A 12-year-old boy is running Donald Trump’s presidential campaign office in one of Colorado’s most vital counties, according to a new report.
Weston Imer runs operations for the GOP presidential nominee’s camp in Jefferson County, KDVR News said Sunday.
KDVR News said Jefferson County is one of the most populous counties in Colorado as it includes part of the Denver metro area.
Imer is responsible for gathering volunteers and helping get out the vote for Trump in the critical swing state, the news station added.
KDVR News said Weston Imer starts school next month, so he hopes to perform his job with Trump’s campaign until at least that time.
Maybe he can get a note from his mother.
Katie Ledecky and Michael Phelps recreating (and flipping) their photo of ten years ago.
Makes me kind of teary. *sniff*
Darren Rovell @darrenrovell
10 years ago: A 9-year-old named Katie Ledecky gets an autograph from Michael Phelps. (Credit: Ledecky family)
I came across this 2009 post of mine deep within the bowels of my blog’s archive.
(Sorry for the colonic imagery.)
I think it’s still relevant today, so…here you go.
By today’s standards for parenting, my entire generation shouldn’t have made it to adulthood.
The other day my daughter attended a “meet and greet” with the teachers at the private school my grand-kids attend. She figured it would be the usual get-together where the teacher expounds upon the lesson plan for the year, the parent listens while politely munching on a cookie provided by the room mother, and then the teacher fields a few questions on mundane topics such as “can little Herkimer wear his orthodontic headgear in class.”
Instead, my daughter was taken aback by the grilling some of the mothers gave my grandson’s second grade teacher, Miss F., a young single gal with a bookish demeanor but, apparently, nerves of steel.
The intensity and depth of the questioning were quite surprising.
Sarah Palin was given more leeway by Katie Couric than the young Miss F. received from her inquisitors.
The climax of the interrogation arrived when one of the mothers said she wanted to personally deliver a Subway sandwich to her daughter every day for snack time. (I will interject here that the kids in kindergarten through second grade get out of school at 12:15, so there is no actual lunch period.)
Our Miss F. maintained her cool while informing the mother that this was not an option. She explained if the children want a snack, they must bring it with them from home. Anything out of the norm would be disruptive to the class and interfere with the egalitarian atmosphere that the school was trying to project.
The mother wasn’t listening. She pressed on by asking if she could just “hang it on the classroom doorknob” so as not to disturb anyone. Miss F. wasn’t buying this either, but apparently it took some discussion before the case was closed.
When my daughter related this conversation to me, I raised my hands to shoulder level and made little fluttering motions with my fingers.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Helicopter parents” I said, to clarify that I wasn’t having a stroke or something.
She hadn’t heard that before, so I went on to explain the concept of parents who continuously hover over their kids, anticipating their every need. These are parents who have completely invested themselves in their children, possibly setting up their kids for a rude awakening at some point when they discover the universe is not centered around them.
In the days since hearing of Miss F.’s inquisition, I’ve been reflecting upon my own upbringing. Certainly my mother worried about things like me putting my eye out if I ran with scissors, but there wasn’t a lot of concern about many of the things that are taken for granted with child raising today.
We rode bikes everyday and didn’t wear protective helmets. We wandered around the neighborhood and beyond all day and into the dusk, only returning home after hearing my father’s loud whistle from the front yard.
My mother used to put big gobs of Vicks Vapor Rub up our noses when we had colds. If you actually read the directions, it emphatically says not to use it anywhere internally, only on the chest. I should be dead right now. But, if my mother had her way, she would have found a way to cure cancer with Vicks, she loved it so much.
My parents had a baby-blue Oldsmobile. There were no seatbelts and the dashboard was solid metal. We kids used to rattle around in the backseat and very often I would ride in what we called “the way back”, that spot that was sort of a ledge behind the backseat and below the rear window. If there had been a quick deceleration, I would have been a projectile object. No one gave it any thought.
I practiced a form of benign neglect with my own kids. Yes, they wore seat belts, always. (By that time we did have them, thankfully.) But when it came to overseeing every little detail of their day, that I didn’t do.
Maybe this attitude of “live and let live” was a result of my mother always wanting to know what I was thinking. It wasn’t out of concern for my well-being. She just wanted to know what was going on in my little head at all times. So perhaps allowing my kids to have some independence from the Thought Police resulted in my being more of a laissez-faire parent overall.
Yes, things have changed in this country since the 50’s and 60’s and not in good ways. There are a lot more threats out there to children than there used to be. But kids need room to grow into individuals and they can’t do it with Mom and Dad always fluttering overhead.
Be like my mother. Send the kid to school with a warm tuna sandwich.
Now, that’s living dangerously.