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Full Disclosure: Unknown Caller

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It’s official, the subtle art of dodging a phone call has been lost. Most New Canaanites simply avoid answering the phone anymore, unless of course, it is the Office of Emergency Management calling with timely, critical information. We have all been burned far too many times to think that the person on the end of the line is truly who Caller ID says they are—I am talking to you, Somali Pirate, who has been trying to lure me into a phone conversation for months. I remember the glorious moment when Caller ID first rolled out and became a standard operating feature. It was the dawn of a new day to gain the inside track on who had dialed.

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Full Disclosure: The Email That Launched a Thousand Emails

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On Valentine’s Day, many hearts simultaneously broke throughout New Canaan with a single widely distributed email. 

As some swooned over loved ones or batted eyelashes at a crush, the much adored and longstanding principal of South School, Joanne Rocco, announced her retirement in an email to parents. 

It was an email that launched a thousand forwarded messages, and reduced many to tears. 

I received numerous frantic messages about the breaking news—or shall I say, heartbreaking news. Though I no longer have students at South, I felt a mix of immense sorrow for those families who will not know Ms. Rocco and absolute triumph that my kids attended “her” school. My family had six blissful years reaping the rewards of Joanne’s hard work and tenure. The thought of her absence is a big blow to our community. 

And to pile on the hurt, it seems that our schools are getting hit hard this winter. Our Board of Education is fighting an uphill battle with town bodies to fully fund its proposed budget while in Hartford, the state government is flexing its muscular overreach, introducing bills that call for school regionalization. 

I have officially exceeded my threshold and cannot take any more unexpected news regarding our schools.

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Full Disclosure: Under Cover

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My ability to sleep for lengthy durations is what legends are made of. 

Not to sound cocky, but if the Sleep Olympics were to ever come to fruition, I would be its Michael Phelps. It’s been said, mainly by my husband, that I could rival hibernating bears, or possibly a famous groundhog. Last week’s two-hour ice-related school delay was just what this sleep-junky needed. New Canaan’s impassioned parent advocacy group that is promoting later, healthier school start times makes excellent points about student wellness and the pitfalls of chronic sleep loss. 

What may be overlooked is that weary parents, like me, also could operate at a much higher level of competence, and caring, with a bit more time under the covers. With the two bonus hours awarded by our superintendent, I coached myself back into sleep endurance training mode.

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Full Disclosure: What’s Stalking New Canaan

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Cheers to 2019 and here’s to hoping that most of New Canaan has broken their New Year’s resolutions, or at least cheated a little bit. That way, I can feel validated for not even trying to tweak my bad habits or curb my indulgences. Life’s too short to be anything other than perfectly imperfect. 

Sure, I could eat healthier, drink less wine and embrace the “hungry feeling,” but it’s too much fun and gratifying being a little bit bad. Plus, observing all of my friends’ self-torture from the sidelines is a hoot, and my new pastime. 

You see, a vast majority of my fellow New Canaanites have adopted the same health kick: “juicing.” 

And I don’t mean that they are engaging in illicit steroid use. Sadly, I think I am the only one who inwardly giggles when a “juicing” reference is made and I conjure up images of bikini clad, orange-stained bodybuilding New Canaan moms in a ‘roid-fueled rampage.

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Full Disclosure: Not Everyone Is an Athlete

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It escaped local media attention that I was trapped for two hours on a recent Tuesday night in a choir room with 30 middle school boys. 

Imagine sharing a cage full of rabid squirrels with opposable thumbs—it was worse. Partially my fault for giving in to misguided guilt, I volunteered to chaperone during play rehearsals. On my tour of duty, I was asked to contain the hyperactive thespians and to basically keep boys from “being boys”—as if evolutionary psychology was based on a hunch. I removed contraband electronics, non-sanctioned snacks, a pencil-shiv, and even disarmed a method actor brandishing a repurposed tissue box-turned-machete. During the choir room stand-off, I could not begin to fathom how these maniacs were going to pull off the musical production of Alice in Wonderland Jr.

Well, miracles do happen. On opening night, I sat up front and anxiously prayed for each mini-actor to become reincarnated as Liza Minnelli or Joel Grey.