Parenting Problems: looking back on my 6 minutes of fame

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I made my first real friend 1995, a result of our placement in Mrs. Holloway’s kindergarten classroom and shared love of art. From that year forward, we were inseperable and would spend hours at her old, Vicotorian house reading and playing with our American Girl dolls.

Her dad, Mr. Walton, happened to work as a cameraman for one of the local television stations – which came along with a handful of perks that make a 10-year-old feel awfully important. We got to sit on the set and watch the WNDU evening news play out in front of our eyes, and Mr. Walton was always there to help us edit footage for the homemade music videos we dreamed of sending in to MTV’s Total Request Live.

Of all the experiences Mr. Walton allowed us, however, the most exciting took place halfway through my third grade year.

Let me just preface this with the fact that I was a pretty cluttered child. Whether it was scatered piles of navy and white school uniform clothes, Tiger Beat magzines or my endless collection of body glitter, my floor was routinely covered to point where you couldn’t actually see the carpet. My college roommate whipped my into shape (thanks, Lindsey!), so it’s not so much of a problem anymore, but in 1999 it was a “Parenting Problem.”

WNDU came up with the idea to run a series of packages on the nightly new details common parenting problems and how they could be remedied. I’m not sure how he’d heard of my messy tendancies, but Mr. Walton approached my mom one afternoon after school to see if I’d like to be featured on the segment, “Parenting Problems: Messy Bedrooms.”

It took me no more that two seconds to respond with a resounding yes. Me? On TV? Of course! Not until much, much later did I realize the embarassing implications of not only a camera crew documenting my pigsty, but of my mother speaking on the record about just how messy I was as well.

The camera crew came two seperate nights, one for a “before” shot and to grab some footage of a store in town installing a fancy, new closet organizer and a second night for an “after” shot. The catch? I had to actually clean my room between the two shots. This wasn’t a huge deal though – preteen me would have done just about anything for my six minutes of fame.

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