Summer birthdays suck.

Particularly in Phoenix, and Annabelle’s is smack in the middle of July — the worst time of the year to gather friends. So last week we grabbed her ballet classmates (the ones who hadn’t yet fled the heat) and gathered for a little swim party.

Sophie squirmed the entire time, eyeing the present table, firm in the belief that present opening should be the first activity at any birthday party worth its salt. But Annabelle took her pile home, and as we sat at the kitchen table late in the evening I was glad she was able to open them in the light. The gifts were sweet — a homemade tee shirt with her current favorite saying (“Absosnootly!”), a super soft blanket, a succulent, a plush “piece” of toast with a fuzzy pat of butter on it (yes, you read that right — and the oddest part is that “a stuffed grilled cheese sandwich” is actually on Annabelle’s birthday list).

But the best part was the cards.

I’m not talking Hallmark here. Nothing pre-fab. Almost to a person, each gift included a handwritten (both sides of the paper, in tiny words) letter to Annabelle — complete with drawings of “bun heads,” rainbow markered wording, one girl even made her a book – wishing her the happiest of birthdays, and sharing sentiments about friendship, dance, beauty and life. There were personal jokes, historical references (if you count starting ballet together at 3 “historical” — these kids do), true expressions of love — all the stuff you’d want in a real letter.

Annabelle read each one carefully, her eyes big, and at the end she announced quietly that she was going to save them forever.

Don’t get me wrong. These are girls who text and Instagram and Snapchat (whatever the hell that is). I sometimes catch them sitting together but apart, staring at their phones the way we all do these days. But at a time when we grown ups are lamenting the demise of the old fashioned, handwritten letter, these kids have embraced it and even taken it to a new level.

The next day, I dug up all the half written, yet-to-be-addressed notes abandoned on my desk, finished them and mailed them off. It was a nice reminder that some forms of communication can’t be bested by an app. And I know one thing Annabelle’s getting for her birthday next month: stationery.

hi every one this  is Sophie  i am 11  and i got a phone  so i did a sachions  and   the  1 one is cuddle   the 2 is nils  and  the 3  is fashion    and 4 is phpter i booth  that was fun and  the last a stumbler  pray with my reply god friend  name is Sarah  my other goo friend Gracie and  and my Annabelle  and graces  sister was there  her  friend   lily that was yourfafret songs for 11 kids and do you kowne  any plays

Edited version:

Hi everyone, this is Sophie. I am 11 and I got a phone. So for my party I did stations and 1 was cuddle, 2 was nails, 3 was fashion, 4 was a book swap and 5 was a photo booth. That was fun and the night before I had a slumber party with my good friend Sarah and my other good friend Gracie and my sister Annabelle and Gracie’s sister Teadora and Annabelle’s friend Lily.

Here is my 11th birthday play list. What was your favorite song when you were 11? And do you know of any plays or scripts for kids?

SOPHIE’S 11TH BIRTHDAY MIX

Team * Lorde
Happy * Pharrell Williams
Girl Party * Mack-Z
Party in the USA * Miley Cyrus
Love Shack * The B-52s
Marry You * Glee
Counting Stars * One Republic
Shot in the Dark * Emma Lee
Wrecking Ball * Miley Cyrus
The Nicest Kids in Town * Hairspray
Hot Stuff * Donna Summer
Silly Love Songs * Wings
We Didn’t Start the Fire * Billy Joel
Chicken Soup with Rice * Carole King
For the First Time in Forever * Frozen
Seasons of Love * Glee

The birthday monsters are in town. (Apologies to Sandra Boynton.)

I got an email last week from Sophie’s aide:

[Sophie's teacher] and I wanted to let you know that we had a talk with Sophie today about her birthday. There have been several occasions recently where Sophie has told a student she was not invited to her party. We have used positive reinforcement in trying to resolve this issue but it has not worked. We feel that having a consequence may help this situation. We have told Sophie that if this happens again she will miss her lunch recess and we will be calling you. We think this will help. Let us know if you have any questions or concerns about this.

You need to know two things. First, Sophie’s birthday is not until May 21. Second, this is totally my fault.

I have created a monster. A birthday monster. Sophie is obsessed with her birthday, and I have no one to blame but myself. Birthdays are a huge deal in our house, and the discussion about Sophie’s pretty much starts the day after Christmas. (And the discussion of Christmas begins the day after her birthday — but that’s a different blog post.) Now, that said, I do not condone using a birthday party as an instrument of torture — of course I don’t. And Sophie and I had a Big Talk about that note when she got home from school the day it was sent.

“I’m not allowed to talk about my birthday at school,” she said a little sadly, hanging her head.

“Good,” I replied. “That was really mean. In fact, if you keep doing it, you may not have a birthday party at all!”

Sophie and I both know that will never happen. Neither of us can resist, and sometime soon, we’ll likely come up with theme and create a Pinterest board and start planning that party, as we’ve done in years past. Unlike Sophie (and to be fair, she doesn’t spend all her time uninviting party guests) I have always seen birthday parties as a chance to invite people into Sophie’s life — both those who are already good friends, and those who might like to be included. Play dates are (increasingly) awkward. But who doesn’t like a birthday party?

(Consider the name of this blog.)

This year I think we’ll hold off a few weeks on the Pinterest board and the color theme decision. But first, we have a very important birthday to celebrate today. It’s Sophie’s best friend Sarah’s birthday. She is 11. Sarah loves Neapolitan ice cream — you know, the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry striped kind — so when I saw a Neapolitan cake online, I had to screen grab it. There’s no time to make one from scratch, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Along with getting those layers to stack up and stay put. I’ll spend the morning fighting with three different boxes of cake mix, a lot of frosting and a pile of toothpicks, cursing and making a mess and having a blast.

I can’t wait. And I can’t complain about Sophie’s birthday obsession.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Sophie asked the other day, holding up something small and hot pink.

There’s a lot of stuff in Sophie’s room, and a lot of it is small and hot pink, and on this day a lot of it was loose — in honor of her birthday, I was in the process of a big purge — but I recognized that item immediately.

Hot pink velvet overalls, size 24 months, Circo brand. She’s been too big for them for ages. In fact, she never wore them. But I’ve held onto them for sentimental reasons, hid them at the bottom of a storage bin under her bed, a bin that had come out from under the bed during the purge. The contents of which were now all over Sophie’s room.

The sight of those overalls tossed me back eight years, to a time when I thought I could reclaim the word “retarded” the way some women like to think they can reclaim “cunt” (turns out, we’re all wrong), to a time I thought I could make myself feel better about having a kid with Down syndrome by making rules about things like what Sophie could and couldn’t wear.

Today, at 10, Sophie has grown into a kid who defies labels. She uses words like hideous and phenomenal, and still sucks her thumb. She performs onstage — in ballet recitals alongside typical kids and at Special Olympics cheerleading competitions. She’s getting pretty good at multiplication. She (pretty much) chooses her own outfits.

This is a kid who knows what she wants and has no trouble asking for it. Last night at Walgreen’s, Sophie picked out her own birthday card. “Get me this one,” she said, putting it in the cart. At her birthday party, she drowned out the crowd’s  “…dear So-phie…” with “…dear my-se-e-elf…” and spent the entire event — from the moment the first gift-bearing guest arrived — demanding to open her presents.

“Those are overalls,” I told her. “But they are too small. You need to put them back where you found them. Quit taking everything out of that box!”

Waving me away, she squeezed her almost-10 year old body into the toddler-sized garment, and would have left the house that way if I hadn’t pointed out that there was no way she’d ever get them to snap. No overalls for Sophie; not that pair, anyway.

I tucked them away when she wasn’t looking, then I dusted off an old piece about Sophie and those overalls. Last year when I turned 46, I made a list of things to do before I turn 50, and one of them is “Strongly consider getting a tattoo, but ultimately decide against it.” I think I’ll take a similar approach with overalls for Sophie.

In any case, here’s that old piece I wrote, in honor of Sophie’s 10th birthday. Girl in a Party Hat is 5 today, too.

The other day, my friend Kim gave me a pair of hot pink velvet overalls her daughters have outgrown. I stared at them, and pictured my own daughters. Too small for Annabelle, the almost four year old. Probably the perfect size for Sophie, who will be two next month. But I can’t put Sophie in overalls. It’s one of the things I promised myself I’d never do.

Sophie has Down syndrome. She’s retarded. We don’t know how retarded at this point. I personally think she’s pretty darn smart. She’s not walking or talking, but she can crawl across the room faster than I can chase her, and we can barely keep up with her sign language. Every day when she wakes up, Sophie waits patiently in her crib for her father or me, and when we arrive, she presents each of her stuffed animals for us to kiss good morning.

Still, the fact remains. Sophie’s retarded. And I have a strong belief that retarded people should not wear overalls. It’s not a good look. I know what you’re thinking: That woman is going straight to hell. Probably. But I’ll go with a strong sense of style. And so will my children. Particularly Sophie.

When Annabelle was born, we were bombarded with baby clothes: tiny caps knit with pearls and flowers, hundred dollar dress/hat/bloomers combos, pale pink leather hiking boots. When Sophie was born, we didn’t get as much — at least, not as much really nice stuff. That might simply be because she was the second-born daughter. But in the back of my head, I couldn’t help but wonder: Did people not bother with the expensive dresses because Sophie has Down syndrome? I’ll never forget that one of my closest friends took obvious extra care to buy Sophie several precious, high-priced gifts, including a gorgeous lavender flocked velour dress with a matching jacket. I still put her in it, even though it’s getting tight.

Sophie had open-heart surgery when she was three months old. She had a helmet for her flat head, and is about to be cast for braces for her too-flexible feet. She’s on her third ear infection this season, and next month, she’ll have her second operation for clogged tear ducts. You might be asking yourself: Who cares what you dress her in? Maybe I care because it’s one of the few things I can control in Sophie’s life. At 2, Annabelle already knew exactly what she wanted to wear every day. Sophie’s not there yet. I’m responsible for making important fashion choices. And I take that responsibility seriously.

I’m still not 100 percent sure why I feel the way I do about retarded people and overalls. The thought first occurred to me when Sophie was just a few days old. I was sitting on the couch with some girlfriends, eating iced sugar cookies and talking about Sophie’s future. We decided she cannot work at a grocery store, unless it’s A.J.’s. We decided she will fall in love, get married and have a lot of good sex. And then I announced that Sophie will never wear overalls. I don’t know why, I said. That’s just how it will be.

I told my husband. He looked at me funny for a while, then he finally said, “I think it’s John Malkovich in `Of Mice and Men.’ You know, he was retarded and he wore overalls.”

Yeah, that’s probably it, I agreed. Whatever the reason, it was a strong urge. No overalls for Sophie.

Until the pink ones. They were soft and pretty, so cute. This overall thing is silly, I thought to myself. Put her in them.

So I did. Then I took her out of them. Partly because the snaps kept coming undone, but mostly because they just didn’t look right. And damnit, I’m her mother, and it’s my job to protect her. That’s right, protect her. And OK, I’ll admit it, protect myself. For the past two years, Sophie has been just a baby. She’s smaller than other kids her age, which masks her developmental delays. But lately, I’ve noticed people looking at her. They can tell. We were at a carnival recently, and as I pushed Sophie’s stroller through the crowd, Sophie waved her hands furiously at everyone in sight, laughing hysterically, having a great time. No one was waving back, no one was even really looking at her. I suddenly flashed forward a decade to Sophie the 12-year-old doing the same thing in a crowd, goofily retarded. For a minute, I was not OK with that. Tears burned my eyes.

And then I realized that I have to be OK with that. I don’t have any other choice. But I can choose what Sophie wears, so I put the overalls away and dressed my daughter in a beautiful pink-striped onesie, and we went out to First Friday, where she giggled and blew kisses and waved. Lots of people smiled and waved back.

Apparently F. Scott Fitzgerald’s daughter, Scottie, grew up and wrote for The New Yorker and The Washington Post — and avoided her parents’ mental illness. Sounds pretty good to me.

And so here is Fitzgerald’s advice to Scottie on her 11th birthday, in the form of a letter written in 1933, list of things to worry about (and things not to worry about).

Happy birthday, my sweet Annabelle. My advice: Don’t worry about a thing. Stay just as you are — loyal, wise, beautiful and independent. But if you insist on worrying, check out this list from one of my favorite authors.

From F. Scott Fitzgerald:

Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship

Things not to worry about:

Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t worry about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions

Things to think about:

What am I really aiming at?
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:

(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

With dearest love,

Daddy

After exhausting my sister’s brilliant idea that began several years ago with “40 Things We Love About Aunt Amy,” we’d run through the whole family (our mom included) and desperately needed a new schtick.

Enter the Mamafesto. A while back, my dear friend Jill wrote a brilliant manifesto for a writing workshop. I wrote my own, Jackalope Ranch is now doing a series — the manifesto has arrived.

So why not a Mamafesto? You know, all the good advice (well, the advice that’s fit to print) your mom has given you over the years?

With no further delay, here it is, a birthday present to you, Mom, from Jenny and me. And thank you. We’ve learned a lot — so far.

1. Always announce that you have a big butt (even if you don’t) before anyone else can say it about you first.

2. It’s perfectly acceptable to start the day with a Diet Coke.

3. It’s okay to refuse to get in the pool until the water temperature is 90.

4. Eating Brach’s by-the-pound candy while walking through the grocery store is not stealing, as long as you tell the clerk to lean on the scale a little when you hand her the wrapper-filled bag.

5. Birthday celebrations cannot be too big when it comes to your children.

6. Half birthdays deserve to be celebrated, too.

7. Shoulder pads are always in style.

8. Santa Claus does not discriminate against Jews, but don’t expect anything more than Trident gum from the Easter Bunny.

9. If you are going to fast on Yom Kippur, be sure to eat breakfast first.

10. When you don’t have a coffee filter, toilet paper will do.

11. When buying gifts, purchase one large, lovely thing — instead of a pile of crappy little things.

12. The best Christmas song of all time is and always will be “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”

13. They call Scrabble a game, but it’s very serious business.

14. Democrats are better than Republicans.

15. It’s more important to be creative than to be organized.

16. A little green fuzz on the raspberries never hurt anyone.

17. You can’t please everyone, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.

18. If you feel like your neck is sagging a little, put on a birthday hat. The elastic under your chin will do wonders.

19. You can never tell your kids too often that you love them.

20. The show must go on.

“Hey Sophie,” I asked a few days before her birthday party last month. “How many layers do you want your cake to be?”

Then I held my breath.

Prior to that, the tallest cake I’d ever made in my life was two layers — and it was lopsided. But I was feeling ambitious (thanks a lot, Pinterest) so I was thinking three or maybe four layers, in different shades of purple. (Sophie’s favorite — I’ll post pictures of her purple party — thanks again, Pinterest — later.)

She didn’t look up from her dinner. “Nine,” she said, around a mouthful of sticky rice.

I looked at Annabelle, panicked. She shrugged. “She said nine, Mom.” DUH. Ninth birthday, nine layers.

“At least she’s not turning 13,” I muttered to myself as I left the kitchen, shaking my head.

So nine it was. Two days, four boxes of cake mix (well, six, if you want to get technical, though the last two didn’t made it far) and almost seven pounds (!) of butter cream frosting later, I had nine layers stacked. Nine too-thick, falling apart, why-not-just-give-up disasters.  I managed to swipe some frosting across the top, but the sides were out of the question, and even at that (and with skewers — lots of skewers) the whole thing started to tilt.

Like a scientist, I took a picture every few minutes to confirm the impending avalanche and decided to take action.

So the girls watched as I salvaged what I could, peeling,  scooping and grabbing at layers (four entire layers wound up in the trash after a wise decision was made to forgo cake pops) til I had a structure I was confident would make it to the party. I iced the whole cake with the little bit of frosting left and stepped back to admire it.

By just about anyone else’s standards, the thing was a mess. But to me, it was beautiful. The truth is that I never expected to get more than three layers — and here I was with five. Not bad.

As I raced around the house, getting ready for the party, it occurred to me that making that cake was a little like raising Sophie has been. If I’d never expected to get past two or three layers, I never would have. By going for it, I wound up doing far better than I’d imagined.

And you might think it a trite comparison (if you’ve never to make a nine-layer cake) but the truth is that as with that cake, it’s been Sophie herself who has pushed do things we never thought she could. (And pushed me to do the same, though that’s a separate post.)

That’s what it’s been like with Sophie, her whole life. It never occurred to her that she shouldn’t read, talk, run, dance or make a best friend — even though I worried hard about each. And yes, she’s still hard to understand at times, runs like a wind-up toy and lavishes her BFF with the kind of love most kids never give (or get — Sophie was smart enough to pick a little girl who can handle that). It’s all done Sophie-style. And it’s all awesome.

Nine won’t look the same on Sophie as it does on other kids. (No two kids are alike anytime, in any case.) But she’ll wear it well — even if a couple layers have to come down here and there to make math easier or keep her in basic swimming lessons a little longer. And I need to remember that that’s okay.

That silly cake wasn’t perfect, even at five measly layers. But as I lit the candles and watched Sophie make a wish, it was the most beautiful cake I’d ever seen.

We were both juggling hectic workdays, so the phone conversation was quick. And as it often is with my best-friend-from-second-grade, it was totally over-the-top.

“OK,” Amy said, “so I’m thinking about going to Mood and buying fabric and hiring a seamstress to make Sophie and me matching purple pajamas for our birthday sleepover.”

“Are you insane?!” I replied. At least, that’s what went through my head. Amy lives in New York City, so she has access to things like Mood (the fabric store made famous by Project Runway) and seamstresses, but still. Hand sewn pajamas and a trip across the country to wear them seemed a bit much for a 9th birthday present.

But Amy is perfectly capable of such an act. Actually, this would be nothing for a woman who once threw an East Indian-themed Thanksgiving dinner on the floor of her tiny apartment, and who’s been known to take off for all parts of the world at a moment’s notice. The day she left for college she called and sang, “I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane” with such gusto that to this day — decades later — I can’t hear that song without thinking of her.

I don’t remember the purple pajama conversation — after all, it took place an entire nine months ago, but Amy swears that back in September, the last time she was home for a visit, she’d promised Sophie a sleepover party for her birthday. (She knew she’d be home around Sophie’s birthday — which is next week – for her niece’s college graduation.)

And damned if she wasn’t going to find matching purple pajamas for the two of them.

“Hold on,” I said, pulling up target.com to look for a more reasonable option. Amy got on, too, and it was just like high school — only instead of picking through the underwear rack at Marshall’s, we were scrolling through pajama options from the comfort of our respective desks.

I found some cute Nick and Nora pajamas in Sophie’s size — purple and with cherries. Voila. And there was even a (sort of) matching nightshirt in the adult section.

I sent Amy the links, then held the phone a foot from my ear as she yelled that this simply would not do. “That nightshirt is white! This is a purple pajama sleepover party! We have to match!” 

Sufficiently chastized, I gave up. Only Amy Segal would honor a 9-month-old promise of this sort. Sure enough, last night she showed up on our doorstep with gift-wrapped, matching purple pajamas (“I Heart New York” tee shirts, perfect!) in hand. She’d even found an Olivia the Pig stuffed animal wearing a bathrobe. And matching pink, furry purses for both Sophie and Annabelle.

“FAO Swartz to the rescue!” she announced, grabbing a peach and plopping down at the kitchen table.  

Sophie was enchanted. I might have forgotten their plan, but she remembered every detail. She sat on Amy’s lap and made her tell the story over and over again, of how many months ago, Sophie invited Amy to her purple pajama sleepover birthday party and how Amy said, “Well, Sophie, I’m not sure I can be there on that day, but no matter what, I’ll come to Arizona and the two of us will have a special purple pajama sleepover party together.”

And then Amy (again) took her finger and traced the path she’d drawn on Sophie’s birthday card, of a plane flying allllll the way across the country from New York City to Phoenix.

The two of them took over the living room. Sophie thought it would be a good idea if they shared one couch, but Amy (and I) drew the line at that, so after a quick cuddle Sophie stretched out nearby and slept all the way til 6 before climbing back in with Amy, which is how I found them this morning.

There was no cake or ice cream or candles, no pinata or games (except a few rounds of Go Fish) and the celebration ended abruptly when it was time for school.

But I have a feeling it was the best birthday party Sophie’s ever had.

“Ray,” I called from the kitchen this morning, as he hustled to get ready for the day, “will you please explain to Sophie why she can’t have an Elmo-themed birthday party?”

“Sophie, it’s way too early to plan your birthday,” her father replied.

“But Daddy, it’s only three months away!”

Months ago (like, the day after her 8th birthday party) I gave up that fight. Sophie loves talking about her birthday, and really, for me, that’s a victimless crime. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been planning her 9th birthday party — which will take place at the end of May — for a while now myself. I even have a Pinterest board devoted to “Sophie’s Purple Pajama Party.” Weeks ago, she agreed to a purple-themed party. Cute, creative, appropriate for all ages. Most, anyway. Phew. Time to look for purple cocktail ideas.

But today Sophie wants an Elmo party.

“I loooooooooooove Elmo!” she said, (literally) stamping her foot and holding up the iPad to show off a beach-themed Elmo cake. This Elmo was on a surfboard, wishing someone named “Katie” a happy birthday.

I bet that Katie was turning 2, tops. But you can’t tell Sophie that. We’ve been having this battle (again, literally) for years. And I’ve grappled with it even longer. I remember throwing Sophie’s Elmo-themed third birthday party and feeling sorry for myself as I perused the offerings on amazon.com and noted that most Elmo birthdays are planned for 1-year-olds.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re all about immature television choices in our family. As I love to remind her, my sister watched Sesame Street til she was 11. Annabelle (almost 11 herself) only recently stopped watching Oswald the octopus on Nick Jr. I fell asleep on the couch last night watching the Disney Channel’s “Shake It Up” — and don’t get me started on some of Ray’s television favorites.

But Annabelle’s not asking for a Backyardigans birthday party. I’m not looking to shake it up for my 46th. Sophie loves Elmo and she has no concept of why her friends might not.

“I’m going to go to school today and tell Sarah I’m having an Elmo birthday party!” she said.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” I begged. Just the other day I wrote about how well Sophie’s school sticker chart was working, and a couple days later I bragged that she gets along well with her peers. Two days later (of course) the sticker chart came home sticker-less, reporting that Sophie had hit friends at lunch. (!!!!) Yesterday she missed a sticker during math; turns out she locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. None of this is easy and as I’ve written many times, I’m wont to focus on something silly — like the request for an Elmo birthday party — rather than the bigger, impossible-to-solve with retail therapy problem.

I adore my Girl in a Party Hat. I just need to convince her to ditch Elmo. I think I can do it. I’ve got three months, after all.

Happy Half Birthday to Yoooooooooooooooooou.

The half birthday thing has hit. Hard. Sophie’s been talking about it for weeks.

And planning her birthday party for months. Oddly she’s not as interested in Christmas and Hanukkah — even though her birthday’s not til May. (She did inform me several times this weekend that I am on the Naughty List.)

I think the lure of a day all to herself is too great.

So what they heck — I figured I’d work my way off the Naughty List by doing up the half birthday in style. I found a gift I’d purchased for Sophie’s birthday and misplaced. Done. And I couldn’t resist stopping for cupcakes on the way home.

Unfortunately, they did not have any purple cupcakes at the bakery, but Sophie was very gracious. Maybe she’s growing up.