Don't Tell the Boss

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.

In the era of America's first black president, prepare yourself for America's first black princess. 

Here's a rendering:

 

Last year, I wrote a blog about how the Walt Disney Company was preparing to release a new animated film this year featuring its African American heroine.   The character was to be a new role model for little girls from every background.  And the movie was supposed to be a chance for Disney to redeem itself after coming under criticism for not having ever featured an African-American princess in any of its big budget animated movies.

Then the pundits stepped in.

The original movie was supposed to be a musical set in 1920's New Orleans.  The "princess" was to be a girl named Maddy, a black chambermaid working for a white Southern debutante. Maddy was supposed to get help from a vodoo priestess fairy godmother to win the heart of a white prince.  And the working title of the film: "The Frog Princess".

Yikes.  You see where this is going, right?

Critics said the name "Maddy" sounded too much like "Mammy", a term that echoes back to the segregated south.  They said the fact that the black character would be working for a white woman also smacked of bigotry.  The whole vodoo angle?  A stereotype that black people (especially those from the West Indies) would rather not be associated with.  The white prince?  What about a royal black brother?  And the title "The Frog Princess"?  That was interpreted as a racial slur.

The folks at Disney... savvy marketers that they are... retooled.  New story, new character name, new attitude.

Then they released this statement:

"The story takes place takes place in the charming elegance and grandeur of New Orleans' fabled French Quarter during the Jazz Age... Princess Tatiana will be a heroine in the great tradition of Disney's rich animated fairy tale legacy, and all other characters and aspects of the story will be treated with the greatest respect and sensitivity."

Hmmm.  It really is a far cry from that chick with the seven dwarfs.

And in just goes to show that even in the world of fairy tales... nothing is as simple as black and white.

When I delivered my son Noah seven months ago,  I got the breastfeeding speech:

"Make sure you breastfeed your baby," lactation consultants told me.  "Your milk has all the nutrients your baby needs."

True, it is imperative that new mothers at least try to breastfeed.  Breastmilk is easily digestible, has an abundance of nutrients that can boost a baby's immune system, it helps a baby grow...  and has so many other benefits. 

But be wary: Breastmilk is not always nature's perfect food.

Turns out many new mothers are Vitamin D deficient. 

You know... vitamin D.  

You get it mainly from milk products and spending some time outside in the sun.  But many women, especially African Americans, are lactose intolerant.  No milk... no vitamin D.

In addition to this, those of us who live in northern cities with long winters lack sunshine time... so no vitamin D source there.

And lack of vitamin D can expose your child to a rare childhood disorder called rickets.  It's the weakening of the bones that often goes undetected for several months.

In a story that I produced for our 10 p.m. newscast tonight, we interviewed a mom whose two year old daughter was diagnosed with rickets after a minor fall caused the little girl to break her leg.

And hear from the mom of a preemie, who is now supplementing her breastmilk with vitamin D to make sure her new baby has an extra fighting chance.

This is a story new moms really need to hear.

Because while wonderful...  even breastmilk sometimes need that extra boost.

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.

As a reporter, I've seen and heard just about everything. 

There are often so many gross elements in the stories that we cover, that good taste often dictates that we spare you, our viewers, the dirty details. 

There is one story that I covered this week that really disturbed me, as a parent.  It was the story about the guy who was allegedly masturbating in a bathroom at the Milwaukee Public Museum.  Here's what happened:

A group of sixth grade boys on a school field trip went to use a bathroom just off the museum's main concourse.  That's the area open to the public.  When the kids got inside the bathroom, they say they noticed feet in a stall surrounded by porn magazines on the floor.  The boys told this to a parent chaperone who investigated.  Not only were the boys telling the truth, she told me, but she could hear the man in the stall moaning.  It was pretty clear what he was up to.  Security was called, but the guy got away.

Museum officials were mortified, but helpful.  They released a surveillance picture of the suspect, and were just as relieved as the rest of us when the guy was spotted and arrested within a day.  But here's the kicker:

The police had to let the suspect go.  They couldn't charge him with anything, because no one actually saw him "doing the do".

I mean, really.

Tens of thousands of school children visit our museum every year.  My own child will be heading their with her class in March.  And if you know anything about kids on a field trip, you know that it takes real effort to keep track of all of them.  And the younger the children, the more likely some of them will have to have to "go potty".

The museum has taken steps to beef up security in its public areas.  Still, this story is a stark reminder to all adults that you have to be extra vigilant with kids in public places.  What if this guy... or another deviant like him... decides to hole himself up in a corner of a bathrom again? Or some other out of the way place?

What happens if the pervert grows tired of porn magazines, and targets a child?  You know as well as I do that it happens.

I don't mean to sound like I'm dumping on the museum.  It is a safe, wonderful and terrifically educational place to bring children.

But parents please... as you head there or any other public place, do not have a false sense of security.

Danger lurks in the most unexpected places.  

And when the law can't protect your child, you'd better be sure you are protecting them yourself.

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.

The first thing I thought about Tuesday night was my children.

And then I cried.

I couldn't help myself. I cried when it became clear that the nation would have its first black president.

Yes, I'm a journalist.  Yes, I'm fair and impartial in my reporting.

But I am also human.  So when it became clear that a black man had been elected president, I moved into a private corner of the room, and tears ran down my cheeks..

I cried because I am so happy that my elderly parents lived to see this day.

I cried because my own children now have a real life example that they can achieve anything they want in this world, regardless of race.

I cried because the United States and the world now have an example of a high profile black man who isn't a rapper, dancer, or thug.

I cried because this is a new day in America... and I'm so thrilled.

When Barack Obama is officially sworn in and starts to lead this country, we'll hold him accountable for everything he does or does not do.

But for now I'm going to enjoy this moment as a black woman witnessing a day I wasn't sure I'd ever live to see myself.

And for now, I'm just going to cry... tears of joy.

There's something freaky about the cubicle pod where I sit in our newsroom. 

Everyone who sits here, either gets married or pregnant.

I swear, it's the weirdest thing.

My cubicle neighbors are Mick Trevey, Lauren Leamanczyk, Heather Shannon, Charles Benson, and a producer named Lacey.

Last year, our Mick announced he was engaged, and shortly thereafter, tied the knot. 

A few months after that, I found out I was pregnant, and had my gorgeous baby Noah.

Then guess what --- Lauren, Heather and Lacey all announced their engagements.

And the lovely brides all tied the knot in the last month.

Here's Lauren:

Here's Heather: 

And Lacey:

(Not sure what Charles' milestone was.  Bet he had one, but just didn't share.)

Now here's where it really gets weird...

Reporters Tom Murray and Jay Olstad also joined our pod during a mini shakeup in the newsroom.

Not long after moving in with our little group, they both announced their engagements to their sweeties.

It could be a mystical aura from the translucent lights above our cubicles... or maybe it's something in the dust that lines our desks...

More than likely , it may be that one person's happiness just has a way of rubbing off on others.

Whatever it is, we've all had a fantastic year.

So here's to the continued happiness for our milestone pod!

It's football season, and as many of you may have heard me mention on t.v., I'm married to a football fanatic.

My husband Taylor has set up our basement especially for Sunday afternoon splendor:  A 53-inch flatscreen, reclining couch, and microwave standing by on top of the bar for emergency re-popping of popcorn.

And it's looking like Taylor has added a new prop to his Sunday afternoon routine this year:  Our three-month-old son, Noah.

As Taylor packs up blankets, snacks and soda for his trek down into his "manhole",  I've noticed that he now scoops the boy up, throws him over his shoulder, and carts the baby off to the basement as well.

Which would be fine... except he never did this with our six-year-old daughter, Ashley.

In fact, last Sunday Ashley was hanging out in the den, playing with her dolls.  I watched from the kitchen as Taylor grabbed the baby boy from his bassinet, and left the girl behind. 

And then it dawned on me --- Taylor has never even attempted to watch football with Ashley. 

I mean, don't get me wrong --- he's an amazing dad.

He'll watch all the tween t.v. shows and movies with her.  Take her bike riding.  Take her to dance lessons, swimming class, birthday parties, playdates...

But when it comes to football, baby girl is on her own. 

And yet he grabs the three-month-old boy for football viewing.  Our sweet son who --- as adorably alert as he is --- doesn't even know that he's on planet Earth yet.

So I confronted my better half:  "Why haven't you ever watched football with Ashley?"

He looked at me.  "She doesn't like football."

"How do you know that?"  I pressed.

He smiled.  I simmered.  And then Ashley intervened:

"Because I don't like football, Mommy.  I want to be a cheerleader!"

Good grief.

So, whether Ashley likes football or not, I will be insisting Taylor take both children down to the basement this weekend for football viewing.  And she can practice her cheerleading between plays. 

Because l believe lessons on gender equality begins at home.  Even if the issue is only football...

I want my son and daughter to be on an equal playing field.

My son... like most babies.... adores breastmilk.

I personally think mother's milk is nature's perfection... a miracle.

But do I want it frozen, churned smooth, and scooped on to a cone for grownups to hork down? 

I dunno...

But --- believe it or not --- this is exactly what People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals is suggesting ice cream makers Ben Cohen  and Jerry Greenfield do. 

You know... Ben & Jerry's.

PETA wants Ben & Jerry's to replace the cow's milk they use in their ice cream with breastmilk.  

Somebody call La Leche!

PETA claims the use of breastmilk  would  "lessen the suffering of dariy cows and their babies on factory farms and benefit human health."

Aha. 

In the letter to Ben & Jerry's PETA claims dairy products have been linked to a number of illnesses including juvenile diabetes, obesity and ovarian cancer.  PETA cites a restaurant owner in Switzerland who plans on using breastmilk in the food he serves.  The group ends their letter by saying "The *** is best!"

I see.

The folks at Ben & Jerry's have gracefully declined PETA's request, saying "a mother's milk is best used for her child."

But I'm sure it won't be long before someone stateside starts trying out breastmilk in adult food. 

Which is fine, I guess.... as long as that's listed on the nutritional information label.

So my husband Taylor and I had this "animated discussion" the other day...

I was trying to explain to him why my job dropping our 4-month-old son off at the daycare is like, a trillion times more stressful than his job of picking the baby up.

Taylor thinks his job is much harder.  Thing is... he has to fly down the highway from his job in Mequon to the daycare in Oak Creek in order to get the kid before 6 p.m. 

Any later than that, and the daycare starts charging a $5/minute late fee.

You heard me.  $5 a minute!!!  My daycare doesn't play.

Taylor says on the days he has to pick up, he's completely stressed, as he prays for smooth sailing on the highway.

I get that... that is stressful.  But I have my own stresses to deal with as the parent who drops off.

Because I'm the one who has to make sure the kid is fed, dressed,  and in a relatively good mood by daycare time.  I also have to pack the daycare bag... which needs to include fresh bottles, formula, clothes and whatever other accoutrements junior needs on any given day.

And then there's the stress of the drop off...

The first day I cried so hard I think I actually embarassed my son.  He kind of looked around the room like he wanted to tell someone, "I have no idea who this crazy heffer is."

Things are dramatically better now.  I've mastered the art of handing off the boy to a staff that I adore and trust.  I wish him goodbye and good luck and can dart through the door fairly quickly.

But a show of hands working mommas: Isn't there still that little bit of guilt tugging at you as you head down the highway? 

Do I hear an amen?

Taylor on the other hand, is the parent who gets to swoop in and bring the boy home.  It's all smiles and laughter when Daddy shows up.  And Taylor usually just grabs the kid, throws whatever he finds into the diaper bag, then rolls on over to my daughter's school, and liberates her as well.

He's the hero.  And I feel like the enforcer.

So I will argue that we "drop off parents" have the tougher job. 

And it's another challenge of working motherhood, that I think I've finally mastered.

So let me introduce myself...

My name is Shelley Walcott, and many of you may already know me for my work as an Anchor/Reporter on Today's TMJ4. 

It's a great job, and I love it.  But the work I do on Channel 4 is my professional role.

Once I step outside the station, I step into a personal role that is far more challenging... and wonderful. 

I am the proud mother of two children --- my almost seven-year-old daughter Ashley, and my four-month-old son Noah. 

They are my real bosses.

One of the reasons I've decided to blog on Milwaukee Moms is to give people a glimpse into what life is really be like for working moms trying to balance a demanding career and family.

Like the time I had to call home from a breaking news scene to wish my daughter good night. 

It can be kind of hard to be kissy, kissy into the phone as you're running over to a shooting scene.

Or the time I called home during a commercial break to give dinner instructions to my incredible husband Taylor. 

I couldn't do any of this without my better half.  But dude's a guy.  And (no offense guys... ) men sometimes need a little, ah, direction.

 It's just part of being a working mom. 

A working mom who also needs to lose the baby weight, keep her eyebrows waxed, hair trimmed and suits pressed for the glare of the t.v. cameras.

Whew.

Welcome to my world. 

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.