Full Disclosure

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.

Full Disclosure

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.

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Full Disclosure: Slow Your Roll

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Why do I feel like I am already behind schedule for the holidays? It could be because I caught Post Office elves decking the halls weeks ago with winter displays. Or that stores had replaced Halloween candy with Christmas confections a week before Trick-or-Treaters set foot out the door. Perhaps running into my friend who was finishing her holiday gift shopping at The Whitney Shop sent me into a tailspin. No wonder why I feel holi-cray.

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Full Disclosure: Spot On

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I suffer from a little known, debilitating condition—‘PPA,’ parallel parking anxiety. Randy, my instructor from New Canaan’s Lewis School of Driving, diagnosed the affliction in 1990. To this day, should a spot open up on Elm Street that requires parallel parking, I white-knuckle the steering wheel and give myself a pep talk. I will never effortlessly glide into a parallel spot—especially when judgemental outdoor diners have front-row seats to my humiliation. If only I had a hologram-like Obi-Wan Kenobi version of Randy to calm me, I’d probably get past my parking issues.