In this dusty, overheated hell hole we call home, you have no choice. You must swim. And now Sophie can. At least, she’s well on her way.

Yesterday, Sophie got her medal at swim class for jumping in, turning around, swimming to the wall and touching it. Your kid probably did that when she was 3, or younger. I can’t recall how old Annabelle was, it was that long ago.

Umpteen swim schools and lessons later, Sophie did it. She passed the next level and got to participate in SwimKids cute little “Olympic” ceremony. She called me at work and I rushed down the hall to Ray’s office so she could tell him, too: “I got a medal!”

Now we really need a pool. And Special Olympics swimming sign ups are next month. I wonder if she’s ready for that? For the moment I think we’ll just revel a bit.

At dinner last night, Sophie said something I didn’t quite catch. I asked her to repeat it, but I still couldn’t understand.

“You want to put your medal on a shelf?” I asked, confused.

“No!” Annabelle said, playing with her peas, looking a little disgusted. (By peas or me, not sure.)

“She said, `I’m so proud of myself.’”

“Annabelle, you need to practice piano tonight.”

She fired back immediately: “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie, you need to practice, too,” I said, not really paying attention.

“I don’t want to,” Sophie said.

“Okay,” I responded.

This made Annabelle mad and I can’t say I blame her. I don’t make Sophie practice piano and I don’t make a secret of it. It’s not fair. But, as I tried to explain to Annabelle in a moment of exhaustion, life is not fair. That just made her madder.

We wound up leaving Sophie on the couch and going into my bedroom so I could enumerate, at Annabelle’s request, the things Sophie has to do that she doesn’t: music therapy, physical therapy, swimming lessons (that Sophie doesn’t like), math tutoring all summer…. I explained that really, Sophie comes to piano lessons mainly because she likes to do what Annabelle does. She might play well someday, but honestly, right now that doesn’t matter. Right now she has so many other things to do, it feels unfair to make her practice.

Annabelle  gave me a dirty look. I tried again, thought about the REAL reason I don’t make Sophie practice. This time, I went for broke.

“Look,” I said, “I love both of you girls more than anything in the world, you know that. But the truth is that Sophie exhausts me. I know you know what I mean because I know she exhausts you, too. There are so many things I can’t convince her to do without a big fight. Little things, all day long. I can barely get her to get in the car most mornings. It’s just too much to get her to practice piano, and if the only way you will practice is if she practices, I’m totally going to lose it. I know that might not be fair, but it’s true, and I need your help. I need you to practice your piano and not worry about Sophie.”

It was shitty, and maybe at almost 10 Annabelle wasn’t ready to hear it, but she already knows it — so what the heck.

After I said it, she gave me a hug and we agreed not to talk about piano anymore tonight. We went back in the living room and joined Sophie and we all watched some attractive young people eat bowls of rat that had been run through a blender (seriously).

When the rat segment was over, Annabelle popped off the couch and announced cheerfully, “It’s time for me to practice piano!”

As I write this, I can hear her tapping away on the keyboard in her room. Maybe being honest wasn’t the worst thing, after all. All I know is that for my money, being a parent is whole fucking lot scarier than anything they can dream up on that stupid show.

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.

“I’ve started calling this weekend ‘Jennypalooza,’” I told Jenny, as the umpteenth preparations were made and remade and finessed a little more, in honor of her Birthday Weekend.

“Good!” she replied.

GOOD?! Jenny, the little sister who shirks from attention? Who was too embarrassed to take the flowers I held out to her at her eighth grade graduation? Who never wants bright toenail polish, let alone a party? The most subtle (but tasteful!) accessorizer ever?

Turns out, she didn’t want the party. And she chose gray polish when we got pedicures on Saturday. But we did have a bit of a palooza, in honor of her 40th this weekend. It’s easy to be festive when you are surrounded by kids, and we were — three of hers and two of mine. And it helps when all the kids are in love. There were loud sobs on both ends when we finally peeled the cousins away from one another tonight. I was sad, too. I always am when she heads back to Denver.

We weren’t always the best of friends, not at all like Annabelle and Sophie. Those two have a game they call Sister Foot Love, while the closest Jenny and I ever came to even touching was a good, old-fashioned Foot Fight on the couch. (She always won.)

Offspring brought us together and they’ve kept us that way, even though we live in different cities and are very different people. And yet I’m pretty sure we smell alike. (I’m not certain, as I’m not one to lean in for a deep whiff.)

She started the family tradition of making lists of things we love about someone celebrating a milestone. I look at my list of 40 Things We Love About Aunt Amy all the time — it’s tucked into my windowsill at work, right above the phone.

Finally, it was time for our family to sit down and create a list for Jenny. We could have gone on and on.

Happy Birthday, Jenny! You are the best mother, sister and friend ever, even if mom did tell me that sounded too much like a eulogy to engrave on the inside of a bracelet.

40 Things We Love About Aunt Jenny
1. Aunt Jenny watched Sesame Street til she was 11.
2. Aunt Jenny has a huge smile.
3. Aunt Jenny used to hate bananas but now she likes them.
4. Aunt Jenny used to hate pedicures but now she likes them.
5. Aunt Jenny did Outward Bound.
6. Aunt Jenny ate Mommy’s chocolate Easter egg.
7. Aunt Jenny and Mommy are happy together.
8. Aunt Jenny is special to Mommy because she’s her sister.
9. Aunt Jenny is not afraid to work in a hospital.
10. Aunt Jenny likes clogs AND cowboy boots.
11. Aunt Jenny makes piles.
12. Aunt Jenny is cute.
13. Aunt Jenny and Annabelle have the same handwriting.
14. Aunt Jenny always packs snacks.
15. Aunt Jenny runs a lot.
16. Aunt Jenny wants glasses but doesn’t need them.
17. Aunt Jenny got lost on her way to the bathroom when she was 3.
18. Aunt Jenny spent a lot of time in the bathroom in college.
19. Aunt Jenny has naturally wavy hair.
20. Aunt Jenny once put her hair in curlers and cut them out. She was 3.
21. Aunt Jenny likes ice cream with stuff in it.
22. Aunt Jenny likes Uncle Jonathan.
23. Aunt Jenny likes James Taylor, Neil Diamond and Dan Zanes.
24. Aunt Jenny ‘s a sweetie pie.
25. Aunt Jenny always comes to the rescue.
26. Aunt Jenny used to suck her finger and hold her ear.
27. Aunt Jenny doesn’t mind a messy car.
28. Aunt Jenny is handsome.
29. Aunt Jenny is pretty.
30. Aunt Jenny likes Diet Coke.
31. Aunt Jenny is brave.
32. Aunt Jenny had a lot of fun when she lived in New Orleans.
33. Aunt Jenny had a lot of fun when she went to Europe.
34. Aunt Jenny is the best mom ever.
35. Aunt Jenny does not care for fish.
36. Aunt Jenny walks just like Papa.
37. Aunt Jenny enjoys an occasional cocktail.
38. Aunt Jenny has the best-stocked pantry we’ve ever seen.
39. Aunt Jenny has ridden on a float in at least one parade.
40. Aunt Jenny makes good kids.

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.

In honor of the season, a holiday shopping post.

I can’t think of a time my sister and I have disagreed on anything parenting-related. Not to one another’s faces, anyway. But this American Girl thing is tough.

It started with Hanukkah. Jenny wanted to know what she could buy the girls.

Well, I told her, they’d like something for their American Girl dolls; Annabelle would love something nature-related and Sophie really wants the wheelchair.

Jenny seemed fine with that, til she got inside the store and the text messages started flying. I knew she wasn’t thrilled earlier this year when AG opened in her city, Denver, but I figured after several months she’d have gotten over it. Apparently not.

“This goes against every ounce of me,” she wrote.

“The wheelchair?” I replied. I knew what she meant. It’s sort of creepy that Sophie wants a wheelchair.

But that’s not what she meant.

“yes,” came the sarcastic reply. “didnt u know i dont like disabled people? american girl!”

Oh. Whoops. That was a little embarrassing, even in front of your sister.

“woohoo channukah for the girls is done. big mistake was letting kate come to amer girl. she’s obsessed.:(”

Kate is my 7-year-old niece. The texts kept coming.

“truthfully the american doll thing is f-ed up. grown women drooling over dolls ick.”

“No one is offering to buy YOU one,” I answered.

“true…but kate has hers picked out. jonathan is going to KILL me. By the way I added a book to the gift box to make myself feel better. the wheel chair helped. when is the doll with A or DS coming out?”

Yeah, I can’t imagine an American Girl with autism or Down syndrome will be hitting the shelves any time soon. But at least they don’t have collagen-injected lips. One did get bullied. There’s even a homeless one! And I know it’s like saying you read Playboy for the articles, but I really do love those American Girl books.

I just don’t see that the doll thing is such a big deal. Yes, you can go overboard with AG — just like you can go overboard with a lot of things. (Really, what the fuck are our kids doing with $150 iPod nanos???)

I do suppose (see picture above) I could compel my girls to take better care of their dolls. I really only meant for them to have one each, til the Jewish one, Rebecca, came out — then what was I to do? So now we have several floating around the house, and a Rubbermaid I try (mostly in vain) to keep packed with all the accessories, so they don’t get lost.

So shoot me. I’ve done far worse as a parent — and I’ll do far worse. At least I haven’t bought my niece Kate an American Girl doll. But apparently my sister’s about to cave.

“oh i am strong. we left with nothing. she has to wait a whole 3 weeks for hannukah. go me.”

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.

“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.

“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.

She’s had several wiggly teeth for weeks now, but there had been little action til Sunday night, when I accidentally (I swear! I felt terrible!) wiggled one a little too hard and moved it into the hanging-by-a-thread neighborhood. Sophie swore it didn’t hurt (I apologized profusely — there was blood, I have to admit) but refused to wiggle it to completion.

Finally, last night, sitting on the bathroom counter with a good view of the whole thing in the mirror, she twisted til she had a tooth in her hand. There was great rejoicing and videotaping and Sophie was really psyched — for a minute.

Then she looked concerned.

She told me she didn’t want the tooth fairy to come in her room to take the tooth. She said she was “embarrassed,” but Ray and I both knew the truth. She was scared.

I was so proud. SMART KID. Seriously, folks, who among us wants a crazy, winged creature coming close enough WHILE WE ARE FAST ALSEEP to actually reach under our pillows and grab a small object? Scares the shit out of me, just thinking about it.

“No problem!” I told her. “We’ll write a note.”

She wrote it herself, and only needed help with a few words.

Dar Tooth Fairy

Come to the living room. Do not come in my room.

Love Sophie

We posted it on her bedroom door and put the tooth fairy box on the mantle. Then Annabelle announced that she wanted to write to Sophie’s tooth fairy, as well. Poor Annabelle, she hasn’t lost a tooth in a while. I figured that by now she was completely over the tooth fairy, but I wondered a bit when I read her note:

Dear sophie’s tooth fairy, I haven’t wrote to my fairy in a long time. So I’m talking to you… Sophie is a genorous and loving kid, you will like her. I’m Annabelle, her older sister. I’m nice, and in fourth grade. Please leave Sophie Olivia the pig toys. Got to go!

“heart” Annabelle

PS look in the box!

I know I’m biased, but that note just killed me. (And I didn’t have any Olivia toys on hand, damn it.)

Both girls had fairy-dusted (thanks to Martha Stewart’s glitter collection) letters from Tallulah Fairbanks, Sophie’s tooth fairy, waiting for them this morning. Annabelle checked out her personalized stationery — purple, but otherwise just like her TF’s pink stationery — and announced, “They must be in business together!”

Yes, as Tallulah explained in her note to Sophie, she’s in training with Annabelle’s TF, Tabitha Fairchild. She also told Sophie not to be afraid, explaining, “I’m not scary!”

But I have a feeling Sophie will keep that note on her bedroom door.

And like I said, I can’t blame her. This morning I was thinking about the whole thing, and pondering the fact that Sophie’s afraid of the tooth fairy, but not at all hestitant about throwing her arms around Chuck E. Cheese. I’m a little scared of Chuck E. myself. (Plus, consider the germs on that costume!) Then I remembered the Yo Gabba Gabba tooth fairy video, which Sophie’s insisted on watching almost every morning all summer long.

Amy Sedaris as the tooth fairy. Yeah, I’d be scared, too!

(Darn YGG, they disabled the embedding feature on YouTube. But here’s the link. It’s worth it. Might give you nightmares, though. And for the record, I LOVE Amy Sedaris — just not in this role.)