Here’s how a conversation with my son went the other day:

Me: “What kind of summer camps would you like to sign up for this year?”

Son: “None. Maybe baseball.”

Me: “So, your plan is to shoot some hoops, maybe watch TV all summer?”

Son: No response. (Selective hearing kicks in.)

My working-mom friend (yes, we all are) relayed this story to me the other day:

Her 4-year-old daughter, while watching cartoons, announced one morning that she had changed her mind about becoming a dancer and a princess when she grows up.

“I just want to be a mom,” she said.

Touched, her mom said “awww” and reached out to give her a hug.

When I tell people what I love about my job, I usually talk about the intellectual stimulation, the chance to meet interesting people, the importance of a free press, the lack of monotony, the crazy flexible hours, the huge pay and benefits ... oh wait.

Truth? I get paid to be nosy. Being a journalist (and blogger) gives you a unique entree into people's lives.

Big news in the neighborhood.

I was walking home after dropping my daughter off at school one morning and absentmindedly looked across the street at a house that’s been on the market since August 2010.

Then I did a double take. Was there actually a “SOLD” sign out front?

... here's a little pick-me-up.

It was cleaning day in the newsroom last week, and as I was going through old files and recycling and tossing I glanced down at the word magnets on my desk drawer.

My daughter likes to play with them when she's here waiting for me to finish an assignment. I hadn't noticed her latest creation:

I have a confession to make: I am a slug.

Not that I don't work hard (most weeks, anyway). In fact, my job has kept me so busy these past few months (investigations, confrontations, resignations) that I haven't really had much time to blog.

In a moment of weakness, many months ago, my husband volunteered (well, I volunteered us, meaning him) to chaperone a bunch of middle-school band students at Disney World over spring break.

I was (pretty) confident he was up to the task. What I didn’t know is that he would set a new chaperone record.

I came home the other day to find my daughter finishing up one of her many art creations.

She proudly showed me a sheet of paper with a half-dozen detailed drawings around the edges — things like hairstyling, makeup, jewelry. In the middle was the title: “It’s a girl thing.”

We’re invoking the rule of threes in our household these days.

Not celebrities. Two appliances teetering on the brink of death and a third ready to follow any day.

We have three children in our family: a son, a daughter and a little pink bear named Teddy.

He (she?) has been my daughter’s constant companion for as long as she can recall — and even before.

Teddy has seen better days. He and my daughter are both 8, you see, which must be old for a stuffed bear.