I woke up today singing “Good Morning Baltimore,” which is no wonder considering I sat through three stage performances of Hairspray over the weekend.

If there’d been a fourth, I would have been there for that, too.

The musical was performed by Detour Company Theatre, a local theater troupe. As the board member who introduced the show said, the cast members in this weekends’ performances are otherwise invisible to most of us. They are adults with developmental disabilities — with a range of diagnoses both familiar (yes, there were several cast members with Down syndrome, including the young woman who played Tracy Turnblad) and (I’m guessing) not. I nodded as he spoke, thinking how true it is that I encounter people like this so seldom in every day life.

And certainly not 50 of them on stage together in one of the biggest and fanciest theaters in town.

The performance was top-notch; Detour’s productions always are. The actors rehearsed intensely for months, joined onstage by more than two dozen coaches who in many cases literally walked, talked and sang the stars through their paces, and sometimes were just there for moral support.

Probably because I’m a glass-half-empty kind of girl — and certainly because I’m the mother of a future Detour actor (if they’ll have her) — instead of cheering with the crowd, I cried through most of the three performances, particularly at curtain call (curtain calls always get me anyhow), thinking not of what a great opportunity this was but instead of how few opportunities these actors have, both on and off stage, to shine. And who’s here in the audience, anyhow? I asked myself, poking at the wound. Just family members.

The night before the run began, I’d bumped into a super-hip young woman who works in the arts in Scottsdale. “Are you going to see Hairspray this weekend?” I asked her. Her face changed; she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. No, was the unspoken answer. Of course not.

To be fair, that would have been my answer before I had Sophie — and, to be brutally honest — it was my answer for a long time after I had her. My mother has known Sam, Detour’s director, for decades. She’s been going to the productions forever. Several years ago, she finally convinced me to come see a show; Sophie’s beloved nanny, Courtney, was volunteering as a coach.

I could barely look at the stage. When Sophie and Annabelle were invited a couple years ago to play the children in South Pacific, I warmed up a little. But I still had trouble watching. A couple shows later, and I was pushing other people aside for second-row seats at Hairspray. I couldn’t get close enough and like I said already, couldn’t see the show often enough.

Annabelle and Sophie feel the same. They both dressed up in circle skirts and ponytails and danced in the aisles this weekend — crowd warmers.

Annabelle wrote an essay for school last semester about Detour.

Okay, so maybe that super-hip artsy woman wasn’t there (I didn’t see her, but there were hundreds of people at each show, so I suppose it’s possible) but my mother, my kids and I have all been changed by Detour. Three generations. Not bad. I won’t say “just family members” again.

And I was reminded by a cast member after yesterday’s final show that rehearsals for the next one start soon. So maybe Detour is enough.

Of course it’s not. Not even close. And the subject matter of Hairspray was lost on no one. Sam, the director, kept just about everything from the original script (as far as I could recall) but changed the term “Negro Day” to “Special Day.”

I don’t think that was lost on anyone, either.

For more information visit detourcompanytheatre.org.

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.

“Where are you?” my sister asked.

“The parking lot at CVS,” I said. “We were just at Walgreens, picking up Sophie’s thyroid pills, but she says the paintbrushes are better at CVS so we came here, too.”

(In case you didn’t know, Sophie is obsessed with paintbrushes.)

My sister thought that was hilarious, which I though was a little nerve-y after she explained that she had to go because her kid had begged her to buy the tie-dye frosting/rainbow sprinkle cupcake mix at the grocery store but upon seeing the mix itself now wanted only tie-dye frosting and no rainbow sprinkles.

“I better go,” she said. “I either need to find some vanilla cupcake mix or get out the tweezers.”

“OK,” I said, batting Sophie’s hand away, as my sister yelled at her own kids to give her a minute. “Sophie’s dying to either get those paintbrushes or get on the phone with you. Talk to you later.”

The saddest part? That was a long conversation for my sister and me.  Before we hung up, we agreed that neither of us has much interest in seeing the new Sarah Jessica Parker movie, and not just because it’s getting such crappy reviews. We are living our own technicolor versions — and it’s not pretty.

Wye Oak – Fish from Merge Records on Vimeo.

I sat for two hours and stared at adults with developmental disabilities.

Don’t worry, it was entirely appropriate — a production by Detour, a local theater company for adults with a wide range of special needs. They were all fantastic, performing two plays and holding a standing-room-only crowd’s attention for more than two hours.

You can learn more about Detour and its amazing founder, Sam, here.

I’ll be honest: It was not always easy to watch. I’ve barely dipped my toe in, when it comes to even thinking about the challenges of having an adult daughter with Down syndrome. And so I stared extra hard at the cast members with DS, wondering what their lives are like, where they live, are they happy? Most of them seemed to be that tamped down version of themselves — what I notice when I spy on Megan the bagger, in line at my Safeway. They have been trained to contain that crazy joy that explodes from Sophie, causing her to announce loudly last night in a Thai restaurant, “I just went poo poo!” Or to ask my loudly in Goodwill for her own bra. Or to tell me in Safeway that I have a “warm butt”.

I agree with Sophie that sometimes a good “poo poo” is truly a cause for celebration — and I get that you can’t announce that over someone else’s curry. And I suppose this theater thing is a method of channeling that energy in a good way. I get it.

I’m still not quite ready for it, though I was proud of myself for attending Detour. The first show was called “Honk” — an all-too appropriate ugly duckling tale. The players were cast marvelously, so that everyone had a role, and the leads were pretty terrific. It didn’t take me long to realize something, though it took me a while to smirk to myself that this was clearly a cosmic message.

The woman playing the Mama Duck was blind. Literally.

I saw this video where I get a lot of music recommendations these days — the Frances/Smeeks blog — a few weeks ago, and put the album on my Christmas list.

Last weekend I finally unearthed the CD from a pile of presents and the girls and I listened to it all day, particularly this song. It’s rare to love the melody and words equally in a song. That’s the case here. The video’s pretty good, too.

Be my youth
My kissing booth
My little sweet tooth
My beauty and truth

Driving to dinner for our 13th wedding anniversary, I played it for Ray. His tastes run more along the lines of Czechoslovakian death metal, but he had to admit it was pretty good.

The whole trip did. That’s not to say we didn’t all do our fair share of whining — and that after countless turns on the carousel, my world’s not still spinning just a bit, as I sit still to type this — but it was certainly our best trip to Disneyland yet.

And that’s saying a lot. We’ve gone every year since Annabelle turned 3, and were in danger of missing a year when I hatched a plan to spend New Year’s in Anaheim — never guessing what a popular NYE destination Disneyland is. Never mind. We saw both 2010 and 2011 in the Magic Kingdom.

This morning I asked Sophie, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” She didn’t hesitate.

“When we split up!” she said with a twinkle in her eye, knowing she was being just a little bit naughty in her admission. But I had to agree.

That’s when Annabelle and Ray hit the scary rides like Space Mountain and the Matterhorn, and Sophie and I rode the carousel or stood in line to meet the characters. If you’ve never had the privilege of watching Sophie make it to the front of the line to see Snow White (or Tigger or Alice in Wonderland or Gepetto or Goofy or Minnie or — you get the picture), you just haven’t lived, my friend.

It really is magic.

My favorite moment was when she motioned to Cinderella and asked Sleeping Beauty, “Hey, who’s that girl with the bangs?” I even got her onto the teacup ride, this time, and she needed no coaxing to run up on “stage” and dance with Mary Poppins.

Both girls cried when we left the park, and we had to promise that this wouldn’t be our only trip to Disneyland in 2011. Except for my feet, I didn’t mind a bit.

Snow Queen was over.

This was her third year appearing on a big stage in downtown Phoenix, in the city’s alternative to the Nutcracker. Her second (and almost certainly last) year as a rosebud, which she and I agree is the best role. She was cranky about rehearsals, nervous about going on stage, bored waiting for  curtain calls.

And beyond ecstatic about the whole thing.

Saturday night — still only halfway through the four shows, happily in the midst of the whole thing — we left the theater late. She pulled the big stage door open ahead of me, and said something so quietly I didn’t quite catch it.

“I feel….”

“Cranky? Grumpy?” I asked, sighing. “Hungry?” All would have been perfectly acceptable.

No, she answered.

“I feel proud.”

Why, you ask, would anyone want to screw up their pictures? I dunno, I think it looks kinda neat. It reminds me of my childhood in a good way, and not that many things remind me of childhood in a good way. And ok, I’ll say it: It’s hip.

I got to thinking — and giggling — about the whole Hipstamatic thing on Saturday, as Sophie and I sat through Yo Gabba Gabba Live.

For the undoctrinated, Yo Gabba Gabba is like the Teletubbies on acid: imaginary characters dressed up in huge costumes, ready to teach your kids to be nice. And to eat healthy food, not to bite, that kind of thing.

But the thing that sets Yo Gabba Gabba apart is that — with funky bright colors, and guest stars like Jack Black and Amy Sedaris, and alt bands like the Ting Tings — it’s hip. Aggressively hip. Tragically hip? I can’t really say. Maybe, if you don’t have a kid. But if you do have a kid, you’re just really freaking relieved that you don’t have to watch the Teletubbies or the dozens of other kid shows that aren’t much better.

I’ve never seen so many dads at a live kid show, but there they were in their goateed and Conversed glory (moms, too — I spotted a “Yo Gabba Momma” bumper sticker in the parking lot), and for the most part, they looked more interested in the show than their toddlers. To be fair, it can be hard to get toddlers to appreciate live entertainment. Mostly the under-four set just wants to pee or throw up or throw a tantrum.

Sophie was one of the oldest kids and she liked it, but really she mostly endured it, because I told her that after the show, she’d get to meet Foofa, her favorite Yo Gabba Gabba character. Foofa’s “thing” is that she’s happy all the time. She’s pink and puffy and has a flower on her head. I skipped the $10 plastic headband with the white Foofa flower hot glue-gunned to the top, but I did get Sophie a tee shirt, and couldn’t help but hold my own hipster photo session in the parking lot, after the after party. 

Because yes, I paid (a lot) to attend the after party. It was the only way I knew Sophie’d get near the characters, and Sophie’s all about the close encounter. It was pretty lame, but mission accomplished: Sophie got to hug Foofa.

She seemed pretty ecstatic about it. But maybe not.

When I bought the tickets months ago, Sophie was still way into YGG, but lately she’s been all Oliva the Pig, all the time, so while she acted excited (she did put her Yo Gabba Gabba panties on for the occasion — thought of that all on her own), I think she was just trying to make me happy. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention the show once after we got home. Not like her. She was way more excited about the porcelain Olivia tea set she got for Hanukkah that night.

Sophie doesn’t care that Olivia’s not as hip as Foofa. And I haven’t asked but she probably thinks my photos have been looking a little screwed up lately, too.