Or rather, of being the mother of a 9 and a half year old.

Over the weekend, the mother of one of Annabelle’s friends texted me that her daughter needed to speak to mine — and it was important. So we called, got the voicemail. Left a message. They returned ours. We returned theirs. Never connected.

There’s girl drama (when isn’t there?) so I was a little concerned.

Last night when I was tucking Annabelle in, I asked if she and the friend ever did connect.

“Oh yeah,” Annabelle said. “But I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Did she get her period?” It just flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. I know it’s early, but it’s not too early; that kind of thing is right around the corner.

“No,” my daughter said in a don’t-be-silly tone. “She thinks she found a sign that a fairy was in her backyard. She wanted to tell me about it, but I’m not supposed to say what it was.”

Or the fairies will go away, right? Well, I’m just glad the Menstruation Fairy hasn’t arrived quite yet. And that I have a kid who still wants to believe in the sparkly variety.

Really, I’m insufferable, even at the happiest place on earth. I’m not crazy about Pinocchio’s daring adventure, and I get scared on the Peter Pan ride. (For the record, I did both on this last trip.)

And I’m not a fan of anything haunted, even pretend haunted. But when Ray offered to stand in line with Sophie at both Mickey and Minnie’s houses, I happily agreed to do the haunted mansion ride with Annabelle.

I try hard not to look worried in front of either kid, ever, but it doesn’t really work. Annabelle’s onto me.

“Don’t worry, Mommy, I’ll protect you,” she said with a big grin, as the line moved along much more quickly than I’d hoped. (Documented in the photo above.)

She wasn’t grinning the whole trip. Oh, she was delighted to go on Space Mountain and Big Thunder Railroad and Splash Mountain (once the weather warmed up a bit). She found the Matterhorn boring and balked only at Screaming Over California. She’s a roller coaster kid, for sure, but she’s not all Ray — there’s still some worrywart in my little girl.

Actually, a lot. She was in tears even before we left for Disneyland because the trip was almost over, which meant Christmas vacation was almost over. She’s concerned that math is too hard, that she’ll sit by kids she doesn’t like in reading, that ballet class is stressful. And she’s really worried about what will happen next year, when she might be at a new school.

She’s me. Truth be told, she’s not me, which is lucky for all of us. If Prozac had been available when I was in the fourth grade, I’m quite sure it would have been recommended. I was a mess. I had this habit of gently poking my teacher (a lot) to get her attention. She finally had to tell me to stop, and I’ve been traumatized over it ever since. They put me in the gifted program that year — a big mistake. Not because I wasn’t smart, but because I got so stressed out by the projects we had to do that I could barely get out of bed. And yet I completed more “independent studies” than any other kid that year.

But by sixth grade, no one thought I was too smart anymore, particularly me. My grades dropped and never did come up again, at least not in the classes I didn’t care much about. I can remember turning a somersault with ease when I was a little kid, but somewhere along the way, I got too afraid to even try.

How do I keep this from happening to Annabelle? How do I keep her from letting the world — from letting her own self — scare her off?

Roller coasters. I really think that’s the key. She’s already the adventurer I never was and never will be, thanks to Ray. He pushes her the way no one ever pushed me. It’s a little painful to watch, sometimes, but never too much. He pushes Sophie in good directions, too, but Annabelle’s really the one who needs it. Particularly now.

The other day I got frustrated and complained to Ray that Annabelle can’t just be happy in the moment. She has to keep asking what’s next.

He commented that Sophie’s the same. And it’s true that she never appears content, either — must always know “what’s after this?” and “what’s after that?” And that, and that, and that.

But I think Sophie’s just making conversation. Whether it’s bedtime or time to go to Chuck E. Cheese, she’s generally pretty pleased about the answer.

Not sweet Annabelle, my worrier. And I’m sure that our real roller coaster ride is still ahead.

This week is our Fall Break and on Thursday, Annabelle and I leave for a four-day trip to Portland.

Alone.

Annabelle and Ray have been away alone together several times — on a Brownie camping trip, and skiing at least once or twice. So I decided it was time AB and I take a trip on our own. I told her it would happen when she turned 9, and let her pick the city (within reason, I’m not sure what I would have done if she’d decided on Paris) and she chose Portland, Oregon.

This is in no small part because she’s got a friend there. Claire is the granddaughter of my mother’s very best friend, and after several attempts at hooking the girls up during various visits over the years, last spring it really took: These two precocious, curly-headed, older sisters announced they were BFF. They’ve been pen pals since — an eternity, in a 9-year-old’s world — and itching for a visit.

I bought plane tickets, booked a hotel room and started picking and choosing itinerary items. We’ll spend time with Claire and her family, check in with some of my pals and have some quality alone time. And maybe a VooDoo Donut.

There’s just one problem. Sophie.

(And, to be honest, Ray. He claims he doesn’t understand why I’m doing this. But that’s another story.)

It’s hard to say if Sophie “gets” the whole concept. She definitely wants to come along, does not want to wait til it’s her turn for a one-on-one trip. I promised we’ll go when she’s 9, but I’m sure it will happen much sooner. She’s already chosen her destination: Colorado, to see her cousins.

Envisioning a tearful farewell on Thursday, I took an extra day off work and declared Wednesday “Sophie Day.”

She did like the sound of that. “We can do whatever you want to do, all day long!” I told Sophie. Her face lit up and she did that thing where she vibrates all over.

So far, plans include a play date with a friend from school and a very long trip to Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe the bookstore, chocolate fro-yo and a dinner date at the mall with Gaga and Papa.

“Sophie Day” has served as a distraction, but I’m not so sure it will ease Sophie’s sadness or lessen my guilt when it comes time to get on that plane.

I  hope I’m making the right call with this trip.

“I’m sure you’ve already read this,” he wrote. “But just in case.”

I hadn’t. Am I glad he sent it? I don’t know. It kind of pissed me off, to tell you the truth. And the more I think about it, the madder I get. The question is insulting, condescending, cute — should I go on?

To even ask the question, “Is it harder to have a child with Down syndrome?” is to imply that it’s politically incorrect to say, “Why yes, by golly, it most certainly is!”

Of-freaking-course it is. It’s harder. Some days, maybe not. But most, for sure. It’s also completely awesome to be Sophie’s mother. It’s a total privilege.

And we should be able to live in a world where both things are true.

All that said, I’ll admit that I completely get the question. I remember exactly where I was sitting when I told my dad I’d decided against the amnio.

“I don’t know, Ames,” he said in a gruff voice, then offered the only piece of advice I recall him ever offering me, my whole life — other than the time he got mad at me for ordering butter on my popcorn at the movies.

“Those kids are a lot of work. What about Annabelle?”

So yeah. I get the question.  I just (sort of) wish my friend hadn’t sent that link.

I won’t tell you how much Abbie loved the piece — and how much she loves her mom. I’ll let her do that herself, in an essay she wrote for English class not long after the reading.

Trish read the following piece at our annual Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event this past Mother’s Day weekend, and I’m chagrined to admit that I’ve had every intention this summer to get all dozen-plus pieces posted on our website. Hasn’t happened yet. Soon, I promise.

For now, I’m digging into the motherlode to share Trish’s stunning, painful, honest, beautiful piece, “St. Abigail.”

Coming soon: 15-year-old Abbie’s reaction to the piece.

St. Abigail * by Tricia Wasbotten Parker

I am critical of my daughter. When I was pregnant with her, I think I knew that I would be. And I suppose it’s one of the reasons I hoped for another son.

I am critical of Abbie because she chooses Taylor Swift over the Heartless Bastards.

Because she’s not interested in analyzing Lady Gaga as her generation’s Madonna.

Because she reaches for treacly Sarah Dessen novel after Sarah Dessen novel without ever having asked what important books I read at her age, what I might recommend.

Because she expressed genuine interest in trying out for cheer.

Cheer!

Because she spends 30 minutes every morning straightening the waves out of her long hair.

Because if a blonde boy also plays baseball, he is worthy of her attention.

Because she spends hours on Facebook and reading My Life is Average entries.

Because she has Disney princess marathons with her friends and is seemingly unoffended by the archetype of the princess.

I am critical of Abbie because I feared she would be an alien to me – the most frustrating alien of all, one in my selfsame image. My son’s boneheadedness is easy to process – I blame his gender. My daughter’s? A direct reflection of me, of my own failings and weaknesses.

But she hasn’t been a reflection of me. Not really. We’re so different, and not just when it comes to literature.

Abbie is thin and long-legged. Aside from a splattering of tiny freckles across her nose, her skin is smooth and tanned. She has light hair and eyes, long eyelashes, a strong chin, like her dad’s bevy of knockout nieces, but not like me.

Then, this year, Abbie started attending the school where I teach. Suddenly we’re both hearing – constantly – how much we look alike.

For months, my response to “Your daughter looks just like you!” was a consistent “I know…” Pause. “Poor thing.”

I realize it is not unusual for children to resemble their parents. But I also am beginning to realize that our resemblance must be deeper than mere physicality. For all my criticisms of her, Abbie is lovely.

In his poem “St. Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell writes, “sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.” Yes, in this poem St. Francis is talking to a pig. Fitting, right? My short legs, my thick midsection, my stubby nose? With a few exceptions of the occasionally flattering photo or a fleeting moment of confidence, I have not been able – not since well before puberty – to see myself as lovely. This is not a new story.

But then there’s my beautiful, goofy, free-spirited, wise daughter.

Last fall I sat watching her play in a badminton match. I was having one of those, “That’s my kid!” moments – just feeling full and proud – when an old neighbor sat down next to me. Although he hadn’t seen Abbie in a while, he knew it was her, and I knew what was coming.

“She looks just like you.”

Like me? No – I wasn’t lovely at 15, and I’m not lovely at 41.

Or, wait. Am I?

I have stopped saying “poor thing.” This beautiful alien who I am so critical of and so grateful for?

She is reteaching me my loveliness.

Both my girls are getting more interested in what I’m doing on the computer.

Well, Sophie just wants me off, so she can get on and watch Amy Sedaris’ Tooth Fairy appearance on Yo Gabba Gabba (which is so disturbing I will not embed the video EVEN THOUGH I CAN). But Annabelle has asked me recently just what I’m writing about, and when I tell her “you,” I get one of her signature raised eyebrows.

It’s only a matter of time ’til she actually reads this blog. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Or how she will.

The topic of The Implications of Writing About Your Kids (and otherwise depicting them) has long intrigued/befuddled me, so I think I’ll devote my next few posts to it.

First up: Check out this thoughtful piece by Dani Shapiro in the New York Times, on the topic of Larry Rivers’ work.

More soon. Meantime, what are your thoughts?

Check out my grown up girl!

“Let me take a picture to show everyone what a 7 year old looks like,” I said this morning, as we scurried to the car. I don’t recall ever seeing this expression — not for a photo, anyway. What happened to the 6 year old with the ear-to-ear grin? Clearly she’s been replaced with a mature little lady of 7, posing carefully for the camera.

 Last night, I wandered the aisles of Target looking for some last minute presents for Sophie to open after it was determined that Ray and I aren’t ready to make a choice on a Big Girl Bed (he insists on bunk beds; I’m balking on that, as well as the pet tarantula and snake) and we were left pretty much giftless. I felt the excitement well up in me as I imagined her opening various items and wrote a Facebook status update in my head:

I’m ALMOST as excited about Sophie’s birthday as Sophie is.

It was true. I was giddy, considering  just which water guns to buy (Ray’s idea, and I’ll admit, a good one) and I practically fell over when I found a stuffed Olivia the Pig.

Then I had kind of a weird thought.

I’m addicted to Sophie. It’s an odd thing to say about a person, but it’s true.

I look forward to the moment she bursts into our bedroom way too early each morning, I crave the touch of her soft cheek when she cuddles up against me. I relish the (too rare) days I sneak away from work to pick her up early from school; there’s nothing like the feeling when that unfiltered joy comes charging full-speed, when she sees me waiting. I love hearing her read out loud. 

Yes, she also drives me batshit. Annabelle and I roll our eyes behind Sophie’s back when she gives us a hard time. I have been known to yell. But little by little, I notice, Sophie’s better able to listen to reason. Or at least more willing to accept bribes. Hey, whatever works. Seriously, though, she’s emerging as her own little person. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not just this little ball of kid to cuddle, she’s got a lot more going for her than that. She surprises us every day.

But at the heart of that kid is, well, her heart. Always will be.

And I’m addicted to it. I’m addicted to Sophie. I’m addicted to love. The unplugged, unconditional kind.

It surprises me. That’s not me, that whole unconditional love thing. It’s not my schtick. I’m the one who never wants the one who wants me — I want the unattainable.

Scratch that. All I want is a hug from Sophie.

From Annabelle, too, OF COURSE from Annabelle, too, but my relationship with my older, “typical” daughter is both more and less and complicated. From the moment she was born, there were no “of courses” with Sophie. I never, ever would have expected to have fallen in love with a child with Down syndrome. Until Sophie, I didn’t even know what Down syndrome was.

Suddenly, it’s 7 years later, and even though my little “Down syndrome Box” of TV shows and books and other items has grown to fill two big Rubbermaid containers, the contents of which remain almost entirely untouched, today I know what Down syndrome is.

And I don’t know about the future, but I know what 7 looks like. It looks pretty darn good.

Happy Birthday, Dear Sophie.

And happy birthday to Girl in a Party Hat. I can’t believe it’s been two years. This blog — and you, dear readers — mean more to me than you can imagine.

I’m sure there’s some sort of psychology behind it, but I don’t buy it. I don’t think you can praise your kid enough. Not if you mean it, anyway. And if I’m wrong, and it screws them up, I’ll happily pay their therapy bills.

Last night, Sophie fell asleep early (too much excitement over a dinner date with Ms. X — she could barely keep her eyes open by the time the guest of honor arrived) and Annabelle stayed up late-ish, painting with a fancy set of oils my mom got her.

It was a rare quiet moment. I watched Annabelle from the side, so serious about her creation — choosing just the right shade of green, trying out different tools in her paint kit. I got up and hugged her from behind, smoothed her hair, whispered in her ear, “I love you so much, Annabelle Rose! You are the best kid ever.”

She turned her face up to look at me.

“Do you love Sophie as much as you love me?” she asked.

“I do,” I answered.

“Good,” she sighed, leaning back into my arms.