mean free to be abandoned or abused. Thanks to Pound Puppies of all places, web savvy me ended up on the website for the Morris Animal Foundation where Betty's been working for 40 years saving sea otters and funding research into curing bone cancer in dogs.

Yeah.

Hard core.

So why am I talking about this now? I just got pitched (yes, disclaimer from the blogger) on a release of a Pound Puppies: Homeward Pound movie that includes her special episode, Homeward Rebound (along with four others that are pretty cute ... promise). It's a cartoon, but it pretty much sums up everything I've been trying to say for years about how much more valuable our mixed up mutts can be.

And I'm spreading the word on behalf of some video company for one reason: because Pound Puppies was always going to have a piece of my heart thanks to some '80s nostalgia, but with Betty White mania at fever pitch at the moment, I'm hoping that spreading the word on this video will do something else. It will get people to watch, fall in love, then notice a familiar voice, and go where I went ... and be inspired by one of the most kickass women of our times to go adopt a shelter dog like the cuties in the cartoon, or help a sea otter or ... something!

Check Betty out!:

Now tell me you don't want to get all snuggled up with your kids and hook them on Pound Puppies ... come on, raise a future generation of animal saving kids with me!

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Disclaimer: I received a copy of Pound Puppies: Homeward Pound which prompted this post, however I was not paid for this post or required to write it. All opinions and simpering about Betty White is my own.

They Wanted to See My Desk. I Gave Them This

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 20:24:00 +0000

This is how photographers camouflage the mess!

Once upon a time, in a land about 15 minutes from my house (on a sunny day when the Sunday drivers were at home sleeping), I had an office.

I shared it with three men, but one little corner was all mine. And when my packrat tendencies rendered it a gigantic mess, I had no one to blame but myself. Although, since I was the only one who bothered to festoon the place with holiday cheer and could always be counted on for chocolate, they gave me a pass.

Ah, those were the days.

The days when my computer, gigantic calendar, pens, highlighters, soda bottle caps, and all the cr...um, stuff, I can't bear to part with were all I had to worry about. The days before I moved my work to my home, and my dining room table became my "office." The days before my "stuff" was joined by my daughter's "stuff."

I try to keep the place clean. Really. I swear.

There are baskets for the papers, cups for the writing utensils, an honest to goodness can of compressed air at the ready to combat the cheese and cracker crumbs after a working lunch.
But when an email arrived in my inbox last week requesting a "photo of your workspace," it wasn't crumbs I was worried about when the "nooooooooo" came squeaking out of my mouth.

It's the five bottles of kid-safe Piggy Paint nail polish and the non-toxic nail polish remover beside them. It's a children's book named A Boy Called Dickens, and the random pink folder with the words "I love Mom" scrawled across the front. It's the six markers (two left without caps for so long that they're entirely dried out). It's the pair of purple socks. It's the three pages ripped out of a LEGO magazine. It's the scrap of cardboard advising someone to "Have a Dazzling Valentine's Day." It's the white piece of paper with the carefully printed (but awfully hard to decipher) can't, doesn't, don't and your's.

Are you getting this?

It's her "office."

I just work in it.

And now someone wants to see what it looks like? Oh dear. This may take awhile and a garbage bag or two.

So let's see. If I move it all out and get back down to just the necessaries (bye bye restaurant crayons, adieu scrap of wrapping paper from that baby shower gift that just HAD to be saved for a craft project), I might be able to look like your average slob yet.

Quick, snap the picture, it's not going to last long!

Want to see why they needed a picture? Check it out: The Stir is celebrating the Big Number 2!!

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My Little Pony, I Hereby Apologize for Doubting You

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 18:24:00 +0000

So there I was in the Wal-Mart checkout line (yeah, yeah, I live in the boonies peeps) buying kiddo the LaLaLoopsy that she'd begged Santa for, and somehow this checkout boy with Justin Bieber hair was talking about things that were so totally cool for kids. And I let slip that I remember the days of My Little Pony. And yeah, he said he's a fan (after totally making me feel like an old hag when he couldn't believe I had ponies way back in the dark ages of my youth, but anyhoo).

Say whaaaaa? My 6-year-old watches that stuff! Surely he can't be talking about the same thing.

She catches episodes of the reboot, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic on The Hub when we have the time, but more often it's been on YouTube (shhh). And busy mom that I am, I didn't get around to joining in until a DVD arrived in my mailbox (hellloooooo gift from Shout! Factory! This is my disclaimer!) of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic: The Friendship Express (wooooh, long name there).

And it's like the heavens opened, and the lights shined in. I get it now -- the hipster following, the section on Reddit, the Wiki, the memes ... everything.

This show is, like, OMG, deep. Yes, that was sarcasm. But not in a mean way!

There is solid storytelling, some quirky pop culture references, and the animation is heads and tails above the stuff we had as kids. I could sit and watch Twilight Sparkle hang out with the ponies and actually laugh. And smile. And needless to say, there were no thoughts of smacking. my. head. against. a wall. You know -- like I do whenever Max & Ruby comes on.

This can't be a kid's show, can it? It's too good. It's so not what I'm used to.

So this is my mea culpa to nameless Justin Bieber hair dude. This My Little Pony stuff is pretty cool ... for all of us.

Who is your favorite My Little Pony? You know you have one!

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Forgive Me, For I Have Sinned at IKEA

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 13:34:00 +0000

Folks, I have a problem. When I venture outside of the county for a major shop, I feel guilty. There. I said it.

I, Jeanne Sager, got in the car early Saturday morning with one of my best friends from childhood with an adventure in mind. Our objective? A desk for the kid's room that wouldn't cost me my arm, my leg, and her -- my firstborn (not to mention only born).

I stumbled on a debate recently over why Sullivan County residents flock out of this place in droves to do their shopping, and there were more than a few voices who would call my trip traitorous.

Fact is, I've always tried to be a promoter of the shop local movement and I pay it more than lip service. There is good stuff here, folks, marvelous stuff, if you actually bother to use it.

Best birthday present I received last year? Massage gift certificates to Western Sullivan Massage, right in Jeffersonville. Easiest Christmas presents purchased last year? Gift certificates (sensing a theme?) to the eclectic Global Home - again in Jeffersonville - and the Callicoon Theater.

See! I'm legit! I don't talk out of my you-know-what.

But did I mention there isn't a store in this county that sells the moisturizer that's done wonders for my skin? And I'd love to buy the kid a pair of nice jeans at a fancy boutique, but fancy boutique jeans gets holes in the knees from recess just as fast as the $10 box store stuff, only they hurt my pride more.

I love my small town, but let's just say I work at home and sometimes this writer needs a real adventure -- one that requires a drive with a friend and a credit card.

So fast forward to Saturday night and the reality of being a shop local do-gooder who can't always do good.

The floor of the playroom was a disaster. Baggie of hardware here. Long boards there. Wooden dowels as far as the eye could see.

And then it happened. My husband realized the project I'd delivered onto him on a Saturday afternoon could not be completed -- at least not with the components inside the two boxes I'd loaded just hours before from the correct aisles and bins at the Swedish wonderland 200 miles away.

While I tried to affix a Pepto Bismol pink plastic seat to a metal base, my husband was turning the playroom upside down hoping the missing pieces for our kid's new desk would magically appear.
They didn't. Surprise, surprise. A few phone calls later, and they are on their way, expected to be delivered by FedEX ... sometime.

No wonder it was on sale.

Go ahead and rag on me for crossing our borders. I won't be able to use my guest room until it's free of boards, dowels, and baggies of hardware. I think I'm due a break!

Fellow country living folks, be honest ... what do you venture out to buy (and do you regret it)?

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Photo via seanboyer/Flickr

Raising 'Em Country Doesn't Mean Closing 'Em Off

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 13:30:00 +0000

Flip through the photos of my kid, and you can draw only one conclusion. Kid on great-uncle's lap on a tractor. Kid grinning out from under a dirt-smeared face. Kid holding a balloon printed with the black and white markings of a cow.

Yes. She's a country kid.

And hot darn, I'm proud. I'm like a pig in, well, you know. I have successfully gotten her to 6 years old, and she's so used to the smell of cow manure she's more or less immune. And she wouldn't dream of trying to walk anywhere because everyone knows it takes a car to get where you really have to go.

So you'll imagine my amusement at the Internet diatribe directed my way for daring to raise a child "in the middle of nowhere."

Oh my stars, these folks actually think that we lead a dull and boring existence, where the television is our children's only means of exposure to the outside world.

Snort.

They do know we have these new-fangled things with motors and steering wheels that we drive out of west nosepick and into "society," right? Not to mention there's a fair share of the county where the "outside world" looks a heckuva lot like the hills and dales of this here country bumpkin-ville.

It's a benefit that country kids develop as they edge: the ability to look at our childhoods objectively. We know that we weren't raised in a thriving metropolis. But it hardly means we want for adventure.

Besides the jaunts into so-called civilization (because, gee, we like to travel too), there are stars to be watched at night and frogs to be caught in the morning. There are backyards to be explored with faithful pups at our side and groundhogs avoiding our every move while trying to steal the freshly dumped ears of corn off the compost pile.

There are tractors to drive before cars, scooters to be scooted over treacherous terrain (aka long driveways), and that's just the half of it.

The true challenge to raising a country kid isn't trying to fill their boredom. It's trying to fit it all in.

Where are you raising a kiddo? What's the best part of where you are?

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Famous Rainbow Cake: An Alternate Take in Half the Time

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 19:18:00 +0000

The rainbow cake has achieved legendary status in the blogosphere. You can't mention your daughter's upcoming birthday without someone sending you a link to this one or that one. But what about those of us who just don't have the time -- or the counter space -- to bake six individual cakes in different colors?

Allow me to rescue you. Because my take on the rainbow cake came from precisely that problem: no time.

Let me set the stage. It was a dark and ungodly humid night in June. The plan was to make a cupcake cake in the shape of a rainbow -- different color icing on each tier. Kiddo has a friend with a red food dye allergy, and this would allow her to eat a white cloud cupcake without feeling like she had been left out.

But you know what happens when you make plans, don't you?

Yeah, the gods were pissed off at me that weekend. First they'd killed my Internet router, forcing me to take an entire day off from work (that's what happens when your job is ON the Internet). Then they slated rain for a day when my teeny weeny house would be crowded with 6-year-olds. And then there were the cupcakes. Which stuck.

Yeah. That thought that just went through your mind? Mine exactly.

Here it was 8 o'clock at night, the night before the kid's birthday party, and the cupcakes were a disastrous mess. And I didn't really have the wherewithal or the ingredients to risk making them all over again and having it happen again.

So I improvised. And the results are a time-strapped mom's best bet for their own rainbow cake. All you need?

1. Your favorite cake recipe -- I used my mom's 1, 2, 3, 4 cake recipe (1 cup of butter, 2 cups sugar, etc.).

2. Your favorite frosting recipe -- I always make a cream cheese frosting because it's a fave in my family -- in a color you prefer. I did pink because she's a pink kind of kid, but blue would have made more sense!

3. Multi-colored Twizzlers -- I used the regular Twists -- to create a rainbow. Use kitchen scissors to cut to the right size, and roll slightly in your hands to warm the twists, making them easier to bend. Don't be afraid to press them into your frosting so they'll stay bent. I also used these to make a pot of "gold" under the rainbow.

4. Giant marshmallows -- cut in half to make clouds.

5. Star sprinkles (like these from Wilton). Fill your little pot of gold!

And here you go:

And with My Little Ponies added:

Any other ideas for a rainbow cake? I'd love to hear them ... 7 is coming 'round the corner!

More Birthday Party Talk:

Sugar My Kid Up ... Or ELSE!

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Free Self Esteem Boost Waiting at a 1st Grade Near You

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 23:21:00 +0000

My funny Valentine

Well, it happened. I finally got the time off of the gig that pays my bills to put in some quality time at my real job.

I made it into the school to be the helper mom for a few hours on Valentine's Day.

If you have never volunteered in a first grade classroom, I suggest you clear your schedule immediately and find one, any one that will accept a warm body for an hour or two.
There's no self-esteem boost quite like being the new face on the extra tall body (well, in comparison) around a bunch of 6- and freshly 7-year-olds. They love you, they really love you! And all you have to do is show up with a smile on your face.

Suddenly you are the chief hug-giver, hand-holder, and prime story-listen-to-er (yes, I just made that one up). You are the star of the show.

To be honest, helper mom is a bit of a misnomer. Besides stuffing a few folders and pouring some cups of juice, I don't really know how much help I was.

Entertainment for the hour may be a better description?

Like a performing monkey, I danced. I compared my own (crooked) teeth to those of 6-year-olds so proud to have the wide gap-toothed grins that make me want to squee at their cuteness. I made appropriately impressed noises over Valentines given and Valentines received.

I basked in the kind of love that made me, the mother who is happy to be "one and done" with my only child, suddenly understand why someone would want to teach a classroom of rowdy 6-year-olds.

I'm not going to say teaching is an easy job. But now I "get" the reward.

It's like motherhood. But you get to send them home at the end of the day to the rest of us.

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You're Never Too Old to Get Lost ... In An Elementary School

noreply@blogger.com (Jeanne Sager) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 22:32:00 +0000

Here's one of the old Inside Outs from the newspaper up on here! Enjoy one from September 2010!

There were maps to the school available on meet the teacher night.

My husband scoffed.

I wasn't so sure.

I went to a school that was shaped like an L. There were no wings. You went straight. Then you turned left.
Or you went went straight. Then you turned right.

If you were feeling especially ambitious, you went up a set of stairs. Then you went straight. And then . . . you guessed it. You turned right.

There was no way to get lost.

I've since been in dozens of school buildings - most of them right here in Sullivan County - but in the post-Columbine era the reporter is almost always escorted.

Which has worked out to mindless wanderings for me, consumed by little more than checking out the scenery while a guide keeps me on track.

I've been spoiled.

And now my kid's in a new school (new to me anyway) with wings. And random hallways that jut out and make wonder, was I supposed to turn there? Or there?

Should I cut through the . . . wait, is that a gym? A cafeteria?

I'll give the designers the benefit of the doubt. It will all make sense to me one day. Just not yet.

Now I'm still feeling like a newbie who just moved to Sullivan County trying to figure out the back roads.

Do they GPS map schools?

No? Maybe I'm onto something.

The kindergartner can use it the first few days, then bring it home for Mom and Dad to save them feeling ludicrous wandering the hallways and poking their heads in random classrooms on parent-teacher conference evenings.

If you haven't been in an elementary school lately, a reminder: small chairs all start to look the same after awhile. You haven't fit in any of them in decades.

Although now they stick tennis balls on the bottom to save the janitors from hours of scrubbing black marks off the floor.

I think we may have been shooting for those marks more so than the loud noise that made the teachers jump when we were kids. An apology to our janitors, wherever they may be.

It seems it's more than the wings and the hallways that have disconcerted me.

That L was longer ago than I thought.

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