Another big change in junior high: a strict dress code.

The first couple days of school, Sophie was excited to wear her navy polo dress or a shirt and a khaki skort. By day three, she was rebelling — wanting to wear forbidden leggings, refusing to tuck in her shirt — and by the first day of the second week she had completely lost her shit.

I get it. It was picture day and Sophie wanted to dress up.

“No, sweetie,” I told her for the second or maybe it was the hundredth time, trying to be patient but ready to lose it myself. “You have to wear your uniform. How about this dress? And be sure to put black shorts on under it and please wear these shoes.”

The promise of a borrowed necklace and a little make up got her in and out of the shower, but by then we were officially late, so when Sophie emerged from her room with a gray and white tie-dyed, sequined vest over her polo dress, I gave up.

“Fine,” I said, not very nicely. “They’ll make you take it off at school.”

I had to admit she looked pretty cute. She practically cooed when I pulled out the mascara and jumped at the chance to borrow my new lip gloss, smearing it all over her mouth. She came home with the vest, necklace and lip gloss crammed in the bottom of her backpack.

By this morning, she just seemed resigned. I put her outfit on the couch without a word, and she put it on.

Uniforms are the least of Sophie’s worries — or they should be. But for both of us, I think, the school dress code sends a bigger message: conform or go home.

Here’s a piece I wrote about uniforms that ran on KJZZ — the Phoenix NPR affiliate — the week before school started. 

I can’t believe Sophie’s in fourth grade.

Neither could the girl behind the counter at our bagel shop.

“It’s the first day of school,” I told her.

“Cool!” she told Sophie. “What grade are you in?”

“You tell her!” Sophie said. “Fourth,” I said.

“Really?” She peered over the counter to take a closer look.

“Really!” I said cheerfully.

“Really?!?!”

“Yes!”

“Really?!?!?!?!?”

Why would I lie?

This morning Sophie cuddled up against me in bed. Suddenly she pulled her thumb out of her mouth and yanked down the front of her nightgown. “My boobs are growing!” she said.

They aren’t — but they will be soon. Will she still be sucking her thumb then? I wondered as I rolled out of bed. Probably. In so many ways she’s still so young, frozen in time by that third 21st chromosome.

And yet I see the ice melting. Sophie requested gray for her first-day-of-school outfit instead of her usual purple, and a backpack with peace signs instead of a cartoon character. She brushed her own hair, although I had to tie the laces on her new gray sneakers. She insisted on swallowing her thyroid pill with water, just like a big girl, and even agreed to put on her glasses.

“Sophie, you look so professional!” Annabelle said when Sophie barged into her sister’s bedroom for a goodbye hug.

Sophie wilted a little bit when we got to school — yanked off the glasses, refused to take her thumb out of her mouth, even though we’d had a long talk about how fourth graders don’t suck their thumbs at school.

“I’m tired,” she said, leaning on me. I think she was nervous.

For once, I wasn’t. The bell rang and the kids disappeared into the school — Sophie dwarfed not only in size but so many other ways — and yet still, to me, the kid’s larger than life. Fourth grade will be a challenge, for sure. But I’m betting she’ll hold her own. She’s got a homeroom teacher named  Mrs. Wisehart and an aide named Mrs. Wright (great names, huh?) and in a departure from my usual expect-the-worst mantra, I’ve decided to look forward to a good year.

Fingers crossed.

It wasn’t til I had the curling iron in my hand yesterday morning that I realized I’d never tried to curl Sophie’s hair before.

It’s not about Sophie — there’s not a lot of time for any sort of hair primping in our house. With only minutes to spare til we absolutely-positively-had-to-leave-the-house-or-we’d-be-inexcusably-late, I unearthed the curling iron from the bottom of a basket in the bathroom that (literally) exploded with rubber ducks, travel-sized lotions and several books.

No time to pick anything up. We were on our way to the girls’ annual ballet recital and Sophie’s teacher had requested that her students’ hair be half up/half down and curled, with flowers in it.

If you ask me, that’s a lot of nerve. But considering I’m lucky if my children don’t leave the house with gigantic rat nests emerging from the backs of their heads, I’m probably the wrong one to ask.

So there I am, curling iron in hand, and Sophie’s not having any of it. Annabelle helped me convince her that the curling iron does not hurt (except when Mom accidentally pulls a little too hard) and I managed to insert several ringlets into her stick-straight hair without burning either of us.

Success. She looked so cute. I got it half up/half down, secured it with a rubber band, and freed her from Hair Jail. Sophie ran to look in the mirror, Annabelle at her heels.

A few minutes later, they were back.

“Mo-o-o-m!” Annabelle announced, shaking her head. “Sophie says she looks like an ugly princess.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.

“She what?” I asked.

“Sophie, tell her,” Annabelle said.

“I look like an ugly princess,” Sophie said.

There wasn’t time to stop and argue, so Annabelle and I tried to convince Sophie that she looked beautiful as we all hustled out the door. As we pulled out of the driveway and I had a few minutes to think, it dawned on me that I knew exactly what Sophie was talking about.

I love my hairdresser. I love her so much that even when I’ve forgotten to make an appointment and I’m desperate to get my hair cut (and colored) I will wait another six weeks til she has an opening, rather than go to anyone else. Molly’s great. She specializes in curly hair. My hair doesn’t curl as much as it used to, but Molly cuts it to make the most of the wave I have left. The only time we get into trouble is when she wants to style it.

“Oh gee, sorry, can’t stay, gotta get back to work,” I mumble, shaking my wet hair from her fingers and scrambling out of the chair, even when I don’t really have to get back to work.

“PLEASE!” she begs as I run for the cashier. “Please let me play with it!”

“Play with it” means blow it dry with a difuser, then wrap it around her fingers to make curls, and finally use the curling iron. I’ve let her do it a few times and every time, I’ve regreted it. It’s not that my hair looks bad, it’s that it doesn’t match my face.

I look like a dork. Silly. Like I’m trying too hard. I look, I realized yesterday, thinking about it in the car, like an ugly princess.

I am sad that Sophie felt like that, of course, but I have to admit that I was also a little bit proud. That’s a sophisticated (okay, neurotic may be a better word) epiphany for any almost-8-year-old.

By the time we got to the recital, Sophie had come around.

“I look awesome!” she announced, as we got out of the car and headed for the stage.

And she did.

In honor of the approaching heat, Annabelle got out the duct tape and made shoes for herself and Sophie. She says dresses are next.

A while back, I was having dinner at a downtown Phoenix restaurant with two of my best girlfriends. Someone who knew someone at the table stopped to say hi.

“Hey, what’s with the book club?” he asked, laughing.

We looked at each other. It took us a minute — he was making fun of the fact that all three of us were wearing glasses.

I rarely think about my glasses. I’ve worn them full time since — geez, I’m not sure how long. A really long time. I am terrified of contacts. Why would you voluntarily stick something in your eye?

And frankly, once you hit a certain age, a pair of glasses can hide a multitude of sins (or, at least, a few wrinkles, at least that’s what I tell myself — and my  mom recently admitted she still wears her glasses even though she doesn’t really need them, for the same reason).

Plus, I love my glasses. Not long ago, I invested in a funky pair by Betsey Johnson, after falling for the ones my friend Laurie was wearing. I love ‘em.

So does Sophie. Sophie has begged for glasses for years, and not long ago it became obvious that she really needs them. Armed with a prescription and a false start at LensCrafters (I don’t recommend taking your special needs kid there) we headed across town to my optometrist.

Sophie chose a pair of wire frames in a blue-purple hue. No Betsey Johnsons for her; Sophie’s are made by (seriously) Barbie. The frames are perfectly nice, very plain.

Here’s where I make my ugly admission: As soon as she put them on, my heart sank.

I often wonder if we are hard-wired to find our own children the most gorgeous, breath-taking creatures on the planet. That’s how I feel about mine — isn’t it how you feel about yours? I could (and do) stare at Annabelle and Sophie for hours, taking in the soft skin, the perfectly shaped calves, the sweet smiles. Marveling that I created such beauty.

Shallow, but true.

So please, universe, don’t stick some crappy, Barbie brand wire-framed glasses on one of those faces. I know you’ll tell me that Sophie looks absolutely adorable in the glasses. But to me, not so much.

Maybe it’s because when I was 4, my mother let me pick out my first pair of glasses and I managed (with the help of a shag haircut that was not my idea) to transform myself into a hideous beast in octagonal green and brown tortoiseshell. (It was a long journey from that stage to the dinner table with bespectacled friends stage.) Maybe it’s because five minutes after Sophie put them on, the glasses were already cockeyed and smudged. Maybe it’s because it’s a pain in the ass to keep glasses on a kid, particularly this kid.

Maybe it’s because when I look at Sophie in those glasses, I see just another kid with Down syndrome rather than my own amazing, unique daughter.

Maybe I’m a terrible, shallow person. But I’m not so terrible that I don’t recognize that my kid can’t see very well. So we got Sophie the glasses, and a special case, and a lot of instructions about how to take care of her new prized possession.

The glasses lasted an entire day and a half before she lost them. So today I’ll call the optometrist and order a new pair. For the next few days, at least, I’ll have my Sophie back.

And some time to adjust my attitude.

Thinking about what I would say in this post, I realized that I write more about the people Sophie bonds with than the ones Annabelle does — maybe because Sophie is so direct in her declarations, maybe because Annabelle doesn’t give her heart quite as easily. But tonight I find myself thinking about Annabelle and Michele.

I wish I could show you a picture of Michele. She’s take-your-breath-away beautiful. I worked with her for 10 years, but I’d still bump into her in the hallway and be stunned all over again by how lovely she is. Inside and out. You’ll have to take my word for it, because Michele doesn’t show her face. Not since she took the job as New Times‘ food critic about five years ago.

Before that she held several other jobs at the paper, including music editor, where she wrote one of my all-time favorite pieces ever, about how Robert Smith from The Cure changed her life.

Two weeks ago tomorrow, Michele gave her two week notice. So tomorrow, her office will be empty.

I will miss Michele for so many reasons, not all having to do with work. She is one of the best listeners I know, and she gives the best gifts. If you think me shallow for the latter, you have never received one of Michele’s incredibly thoughtful presents, always with a card in her beautiful script.

The first gift I remember getting from Michele was a tiny Winnie the Pooh onesie for Annabelle, who was born a few months after Michele arrived at the paper. Over the years, the two didn’t see one another terribly often, but when they did, it became clear that Michele has a Mini Me. Truly, if I hadn’t been in that delivery room myself, I’d say that this was her own kid.

More than once, Annabelle’s startled Michele by showing an interest in (and talent for) something she loves: fashion design, drawing, stickers, handwriting, all things Japanese. The culinary arts. I haven’t played The Cure for her yet, but I should.

Annabelle overheard me on the phone with her a few days ago. “Michele who is leaving?” she asked.

“Michele Laudig.”

Annabelle got a funny look on her face. A little while later, she presented me with the item pictured above: a “plate” of sushi crafted out of felt. “That’s the napkin,” she said, pointing to the white piece of felt next to the green roll. “It’s for Michele.”

The perfect gift.

There’s no way to adequately thank Michele for the countless lunches, the dozens of hand-me-down magazines, the empathy, the hard work, the cheerful knock on my door even when I knew she was grumpy herself. I hope a felt sushi roll from her favorite 9-year-old comes close.

I knew Sophie would not be disappointed to learn she needed glasses. But I was a little surprised when Annabelle asked, plaintively, “Can I have some glasses, too?”

She’s not having trouble seeing. She’s just a slave to her own particular brand of fashion — inspired in part, she acknowledged, by Harriet the Spy. Turns out she’s not alone; Claire’s (the accessory store of choice for the tween and pre-tween set) actually stocks non-prescription glasses. Since we have not had luck yet, finding Sophie the real thing, we headed to the mall tonight. The girls picked out matching pairs.

Both are thrilled. “I can see better!” Sophie announced at dinner. I don’t know about that, but I’m hoping this $7.50 investment will help teach her over the next few days how to take care of glasses, which you can’t toss around like, say, an iPad.

I’m on a quest to find just the right glasses, after a multi-pronged disaster at Lenscrafters. Cate suggested the glasses made just for kids with Down syndrome. I’m thinking about it, but the selection is so narrow. Not much personality. I suppose fit trumps fashion in this case, but still. I have to admit that I hate for Sophie to look like all the other kids with Down syndrome in their standard-issue glasses. (And standard-issue haircut, which she also has. At least you seldom see anyone — particularly a person with Down syndrome — sporting a purple sundress with white duct tape polka dots stuck on in February.)

Annabelle eyed the turkey sandwich on her plate and asked, “Can I have just a tomato sandwich in my lunch sometime, like Harriet?”

Absolutely. That is the kind of nerdiness I can embrace.

“When I’m on Project Runway, I’ll be able to tell them that my first fashion show was when I was 9,” Annabelle announced the other day.

Ah, youth. Although I’m not sure I was that confident at any age. For Annabelle it’s not “if,” it’s “when.” And I hope it always stays that way. If Saturday’s any indication, who knows — it could happen.

We piled in the car on a wickedly hot fall afternoon and headed for Grand Avenue — a sketchy stretch of Phoenix appropriated by some artsy types who were throwing a festival, which included a “trash fashion show.” Kids were encouraged to attend, so I told the girls about it.

Sophie wasn’t interested in designing, and Annabelle had no desire to be on the runway (neither did her friend Katie, who happened to be over for a playdate when this all came up) so it was decided that Sophie would model the older girls’ design. I paid the $10 fee and I think we were all a little nervous. (At one point, envisioning a Project Runway-like grilling, Annabelle almost chickened out, til I assured her there would be no judging.)

In the end, it was a magical (if hot) afternoon. The entry fee covered hair and makeup by “professionals,” there were dozens of other “models” (and only a couple other kids) milling around backstage, acting very model-y in their shredded newspaper dresses and some more bizarre get-ups, and everyone was super-nice to the girls. (Special thanks to Courtney, Super Sitter, who helped execute Annabelle’s trash bag design.)

Sophie, who had practiced several different runway walks, was quite the model. Like I said, magical.

The pictures say it better than I can.

“Let’s see if you can both be dressed by the time I get out of the shower,” I called to the girls this morning, fully expecting that Sophie would ignore me and giving Annabelle 50/50 odds.

Amazingly, both were dressed — Annabelle even had shoes on! — when I emerged. Sophie had put on the shirt and skirt I’d left on the coffee table (the shirt was inside out, easily rectified) but when she turned to face me I realized she was wearing a full face (not just mouth) of lipstick. True, it wasn’t a really dark shade, and actually it matched the skirt nicely, but still.

Can I let my 7-year-old go to school in lipstick?

In the end we compromised and she let me wipe it off her cheek and nose. But it stayed on and around her mouth and really, I’m not sure I could have gotten it all off even if she’d let me try, given that I didn’t have three hours and a huge tub of Pond’s cold cream on hand. I don’t know how that lipstick (from a kids’ kit, I usually stick to lip gloss myself) fell into enemy hands. I devoted a Rubber Maid to “kids’ makeup” and have it tucked on a high shelf. Apparently a renegade lipstick was floating around the play room.

No more, I’ve confiscated it, and I felt really good about the fact that Sophie did not manage to take the American Girl catalogue or crying baby doll (the thing practically shrieks) with her to school, as she had hoped.

But she did head off with a full mouth of lipstick and a smug look on her face.