My 10-month-old son took his very first little step yesterday.  He's not quite walking yet, but I can hardly wait until he does. 

 At 25 pounds, he is so heavy to carry around... he actually cause me a health scare!

I kept feeling this weird little sensation on the right side of my chest.  In the upper *** area. 

Hypochondriac that I am, the first thing that I thought was... 'Oh no, a blocked artery!'

I ran to the doctor... gave her some inflated description of my symptoms.  She hooked me up to an electrocardiogram.  All was normal.

"But it feels weird!" I wailed.  So she sent me off to a cardiologist.

The cardiologist ran some tests, all of which came back normal.

Long story short... he told me my problem sounded like muscle spasms. 

"Do you lift weights?" he asked.

"No," I said.  "The only thing I carry around is my son."

And then it hit me.  And I felt really dumb.

I am so out of shape... my muscles are so lax... that carrying around my 10-month-old in my right arm caused me to strain a chest muscle.

So health scare over... thank God!

But it just may be time to get to the gym...

My daughter was thrilled when she came home from school a couple of weeks ago.

"You're coming on my field trip to the museum!!" she said.

"Oh... yeah," I said. 

Oh, yeah.

Don't get me wrong... I really do want to chaperone field trips.  But this was one of those deals I had signed up for at the beginning of the school year when I was fresh off maternity leave... rested and ready to take on the world.

Six months back on the job and into the school year, well frankly, I just not nearly as peppy.   Especially when the field trip was slated to end at 2 p.m., and I had to be on set anchoring at 3 p.m.

Knowing this, Ashley's teacher was ready to let me off the hook. 

God bless these teachers who get the whole 'I'm-a-working-parent-just-trying-to-make-sure-my-child-doesn't-resent-me-but-dang-I'm-exhausted" thing.  

But I told her I absolutely wanted to go... so she let me drive my own car.

We all arrived at the museum at 9 o'clock that morning.  By about 9:45 some of the seven-year-olds started getting bored.  At around 10:30 one parent turned to me and said, "I can't take it... I just can't take the complaining anymore!!!"

Really?  Ever been to a newsroom just before deadline? 

The rest of the day was basically a blur of "I'm hungry!" and "I'm tired!" and "Can we head upstairs to see the mummy again?"

Five hours later, I was exhausted... and just about two hours out from the start of my work day.

But when I kissed my daughter and put her and her friends on the bus back to school, I felt wonderfully gratified.  Because career or not, my children come first.

I'll go on the next field trip, and many more after that.

Because if you miss these days... you'll never get them back.

Ever try getting ready for work with a rambunctious nine-month-old teetering around?  That's the challenge I face now that my baby Noah is crawling/pulling himself up/getting into everything!

My husband and seven-year-old daughter are usually long gone by the time I have to start pulling myself together, so there's no extra hands around.  I usually try and put Noah in the exersaucer in my bedroom while I watch him from the master bath.  But he's getting to the point where that thing bores him... he'd rather be out, exploring.

Not good for mommy, because looking good is a crucial part of my job.  If I don't have time to flat-iron out the kinks or slap some makeup on, viewers just might call the station complaining that I look like a bag lady.

(No joke.  That actually happens.  Can you imagine?)

But recently on one of my days off, I made a wonderful discovery!  I was watching an episode of Sesame Street with my son, and he sat there, absolutely riveted.  I put him in his exersaucer, and he couldn't take his eyes of Elmo.

So now, I can put him in his exersaucer and play a DVR'd episode and he'll just sit there until Mommy finishes up with her primping.  In fact, I sometimes think I may be actually bothering him if I try talking to him while Sesame Street is on.

So here's to Sesame Street!  I loved it myself as a kid.  My older kid loved it.  And now my baby is officially on board.

God bless the people who work behind the scenes there, and the work they do! 

This was a discussion that I thought was years away. 

But yesterday, I decided to talk to my seven-year-old daughter about drugs. 

The reason? An image that has been seared into my conciousness: Madison Kiefer's family mourning her at her funeral. 

Her father's incredibly touching and honest eulogy.  Watching him and the rest of his children escort their Madison's coffin out of the church to her final resting place.  I don't know Madison Kiefer's father, but I'll be he's an incredible dad.  What happened to his daughter was not his fault.  Sometimes in life, all you can do is equip your child with information, and pray that God protects them as they make their way into the world.

So I decided to talk to my seven-year-old about drugs.  She wandered into my bathroom as I was getting ready for work on Saturday, like she usually does.  She was babbling on about something when I cut her off mid-sentence.

"Ashley," I said.  "Mommy read a news story about a young girl who died of drugs.  Bad drugs that bad people gave her.  If anyone ever offers you a pill or anything else that they say will make you feel good, tell them no, and tell Mommy or Daddy.  O.k.?"

"O.k.," she said.

"Never take any drugs from strangers.  Never take any drugs from your friends.  If  they offer you drugs, they're not your friends."

"O.k.," she said.

I guess the conversation was a little more heavy than she bargained for, so she kind of slinked out of the bathroom right about then to do something else.

That's o.k.  We'll be having plenty more conversations like this one.  Many, many more.

As much as we would all like to, there is no way to bring Madison Kiefer back to this world, back to her family. 

But though her death, I for one have become emboldened about talking to my own child about drugs.  And I'm sure there are many more parents in our area doing the same thing. 

And if there's something I know for sure in this world, it's that the Madison Kiefer story will resonate with someone's child, and save someone's life.

So through the pain of telling her story, the one thing we can take comfort in is knowing that Madison Kiefer's life was not in vain.

When my best friend Betty and I became parents, we had a laundry list of things we swore we would never do, out of fear of becoming totally "uncool".

Topping that list:  We swore we would never drive minivans.  Swore that we would never give up on mani/pedis.  And swore we would never become "cookie pushers" at work. 

Well, I guess two out of three ain't bad.

Because now that my little Ashley is a Girl Scout Brownie,  I'm hawking cookies like my life depends on it. 

So this is how the other half lives...

I admit, I used to secretly laugh at moms who would get into cookie selling battles at the office.  The people who would cry fowl over territorial rights: "Don't sell your cookies in the sales department, and I won't try to sell mine in the newsroom."

Of course, I've always supported these moms myself.  It's pretty hard to turn down Girl Scout coookies.   I mean, have you ever tasted a Caramel deLight?  Ever dipped a Thin Mint in vanilla ice cream?  Ever dipped a Peanut Butter Pattie... in peanut butter?

My kid wants to sell a thousand boxes so she could win an iPod Nano.  I told her the only way that would happen is if Mommy gives up her job for a week and we set up a booth at the local supermarket.  And that's not going to happen.

I also told her we should really go out and sell the darn cookies door-to-door so she could learn a lesson about what it means to earn something in life.  But with sub-zero temps in the forecast for the next couple of weeks or so, that's probably not going to happen either.

So Mommy's running around the office, hat-in-hand, schlepping cookies. 

And between my two kids, my husband, my friends and my job, I'm overdue for my mani/pedi.

Hmmm. 

Exactly how much mileage can you get on those minivans anyways??

Not for nothing... but I cooked up such good food this holiday season, I almost scared myself.

At Thanksgiving it was a feast of Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, a nutty brussel sprout dish, and ham. 

Then at Christmas, prime rib with black eyed peas and rice, scalloped potatoes, broccoli gratin, a shrimp dish, corn, and an encore performace of the brussel sprouts.

All of my guests ate hearty... and raved over the food.   So I didn't even notice that it turns out my daughter Ashley, barely ate anything at either holiday spread.

I was asking her yesterday what she thought of Mommy's turkey and prime rib and all that stuff.

"I didn't like it," she said.  "Didn't eat it."

I asked her, "Well, what did you eat?"

She responded, "Bread, corn, some rice."

I was dumbfounded.  While I was scurrying around the kitchen making sure my guest were well fed, it turns out that my seven-year-old was turning up her nose at most of the food put in front of her.  I should have seen it coming.

Turns out the food I cooked was just too sophisticated for my Ashley.  I mean, how many kids her age really look forward to a slice of prime rib with all the fixings?  And turkey and ham aren't really her thing, unless it's processed and served between two slices of bread with a little mayo.

I feel kind of bad... but I do know that eventually my kid's tastes will evolve.

But until that happens, next holiday season I'll consider all the traditional dishes....

.... with a side of chicken fingers and tater tots just for her.

There I was standing in the American Girl Doll Store.... a new, shiny pink two-story fantasy world in the heart of Chicago's Miracle Mile. 

And there I was explaining a topic I didn't really think I'd have to address on this "girls' getaway" with my seven-year-old daughter the day after Thanksgiving:  The history of slavery in America.

You see my daughter wanted a doll.  An African-American American Girl doll.  And the only African-American doll in the historic dolls section of the store is a character named Addy Walker. 

And Addy's story?

She, her mother, and little sister were trying to escape slavery in order to find Addy's father and brother who had already been sold off. 

And Addy and her mother had to decide what to do with her baby sister, whose cries could lead to them being captured  by the slave owners.  I flipped through the "Addy" book that came with the doll.  On one of the pages was an illustration of a whip.  A whip.

Sorry, I grimaced.

I know slavery is an important and very painful part of the American story.  But the whole thing was just a little bit more than I was ready to deal with on what was supposed to be a carefree afternoon in Chicago.

Can we have an African American/American Girl doll who maybe tells the tale of the Civil Rights era?  Or maybe one who offers the story about African American's contribution to the Jazz era?  Or something?

I just wasn't ready for the slavery discussion.  So we chose another African American doll from the "Just Like Me" section of the store.

As a mother, I like to be a realist.  But I believe there is a time to be frank, and a time to have fun.  So I skipped over the Addy doll.

Because slavery is never a topic that I feel comfortable associating with my daughter's entertainment.

A couple of our extremely television savvy viewers messaged me, asking where I was this past weekend. 

You see, it's November.  A ratings period.  Anchors don't usually take off during the so-called "sweeps" period.

Well... they do in the case of a family emergency:

My husband's grandmother passed away last week and we had to travel to her funeral in New Jersey.  

Which meant a plane ride with the kids... a first for my five-month-old son Noah.

My seven-year-old is a wonderful traveler.  Always has been.  But I wasn't so sure how my baby would handle high altitude.  I've heard terrible stories about babies' eardrums popping on planes leading to loud and frantic meltdowns.  I really didn't want to be that mother desperately trying to calm her cranky baby. 

And what to pack for my little guy?  You know they dribble their way through countless bibs and onesies, or have superpoops that can leak halfway up their backs.

My cost-conscious husband laid down the law early --- our family would check only one bag, since the airline was demanding we now pay for it.  So I loaded our luggage up with all the baby accoutrements known to man --- onesies, blankets, bibs, burb cloths, sweaters, rattles, washclothes and bottles...

And stuff for the seven-year-old --- books, her own blanket, outfits, backup outfits and matching shoes, socks and ribbons.

I threw a few things for myself and ran out of space.  My husband had to pack a separate duffle bag for himself.

So how was the flight?  Surprisingly good!  The baby was peaceful, the seven-year-old read to herself and watched her DVD.  My husband and I congratulated ourselves on having such wonderful kids.

Sorry if you're gagging.  I can hardly believe it myself.

But for two busy people with barely a moment to spare.... I thank God that I've been blessed with such easygoing kids.

I can only hope they stay this way forever.