I don’t get out much — the editor’s lament — but this spring I made a point of inviting myself to artist Monica Aissa Martinez’s central Phoenix studio. She graciously agreed. I wanted to see up close how she maps people. It’s pretty literal, this mapping. The artist’s subjects aren’t exactly naked; it’s more of a BodyWorlds experience but so much more. I’d seen images of Martinez’s work — watched it evolve over the years — and I was captivated.

Our work is so different, and yet similar. From the time Sophie was very small, I’ve considered her parts while trying to make sense of the whole of her. On a cellular level, Sophie is different from Ray, Annabelle and me. And likely from you. That third 21st chromosome affects every bit of the matter that makes her — and impacts her from head to toe. In stripping away the skin and mapping what’s underneath, with particular attention to medical traits and conditions — as well as a few spiritual ones — Martinez does what I’ve been doing. Or at least what I’ve been trying to do. She completely kicks my ass on this stuff in the best ways.

I’ve been wanting to write about the experience of visiting Martinez’s studio and what happened next, but for once I’m at a loss for words. She describes her work so much better than I ever could, and it’s all here on her blog. For my part, I’d rather tell you about it through her pictures. But first, I will need to offer some back story. I stopped by her studio in the spring, and Monica and her husband Eddie then came to my book launch. A little while later, she sent me a photo — my book, filled with sticky notes.

Martinez had decided that she wanted to map Sophie. I was thrilled. I stopped by again, this time with Sophie, who was enchanted by Monica and agreed to a photo session. As the summer went on, the artist shared pieces of her work on social media and in blog posts. It’s just gorgeous. One of the images made it onto the cover of the alternative newsweekly in Portland, Oregon, and I hope the work is eventually shown far and wide — it’s a terrific way to introduce the world to a person with Down syndrome, which has been my goal with my own work. Martinez did extensive research into many aspects of Down syndrome — particularly the heart, and the defect Sophie and many others have (complete A/V canal) and also included specific aspects of Sophie, like the space between her first and second toes, her fissured tongue and her love of paint brushes.

As summer ended, Annabelle, Sophie and I visited the studio together, eating pizza with Monica and Eddie (they made sure to have cranberry juice for Sophie, that’s her favorite) as we admired the larger-than-life size piece in person.

As we left, Martinez remarked that she had a few finishing touches to add. But someday soon, if not already, she’ll be completely done with this map of Sophie. I hope you get to see it.

My work is far from over. Every day, the landscape of this life, of this little being, shifts. Capturing it on paper is a challenge and a joy.

Amy’s book, “My Heart Can’t Even Believe It: A Story of Science, Love, and Down Syndrome,” was published by Woodbine House this spring and is available through Amazon and Changing Hands Bookstore. For information about tour dates and other events visit myheartcantevenbelieveit.com and here’s a book trailer.

This past weekend, Sophie  performed onstage at the Herberger Theater in downtown Phoenix for the third year in a row. The production is Snow Queen and as far as I know, Sophie’s the only kid with special needs (definitely the only one with Down syndrome) who’s ever been in this show, sort of a Nutcracker alternative presented by Center Dance Ensemble, a modern dance company run by my mother’s longtime friend and business partner.

Hence, the in. Annabelle first performed in Snow Queen when she was 6; we waited much longer for Sophie to audition. The last two years, Sophie was a sprite, the role reserved for the youngest kids. She’s so small I figured she’d stay with that, but this year the (very kind) producers said she was ready to be a “village lass.”

Turns out, they were right.

“Sophie’s internet connection’s just a little slow,” Ray stage-whispered (not unkindly) as we watched her heel-and-toe across the floor Sunday afternoon. It’s true. She had trouble keeping up, but she did it — and made up for what she lacked in speed with a sassy hand-on-hip attitude that got progressively stronger with each of the four performances, til I was half-joking that if there’d been a fifth performance she might have ripped off her shirt, a la Fat Amy in Pitch Perfect.

Even better than what happened onstage was what happened backstage: Nothing. Yes, she probably asked a few more questions than the other kids, might have wandered out of the dressing room a couple times to chat with older cast members, but for the most part, Sophie was one of the crowd.

It was awesome. She played games with the other girls, shared snacks, lined up for curtain call — just like they did. Only one asked me why Sophie was 10 and a half and smaller than the others. (A legitimate question.)

Saturday evening, I volunteered backstage and got to see it all firsthand. At one point I was chatting with one of the stage managers, who made some comment about “The Village” (the scene Sophie’s in) and suddenly, out of nowhere (but always lurking, I suppose) the term “village idiot” popped into my head.

Oh great, Sophie’s the village idiot! I thought to myself. I sat down and Googled the phrase. It’s unclear whether the expression refers to people with Down syndrome, which wasn’t formally identified until the middle of the Nineteenth Century, long after the heyday of the old school town clown.

I sat still in my chair as the chaos of the theater swirled, blinking hard, thinking. I got up and found Sophie, sitting with several other cast members — again, one of the crowd.

Stop it, I thought. And I did. No village idiots here, people. Move along. Nothing to see. Just another cute village lass with bright red lips.

This morning I woke up and realized that Special Olympics cheerleading begins tonight. It’s about as different an experience as you can imagine. Sophie’s just as excited for it.

To be honest, so am I — after a lot of hesitation last year. Both can be tough. Sophie doesn’t fit easily into either world, and as her mom, neither do I.

But Sophie loves to perform. And I love to watch. All the world’s (and all the worlds) her stage. So far, anyway.

“I need to tell you I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you know why?”

I did.

Back up 20 minutes. I was having a pleasant conversation with this woman and her date, a writer in from LA to do a travel story, and we were chatting about — oh god, I can’t remember what. It’s been two days, my memory doesn’t last that long anymore. Anyhow, something struck all of us as dumb and to tell you the truth, these days I’ll see it coming before it’s out of your mouth. It’s as though the sound (and there was considerable background noise that night — lots of people, kids screaming, a fire roaring, DJ blasting, traffic) fades away and the person’s mouth gets super big and the words come out really slowly.

“That’s so retarded.”

She said it. I didn’t flinch, and neither did she, but for less than a split second, I saw it — the “OH FUCK, I JUST SAID THAT’S SO RETARDED TO THE MOTHER OF A KID WITH DOWN SYNDROME AND NOT JUST ANY MOTHER OF A KID WITH DOWN SYNDROME, THIS ONE BITCHES ABOUT EXACTLY THIS ALL THE TIME. OH FUCK” look on her face.

And then the conversation continued — seamlessly, as though nothing had happened, I think the date said something like, “Yeah, that’s so stupid” and after a few minutes we all drifted into conversations with other people the way you do at gallery openings.

For me, the worst part these days isn’t when someone says it. It’s when they realize they just said it. And so that half a split second after she said it was what bugged me. But like I said, it was kind of a crazy night, and I moved past it because really, what are you going to do? It’s true that often I call people out, point out what they just said. But sometimes you don’t need to say a word.

This was one of those times.

Twenty minutes later I turned around and there she was.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “Really, I mean it. It’s okay.”

“No, I do. It was a horrible thing to say,” she continued, the tears welling up. “I can’t believe I said it, I’m so upset that I said it.”

The date walked up and confirmed this, said she was so embarrassed he’d told her that if she didn’t apologize, he was going to do it for her. I winced.

“I hate being that person who makes anyone feel uncomfortable about saying anything,” I told them, even though all three of us knew that it’s more complicated than that. She’ll probably never use the word again, at least not without thinking about that night at the gallery. And that’s exactly what I want, right? For people to be aware of how wrong it is to use the word retarded?

Yeah, it is. But it’s not a sweet victory, or even bittersweet. Instead, the whole thing left kind of a bad taste in my mouth. Of course there’s no turning back now — I’m not about to embrace the word retard, to “take it back.” (I hate that shit — I mean, really, who ever wanted the word cunt in the first place?!)

I’ve set the wheels in motion and now my mere presence during cocktail party chatter is enough to bring a grown woman to tears and now I’m not really sure what to say about it. I hope I didn’t ruin the rest of her night, because truly, she didn’t ruin mine. I just hope she knows that.

Naming it was hard. There were so many choices. My first thought was “Guns as Roses,” or “Guns ‘n Poses,” then “Pistol Whipped.” “Project Gunway.” “Put a Gun on It.” In the end, it was “Gun Show.”

“Gun Show” was taken on Instagram (why was I surprised?) so after some trial and error, it’s “2013 Gun Show.” Which is fitting, since I started last week, on New Year’s Day. Really, it started a few days before that. I was leaving my favorite nail salon — a sweet little spot in a nice part of town, not one of those cheapie walk-in places but not as expensive as a full-on spa, with sparkly tiles, complimentary iced tea and classic movies playing on a loop — when I noticed it on a display by the door: a tiny, rhinestone-encrusted gun pendant, hanging below a necklace that spelled out LOVE.

I felt myself flinch.

If it had been there on my previous visits, I hadn’t noticed it — and I know why. Newtown was a tipping point, even for a gun loather like me. That’s not fair. Today is the second anniversary of the Tucson shooting — which literally hit close to home — and I ask myself, “Why didn’t I notice things like rhinestone-encrusted gun pendants after that?” I don’t know why. I didn’t. I should have. We all should have — as it turns out, Newtown seems to have been a tipping point for a lot of people.

Let’s hope so, anyway. Before Newtown I didn’t notice things like rhinestone-encrusted gun pendants, but now I do. And so I decided to embark on a little project for 2013: Gun Show. Almost immediately, someone sent me the URL to a tumblr site devoted entirely to photographs of “cute guns” — pink revolvers, pink and black camouflaged rifles. You know, cute guns. That’s not quite what I’m going for here. Look, I get that a lot of people out there want to hold onto the right to bear arms — no matter how I feel about it. I get it. (I don’t like it, I want to change it, but I get it.)

But what does it say about this country that so many people in it choose to accessorize with guns? Owls, peace signs, mustaches, bicycles, hedgehogs — all cool, fun expressions of one’s personality and preferences. Guns? Not for me. And I have to ask, why for you? I can understand sleeping with a gun under your pillow. But sleeping with your head on a pink pillow with a gun embroidered on it? Yep, you can get one on Etsy.

WHY?

When it comes to safety, I suppose it’s safer to sleep with the embroidered version. But that’s not the point. I don’t feel safe in a world that tosses deadly weaponry around with such abandon, literal or figurative. I hate that I’m so numb to it that it took me so long to realize it was all over. After the nail salon I spent some time looking for other examples and quickly came up with way more than I expected — possibly enough to fill every day of an entire year, though I don’t intend to force myself to do this every day. Most days.

A week in, it’s already working — making me more aware of what we fetishize in this society, what we put on a pedestal. Or hang from our ears.

Self righteous and preachy? Totally. But hey, it’s a free country. You have the right to bear arms, both rhinestoned and otherwise. And I have the right to tell you what I think of it.

If you’re on Instagram and you want to see the project, follow @2013gunshow. And I’d love to see any examples you find. Trust me — you’ll find them, whether you want to or not.

I did it. I’ve been talking it about (a lot — apologies to those who have listened to me go on) and today I finally did it. I sent in Sophie’s Special Olympics registration. For cheerleading. What follows is a piece I read last month at an event sponsored by a group called the Lit Mamas. The lights were so bright I couldn’t tell if the audience was cheering — or cringing. In any case, next month Sophie starts cheerleading practice. I’m quite certain this won’t be my last post on the topic.

It was the perfect moment.

The sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, the waves were crashing just loudly enough to drown out the noise of the other families on the beach. And for the first time all week, most of my own family was nowhere to be seen.

We’ve been coming to this stretch of La Jolla – my parents, my younger sister and me – for a week every summer for nearly 30 years, and over time, our ranks have increased – with boyfriends, then husbands, and now kids. Back in the day, I’d spend hours on this beach, frying under Bain de Soleil (for the St. Tropez tan) SPF #4 and reading book after book, or sleeping, moving only when I really had to pee.

Now I’m lucky if I can pick up a magazine – let alone turn a page – before someone cries, or escapes running down the beach, or vomits sea water in my lap. These days I wear cover-ups and hats, slathering my exposed spots with Neutrogena SPF 70 that includes something called Helioplex that leaves a really attractive white film all over me – and my children, when I can catch them long enough to pour gobs of it on them.

But this day, this moment, something odd happened. I looked around, and it was just my mom and me, wrapped in beach towels on our lounge chairs, all alone on the beach. Jackpot.

I was just starting to doze off when my mother spoke.

“Ames, there’s something I have to say.”

My eyes flew open. OH FUCK, I thought. It’s cancer. When your 70-year-old mother uses that tone of voice, how can it be anything else? FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. FUCK.

I threw off the towel, sat up and turned to face her.

“Um, what?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, my heart racing.

“I really think you should consider letting Sophie do cheerleading in the Special Olympics,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, are you fucking kidding me?” I shrieked. “I thought you had – um, well, I thought. Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Don’t scare me like that!”

She continued on, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I know how you feel about cheerleading, the whole feminist argument and all, but just think about how much fun Sophie would have! She loves to dance, and she loves people. She’d have such a great time.”

Before I could say more than “I’ll take it under advisement,” a throng of children and husbands descended and the moment was gone.

But I did think about it. A lot. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it, and that’s got me really annoyed, because, frankly, I’ve got other things on my mind.

Sophie has Down syndrome. She will be 10 next May. All children come with their own special challenges, but Sophie’s really loaded for bear: She had open heart surgery before she was 1 and more open heart surgery at 4. She’s had three operations for clogged tear ducts (none of them worked, by the way), half a dozen pairs of orthotics for her feet and several pairs of glasses for eyes that don’t work right. She has her own lawyer, who bullied the neighborhood school into keeping her there, and every day I drop her off I wonder how much time we have left at that place before they tell us it’s just too much work to keep her there.

I can tell what you’re thinking. But please, don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t. And if Sophie was here tonight, you’d know why. The kid kicks some serious ass. She’s smart, funny, and I know it’s a stereotype but she’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. She can also be a total jerk. I love her like crazy.

So that’s why I take any decisions made on her behalf very, very seriously. And I’m not talking about the decision to crack open her chest and fix the hole in her heart. We had no choice there. I’m talking about the day to day aesthetic choices, the stuff that matters a lot more to all of us than we’re willing to admit.

When Sophie was just a few days old, I made a decision. If she was doomed to a life of bagging groceries, so be it. But she would never wear a bow tie when doing so, like the clerks at the high end market in town, A.J.’s. No way.

Not a good look for people with Down syndrome.

Over the years, the list has grown: No overalls, no top hats, no sailor suits. There is no rhyme or reason to my fashion pronoucements (although the overalls thing might have something to do with Of Mice and Men) – they simply come to me. And it’s not like I’m so High Fashion myself. I’m not; nor does it bother me that my husband shows up at the office every day a wrinkled mess.

But for Sophie, it’s different. She’s got to look her best.

Again, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, who cares – your kid is mentally retarded. She’ll be LUCKY to get a chance to bag groceries. Who cares what she wears while she does it?

I care.

Always have. I made sure Sophie had hot pink Converse to wear over her ugly foot braces when she was learning to walk, and scoured the thrift stores for Oilily and Baby Lulu outfits when she entered pre-school. She always has the cutest backpack in her class.

At the same time, I try not to stifle her creativity, which is why some days, she hits the playground in her fanciest party dress and tennis shoes. The other day she insisted on gigantic pink-lensed sunglasses. Sort of Diana Vreeland with a twist, I decided, and let it go.

But I have my limits. Sophie’s the tiniest kid anyone knows, so she gets all the hand me downs, and I hide the bags our friends give us til I can search them by myself late at night, getting rid of the overalls and the Elmo tee shirts she loves but is way too old for. And nothing too hoochy mama.

When Sophie turned 8, I signed up for the city of Tempe’s Special Olympics newsletter. That first season, the choices were as follows: bowling, speed skating and cheerleading.

OK, no bowling. Not as a team sport, anyway. No way. First, it’s not real exercise. And second – well, do I really have to explain myself? It’s just not a dignified sport. And speed skating? Yeah, right. So that left cheerleading.

And thus, my existential crisis.

Look, here’s the thing: Sophie is going to spend most of her life on the sidelines, no matter how hard I try to make it otherwise. She won’t likely drive a car or go to college or live on her own – if she does any of those things, it will be a truncated version. Special Olympics is one chance she gets to step on a level playing field. Why should she be off to the side, jumping around?

“But she’ll look so cute in the uniform!” a friend said.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport,” another friend said. “Anyhow, cheerleading isn’t what it used to be. It’s very athletic!”

Not for Sophie, who can’t turn a cartwheel – let alone do a backflip off the top of a human pyramid. No. Cheerleading for Sophie will only ever be a photo op.

“Oh come on,” my mom’s voice echoes in my head. “She’ll have fun!”

Ballet class is fun. Swimming lessons are fun. Running track in Special Olympics – that was a blast. Sophie loved it, ran her heart out, cherishes her fourth place ribbon. That was a lot of goddamn fun!

Cheerleading??? Do we really have to go there?

Right now you’re thinking: Wow. That woman really overthinks everything. You are right. I do. It’s exhausting. And wait – I’m not done.

I haven’t admitted this to my mother, but the truth is that I’ve been thinking about cheerleading since before I was Sophie’s age, and it’s not because I’m some crazed feminist. It’s because I always wanted to be a cheerleader.

I mean, really, how many kids choose to be on the speech and debate team? That was just a way to keep busy during the dances and other typical events I wasn’t included in when I was in high school. I watched the other kids like an anthropologist, and realized at an early age that the one sure-fire path to popularity – at my school, anyway – was cheerleading.

It wasn’t going to happen. I turned my last somersault when I was four. Like Albert Brooks’ annoying, nerdy-smart character in Broadcast News, as a kid I consoled myself with the thought that someday, I’d be more successful than any of them. That didn’t happen (some of them are damn fine real estate agents!) but I have lived happily ever after – and happier than a lot of them, if what I see on Facebook is any indication.

And now I’m charged with the happiness of two young girls. The truth is that I just don’t see any upside to Sophie being a cheerleader. It won’t bring her great popularity – and here I’m not talking about how, often, kids with Down syndrome become the mascots of their high school – elected Prom Queen, named “team manager” – and it won’t result in great athletic prowess.

It’ll just be – well, it’ll just be fun.

After months of thinking about it, I did the thing I should have done the first day it came up. I asked Sophie.

“Hey, Sophes,” I said one night before bed. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Do you want to do Special Olympics cheerleading?”

“YES!”

So Sophie will be a cheerleader — for one season, at least.

And I’ll be in the stands – cheering.

When I mentioned last week on Facebook that I was having trouble with my list of 50 things to do before I’m 50 (with thanks for the inspiration to my friend Megan, who came up with the idea for 30 before 30, a much more rationale notion!), I was bombarded with suggestions:

Zipline, skydive, bungee jump, learn to surf, drive a race car, snorkel, learn to belly dance/pole dance.

Suddenly, my life was looking pretty fucking great, because the truth is that not only have I never done any of those things, I have never had any desire at all to do them. And I’m not starting now.

Im fact. just knowing that I don’t have to any of these things makes me giddy. You made my day, friends. But please, by all means, jump out of that plane. Let me know how it goes.

One friend had the lovely suggestion that I volunteer to build a House for Humanity, but after I smashed a glass door just trying to move a table in my own home yesterday, I think my public service will be avoiding such opportunities. But I do have some volunteering-related items on the list.

No, I will not be trying sushi or anything else unusual (including garbanzo bean chocolate cookie dip) but I did really like my dear friend Deborah’s suggestion: “Kill a man. And get away with it.”

Too bad I was already up to 50 items when she mentioned it.

I’m not going to share my entire list (even for me, there’s such a thing as TMI) but here are a few items on it:

1. Keep blogging, at least once a week.
2. Jog a 5K.
6. Seriously consider getting a tattoo, but ultimately decide not to.
7. Buy new bath towels.
9. Organize my jewelry.
11. Seriously consider going to a high school/college/grad school reunion.
13. Buy sharp knives.
14. Organize my iTunes.
16. Go to Paris with my mother.
17. Write down (in one place) all the (really good) family recipes I can find.
18. Go to Seoul.
19. Renew my passport.
20. Go to Montreal.
21. Go to Vancouver.
22. Figure out a way to keep from losing the lids on Tupperware.
23. Wear sunglasses on a regular basis.
24. Buy a belt (and wear it).
25. Go to Mexico City.
26. Pitch a piece to the NYT magazine “Lives” column.
27. Play bingo.
28. Get a signature fragrance.
29. See Paul McCartney live in concert.
30. Make matzoh from scratch.
32. For once, do my taxes before April 15.
33. Drive cross country.
35. Throw out every pen in the house that doesn’t work.
36. Find a regular volunteer gig at Annabelle’s school.
37. Get a parttime gig teaching journalism.
38. Find the oral history tapes I did with Grandpa before he died.
39. See more live music.
40. Make a plate wall in my house.
41. Stop dyeing my hair.
42. Consider joining a temple.
44. Go to Vegas with Ray, stay at the Cosmopolitan, see a show.
45. Find a marketable skill other than journalism. (Just in case.)
46. Get a standard poodle and name it Opal. Or Ruby.
47. Go to San Francisco.
49. See old friends more often.
50. Live in the moment.

I better get going now. Got to get busy.

I have a feeling it’s going to be tougher to give up my new favorite reality show. And that’s saying a lot, because I really love candy corn. But against all odds, TLC’s show about a (very) small town Georgia family’s antics has gotten under my skin, and I’ve decided to stop fighting it. There may not be any nutritional value in a bag of Autumn Mix (those aren’t real pumpkins, folks) but I’ve come to believe there’s redeeming value in TV’s most cringeworthy show, and I’m not afraid to say it.

I love Honey Boo Boo. Here’s why.

First, if you haven’t actually watched the show Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, do us both a favor and move along. You have to suffer through at least one full epsiode to get it — or at least argue about it. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them all, or at least hunks of each, and I’ve got most of them DVR’d, so come on over.

If you watch reality TV all, you know there’s no rhyme or reason as to which shows you like. I love Cake Boss — but DC Cupcakes drives me nuts. I can’t watch the little people shows, but I’m obsessed with those conjoined twins. I am afraid to watch any of the housewives — terrified of immediate addiction — and terrifed of that show where all the women leave town for entirely different reasons.

My all-time favorite is Project Runway, but I turned off Craft Wars after the first 10 minutes. Hey, it’s a matter of taste. Plus, Tim Gunn versus Tori Spelling? No contest.

I had no intention of watching  Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. I am not a fan of Toddlers & Tiaras (although I do love Dance Moms) and didn’t know anything about this kid or her family when I happened to walk by the TV one night just as one of the kids stopped on Channel 42 on the cable box.

We were all horrified. Disgusted, freaked out. Shrieking at the TV. These people are gross — they fart and burp and rub their dirty feet on each other. And I can’t stop watching. “It’s a train wreck!” everyone says. “You just can’t look away!”

But it’s more than that.  This is a family. There’s a lot of dysfunction in this country (have you sat through an entire episode of Hoarders?) and these people certainly have their fair share. There is no debating the poor nutritional choices “Mama” makes for herself and her kids; and as much as I like a good thrifting experience, the epsiode where they visit the dump (which they call the department store) and one of the daughters gets wrapped in a dirty mattress was one of the sickest things I’ve ever seen. And one can only hope that “Sugar Bear” takes some of that money from TLC and gets to a dentist, stat.

But this is a family. “You can’t deny she loves her kids,” a dear friend (who shall remain nameless — you’re welcome, dear friend) said the other day, explaining why she, too, can’t stop watching. Yes, it was a little excessive when 4-year-old Alana (a.k.a. Honey Boo Boo) and her sisters toilet papered the entire house using the giant supply Mama’s amassed by extreme couponing, but it was sweet, too, particularly when the parents got home from an anniversary date and instead of getting mad, cracked up. Then everyone cleaned up the mess together. You don’t get more wholesome than that. And a lot of families could take a lesson from it.

I have to admit that Honey Boo Boo’s family reminds me just a little bit of my own. No, we don’t have contests in which we sniff each other’s breath, and we don’t throw our spaghetti against the wall then eat it (not on national TV, anyway) but we have been known to point out one another’s bodily eruptions and one Christmas someone in our family did make a dessert out of an angel food cake and red Jell-O that would have fit right in on Mama’s dining room table (if she had one). And the kids have had some Slip ‘n Slide adventures in the back yard that were straight ouf of rural Georgia. Let he who is without gas cast the first stone, I say.

Frankly, we could all use a little more Honey Boo Boo, because best of all, the members of that family can laugh at themselves. Now, they may not be laughing after watching how some of that footage was edited (I really doubt that woman actually farted during the taping of the intro to the show) but I hope they get the money they ask for and chuckle all the way to the bank.

So the other day when Sophie asked me to curl her hair, then admitted it was because she figured if she looked glamorous, they might ask her to be on Honey Boo Boo, I was horrified at first. And then I just laughed.

I’ll be sorry to see the season end on Wednesday. But I will not be whipping up a batch of  go go juice for the occasion.

“Hey Mom, why do I have to fold the laundry before I put it away?”

This question came from my beautiful 11-year-old, who stood in her room over a basket of laundry, about to shove a wadded up (but clean!) t-shirt into a giant dresser drawer filled with the same.

I just looked at her, speechless, and suddenly had a horrible thought. “Glass Castle.”

Holy crap. Ray and I are raising our kids like Jeanette Walls’ parents raised her and her siblings. Okay, so I was overreacting a bit. There’s no way we’ll end up in that  whole West Virginia scene (surely you’ve read this book, and if you have you’ll know why I suspect that section of the book is, um, exaggerated) and I doubt we’ll ever be homeless. But yeah, housekeeping is not our forte.

Most of the time I can shove the mounds into piles, spray everything with a little 409 and make myself feel better, but last week things really spiraled out of control. Our cleaning person quit without notice (but with good reason, health-related) and the washer and dryer both gave up at once. Small piles in corners soon became an Everest-sized potential avalanche of dirty clothing from two vacations and when we could no longer see the TV or find a place to stick our feet on the coffee table, it was time to take action.

It was time to clean the house.

“Boy, are you grumpy!” Ray commented last Sunday as he cruised past me in the kitchen, chuckling. “Is it because you are actually having to clean?”

Of course it was. The more I cleaned, the more dirt I found. It wasn’t enough to clean the toilet and the counters, I felt compelled to remove every bottle and jar from every bathroom shelf, clean it (or toss it) then take the glass shelves off and clean those. All of which made a giant mess. The place was a wreck and getting worse every time I turned around, since Sophie’s idea of helping is to remove every item from her dresser and toss it around her room.

I wanted to cry, and not just because I’d lost my weekend. What sorts of heathens are we raising? I muttered to myself as I batted at the bathtub with a Clorox wipe. (What’s the point in doing more than that? Doesn’t soap run all over the shower every time you use it, arguably making it the cleanest spot in the house?)

No one in our house ever makes their bed. I draw the line at leaving dishes and actual food sitting around outside the kitchen; still, it’s not unheard of to find a petrified cup of Carnation Instant Breakfast in the corner of the living room. But everyone’s clean and the house is clean (well, it was when we had a cleaning person, and when she could find open spaces) and really, beyond that, does it matter?

I was beginning to think it did, last Sunday, and then I opened a kitchen drawer to look for a new sponge and found a gift given to me long ago by a good friend, a photographer. It’s a ceramic tile stamped with the words “Art Before Dishes,” and I always meant to hang it above the kitchen sink, but it requires a screwdriver or maybe even an electric drill and I never did get around to it. I’ve kept it for many years.

Back in her room, Annabelle stood watching me, waiting for an answer, the t-shirt dangling from her fingertips. I thought about my own dresser, crammed with wadded up t-shirts and said, “You know what? I don’t know why. Do whatever you like with your laundry.”

So she did — quickly — and then she went back to her art, which at the moment involves a lot of duct tape.  

Art Before Dishes. I think I’ll hang that tile up this weekend, right after I interview a new cleaning person.

But I do know a good poem when I read one. And this one made me understand in a flash why people write poetry — which happens to me sometimes, but not very often.

It landed in my email late last week.

“i wrote a poem about your kid in my writing project, which ended today,” my friend Trish wrote.

I could write 100 blog posts and not come close to the essence of my kid — not in the way Trish does in a few lines.

Remember the name Tricia Parker, folks. Seriously. She’s pretty freaking amazing. And kind enough to let me share her poem with you.

Sophie, who is eight but crawls

Sophie, who is eight but crawls
onto my lap, toddler tiny, all easy,
agile hip flexors, smudgy glasses
transform her almost lilac eyes
into fishes trapped in bowls.

Sophie, who is eight, eats her beans
and rice, and asks why?
every time I suggest
put your napkin here
move your drink away from the edge
try a spoon instead.
Why? Sophie recognizes these suggestions
for the corrections they are.
Why? She wants to know.
So you don’t make a mess.

Why?

And then, tell me a story about
when I was a baby. Tell it now.
Wait until we finish eating.
No! Tell it now,
Sophie insists, her feet in the smallest
pink, sparkly moccasins,
crawling into and out of my lap
insisting fish-bowl wide-eyed.
No. Tell me now.

I need to think about it.
She shakes her head, watching me.
No. You don’t.

But to be honest, on this night, I wasn’t expecting to see these two.

“So,” I said, after hellos and hugs. “Are you guys here for, um –”

They both looked slightly embarrassed. No, they explained, they were running an event in the small theater at Scottsdale Center, a discussion about how to save a Frank Lloyd Wright house in the Arcadia neighborhood that’s at risk of being demolished.

They didn’t ask why I was there. They knew.

We all had to get where we were going, so we said our goodbyes and Ray and I made our way into the larger theater. We weren’t there to hear a lecture about modern art or see some tragically hip public radio star. Actually, some people might call the event we’d come for tragic.

My cool friends might. They’d never say it, though I wouldn’t blame them for thinking it. Not so long ago — nine years and three weeks, to be exact — I would have felt exactly the same way.

I was at Scottsdale Center for the Arts last night to see the latest production by a local troop called Detour. Even the closest watchers of the Phoenix theater scene might not recognize the name. All of the actors in this production are developmentally disabled adults. Some very much so. Many can’t be on stage alone — so coaches work closely with them, quietly feeding them lines, masterfully guiding them (literally) through the scenes of a full-scale, full-blown musical production — in this case, South Pacific.

Ray and I were there last night specifically to watch our children perform. Sophie had a role as one of Emile’s children; Annabelle, too, and she served as Sophie’s onstage coach.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t wish in some ways last night that I had come to hear a lecture about architecture. Afterward, we could have gone out for cocktails and talked about the relative merits of Wright’s notoriously low ceilings. But that’s not my life (so much) anymore. Some days I’m better at accepting that than others. I think I did okay last night.

True, we sat near the last row. A safe distance. After the show, when the actors were milling around in the lobby and I could see them more closely, I was startled to realize how significantly many are affected by their disabilities. For a minute or two, during the performance, I got so caught up I forgot I wasn’t watching a professional theater company perform.

The director, a woman named Sam, does an incredible job of casting and giving each actor the chance to work to his or her potential. In the case of the leads, that meant the audience got to listen to some truly amazing vocal performances. (Really! The woman who plays the lead is freaking unbelievable.) For others, it meant being on stage, going through several costume changes, speaking a line or two, and relishing well-earned applause.

Sam is an old friend of my mom’s, and we talked for a few minutes a couple months ago at Special Olympics. Her own son, Christopher, competes in Special Olympics and she told me that she only comes because he so obviously enjoys it (he won a gold medal for running during the span of our conversation) but that she long ago decided that there needs to be more for adults with disabilities. A lot more. So she created Detour.

I went to my first Detour performance a year and a half ago, when our beloved nanny Courtney was a coach. To be honest, it was hard to watch. You don’t see a lot of parents of young kids like Sophie at events like this — and I totally understand why. Even at a happy time like this, it’s hard to propel yourself headlong into your future. Into your kid’s future.

So when Sam asked if the girls would take part in South Pacific, I hesitated. But they were both so excited about it, we said yes. Courtney graciously took them to several rehearsals, and she’s in charge of the kids while they are back stage.

I have to admit that I worried about how Annabelle would react to spending so much time with Detour. Not my proudest moment: One day I asked her, “How is it, hanging around with, um, people in that situation? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

She looked at me like I was crazy. (She does that more and more these days.) I shut my mouth. Last night, watching her take hands with Sophie and another girl to dance in a circle around a woman in a wheelchair, my eyes welled up. I know being Sophie’s sister is hard sometimes, but last night, I only felt how lucky Annabelle is. And what a wonderful young woman she’s becoming. And I know I’m biased, but I have to say that Sophie stole the show.

I had never seen South Pacific (not sure how I got to 45 without it — I did know all the songs) and neither had Ray, so we were a little lost when it came to the story. When Emile made a comment about his children being “different” I thought, “Wow, a reference to special needs?!” but a friend explained later it’s because the kids are supposed to be a different ethnic background. By the end, I got it, and I understood why Sam chose this play — it’s about overcoming prejudice and finding love.

Perfect.

Detour has two more performances this weekend — at 3 today and 3 tomorrow at Scottsdale Center for the Arts. Both are free (donations optional) and open to the public. I’d love it if you come. But trust me, I’ll totally understand if you don’t.

If you do, look for me. I’ll be sitting in the front row.