That may be the single most valuable thing I’ve said in nearly three years of blogging. A terrible excuse for a movie. For a while, today, my sister tried to argue that actually Sex and the City 2 is the worst movie ever made, but I’m not sure. (Hop, by the way, is a children’s movie with a lot of candy in it, so you can be sure that not only will you be forced to see it, you’ll later be compelled to purchase a copy on DVD.)

Other than that, Saturday night was delightful — still-bearable temperatures and a post-movie dinner with good friends. Some of us wanted salads, others Mongolian BBQ, still others pizza, so there was a flurry of ordering and table arranging at the crowded outdoor shopping mall, the kind of place that becomes home away from home if you live in these parts.

I walked over to the patio by the Paradise Bakery to grab one last chair when I noticed them through the window. They were seated inside at a table for two, their heads bent over a drink with two straws, their faces goofy with love and eyes only for each other — which is good, since I’m embarrassed to admit that I stared a little, then dragged Annabelle over and made her look, too. As discretely as possible. But still.

“Hey, Gilda, you’ve got to see something,” I said to my friend as I set the chair down.

“I know,” she said, her eyes glistening. “I saw.”

I know the young man from the check-out aisle at our Safeway; he was the prom king at a nearby high school several years ago, just after Sophie was born. Someone clipped the article for us from the local paper. I didn’t recognize her, tiny with long dark hair. Funny, I didn’t realize til I saw them that this is not something I’ve ever seen in person — two people with Down syndrome, obviously in love. Sure, there are documentaries and magazine stories and segments on 20/20. This was different. This was right in front of me.

“I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to point them out to you,” my sweet friend Gilda said.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “After the last couple of weeks, this is the BEST.”

I kept stealing glances at them, waiting for Ray to get back with the pizza so I could grab some stir fry. It was dark outside where I was, and bright inside where they sat, and in my mind’s eye, there was a big pink heart drawn around the two of them. I wanted to clap my hands; you couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

Just as Ray showed up, the couple walked out of the bakery and right past us. And then — you know that sound when the needle gets dragged across the record album, signaling the abrupt end to the happy tune, then there’s silence? That’s what I heard as I realized the couple was really a threesome. An older, tired looking woman shadowed them. I realized she’d been sitting at the next table the whole time. One of their moms, no doubt.

I’m not sure what I expected — that these two had driven here alone together? No, of course not. Maybe that they’d been dropped off for a movie and dinner, the way my  mom used to drop my friends and me off, even when we were (relatively) little kids. It doesn’t matter, I scolded myself. They are in love, they are happy. I backed up the movie in my head to the part where they were framed in that big, pink heart, sipping through their straws, lost in each other.

And then I got up and ordered my stir fry.

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.

Our particularly motley crew gussied up and traipsed out to the far west corner of metropolitan Phoenix on Saturday afternoon for a family wedding. Lilia got married. Standing around with cocktails, no one could remember just how long Lilia’s worked in the editorial department of Phoenix New Times, first as administrative assistant and now as an arts writer/calendar editor — we figured it’s been around five years.

I took care to sit on the other side of the aisle from my co-workers (except for Ray, of course), because I didn’t want anyone to see my cry. I knew I would. I’ve made some crappy hires in my time as an editor (including one former writer currently serving prison time — really) but I’ve made some good ones, too, and among the best is Lilia Menconi.

I’m tearing up, writing this. Lilia actually applied for a different sort of job, initially. Years ago, she worked for several months as Sophie’s nanny. I remember the day she rang the doorbell, still a college co-ed, dressed in khakis and moccasins and about a foot taller than me, rocking a casual, elegant style I haven’t seen leave her in all the years I’ve known her. I chose Lilia because we’d gone to the same high school and knew some people in common (it’s just no fun leaving your kid with a complete stranger, so I reach for connections) and I came to treasure her for her love of Sophie, her work ethic and her honesty.

“You know, I’m not a typical special needs mom,” I told her one day. I don’t remember the context of the conversation but I’ll never forget Lilia’s response: “Who is?”

Indeed. I think about that one often. (I’ve probably written about that conversation more than once on GIAPH already.)

Lilia was loving toward Sophie but never condescending, and when I’d admonish her to leave the dirty dishes in the sink she’d reply, “It’s my job to make your life easier.”

So when Lilia graduated the same month we lost our editorial assistant at New Times, it was a no-brainer — I launched a full-on campaign to convince her to come. I’m glad she did. I hope she is, too. She did a lot of shit work for all of us, that’s for sure, but along the way Lilia’s honed her skills and she’s a fine writer.

Also along the way, she met Lou. I don’t know him well, but he seems pretty groovy to me — he’s a musician, a little quirky and a lot in love with Lilia. And the guy can write. (We’re big on fishing off the company pier at New Times — Lou’s a frequent contributor to the paper.)

The wedding was absolutely lovely– DIY, full of energy and Lilia’s casual/elegant style. The bride wore moccasins.

I teared up (natch) when I saw Annabelle and Sophie’s names on the invitation; we dressed them in Lilia’s wedding colors and brought them along. I’ve never seen two little girls have such a blast. Annabelle pal-ed up with the flower girls and (literally) danced all night. (The little girls are all pictured above.) Sophie discovered the photo booth.  She also got to “party” with some of her favorite people in the world — my co-workers Paul, Rick, Michele, Claire. The list goes on. 

A highlight was sitting at dinner with Megan, who left the paper a couple years ago, but came back to be one of Lilia’s bridesmaids. Annabelle bestowed her highest compliment on Megan’s boyfriend, announcing that Oliver “looks just like a Beatle!” (he does) and Sophie snuggled up on  Megan’s lap, as content as I’ve ever seen her.

“It was perfect!” I whispered in her ear when Lilia bent down to hug me as we left — the cupcake “cake” had been eaten, the dance floor was starting to empty.

She laughed and promised to give me the inside scoop when she gets back from her honeymoon. For now, I’ll happily remember a lovely day. One of the best touches: Lilia had the genius idea of asking our colleague and friend Robrt Pela (the shopping enabler, you’ve read about him!) to marry her.

Robrt ordered himself a license (can you still get them out of the back of Rolling Stone?) and did a brilliant job. Afterward, he refused repeated requests from wedding guests who want him to perform their weddings. No way, he told them. He’s retired.

“Oh come on,” I said. “What if Sophie gets married?”

(And no, I haven’t watched “Monica and David” yet, though I do have it waiting for me on the DVR.)

“Oh all right,” he promised. “If Sophie gets married, I’ll order another license.”

I’m holding you to it, Robrt. I can’t wait.

Now, that’s something I think all new parents — particularly parents of kids with Down syndrome — could use. A little coaching through the process of envisioning the future, jumping ahead, fretting over something that might (or might not) happen years or decades from now.

But that’s not what I’m talking about here.

Last October, Sophie passed her vision test with relatively flying colors. (What are flying colors, anyway?) She’s a little far sighted and has an astigmatism, just like me (well, not exactly like me, I was wearing glasses at 4, she doesn’t have them — yet) but no serious problems, the doctor reported. We do have the clogged tear duct issue, but that’s a separate thing.

Clearly separate from what happened just a couple weeks after Sophie passed that vision test in October. Her physical therapist asked, “Do you notice Sophie cocking her head to one side when she reads, or focuses on something?”

Come to think of it, yes. It started after that appointment, though, so I hadn’t asked the doctor about it. The PT talked about referring Sophie to a developmental eye doctor or therapist. Then Sophie’s occupational therapist brought it up. She was even more concerned — talked about Sophie “lacking vision” in certain places.

Crap. Somehow (and here’s where I need my own form of vision therapy) my mind raced ahead to surgery, which no one had mentioned but still, I figured, was inevitable. So I did what I do best: I put my blinders on.

This went on for months. The PT and the OT were insistent, so I finally made an appointment with the opthamologist. Again. Good timing; the school nurse left a message the day before the appointment, expressing her concern about the cock-eyed thing.

OK, OK, we’ll take care of it. Well, maybe. Why can’t anything be simple? Turns out, the therapists want Sophie to have “vision therapy.” And, it turns out, vision therapy is quite controversial — I know parents who have been through it with their kids, and were disgusted by the expense and lack of results. Yet I have incredible faith in our PT and OT. And Sophie IS cock-eyed. You’ve probably noticed it in recent pictures, the way her eyes wander up and to the side.

The appointment was yesterday. Ray insisted on taking her, which was nice, since I’m having a particularly bad week at work. Before they left yesterday morning, I repeated the concerns several times.

“I’ve never seen her do that,” Ray said.

Seriously? And it’s not like he doesn’t read with her and play with her. In the end, the appointment wound up being two seconds of cock-eyed vision therapy (“We don’t believe in vision therapy,” the doctor told him) and an hour of removing the tubes from Sophie’s eyes — placed there years ago, to try to unblock her blocked tear ducts.

She still doesn’t need glasses, Ray reported. They gave her a thorough vision test. The doctor pooh-poohed the cock-eyed thing entirely. To be fair to the doctor, Ray didn’t push the issue.

“Did you have her read a book for the doctor?” I asked.

No, he said, because he had Sophie read a book for him before the appointment and she didn’t cock her head a bit.

“I think you’re too focused on this,” he said.

Maybe. And the therapists think I’m not focused enough. Why do I constantly find myself in this position – right in the middle, failing on both sides? Tomorrow is Sophie’s birthday. I desperately need to be at work. But how can I not be there to pick her up at 1:30 from school? It’s her BIRTHDAY. Then again, the most insistent therapists will be seeing her at the house tomorrow after school; she’ll be horrified that nothing happened at that appointment. Maybe I should hide at work.  

So now what? Seriously, folks, I’m putting this one out here with the hope that as always, you’ll share your sage advice. Not about whether or not I should go to work tomorrow, of course. What do you think about vision therapy?

The annual ballet recital was Sunday.

The girls were cool as cucumbers — see  the photos above and below (taken just moments before the performance) for proof. But I was a wreck.

I knew it didn’t matter a bit, what happened on stage. This particular studio rents the fanciest space in town for its recital, and fills the huge place to overflowing (the studio’s that popular) but the teachers don’t care a bit (in a good way) if your kid does anything more than have a good time onstage.

But since this particular studio happens to be run by my mother, and since I have the one kid in more than 100 with obvious special needs, the pressure is on. All self-imposed, I know. Still. It didn’t help matters that in last year’s recital, Sophie surpassed all expectations. She was stunning in “Teddy Bear Picnic” — knew every step, behaved beautifully. I had a bad feeling about this year, a feeling she would do something show-stopping. And not in a good way.

Class had not gone well this year. Annabelle was thriving in three separate classes, but Sophie’s teacher left mid-year, replaced by another who left mid-semester, and we’d decided against putting someone one-on-one in the class with Sophie, figuring that had become a crutch. I rethought that two weeks before the recital, when, during a rehearsal in class, I noticed Sophie wandering around the room, completely uninterested, causing mild bits of trouble. She’s never bonded with any of the girls in her class, unusual for my gregarious girl.

Looking back, I think maybe she was bored.

The truth is that sometimes ballet — like some things we ask kids to do, that are good for them — can be a little boring. Repetitious, grueling (in its 4,5 and 6 year old way — trust me, this isn’t hard stuff). But Sophie insisted she liked going to class, and I know it’s important to her to be part of something that’s such a big deal in our family, so we got her some one-on-one help, a sweet 11-year-old named Maddie.

That was fine, until Sophie started spontaneously breaking away from the group to hug and kiss Maddie. I pictured this happening on the big stage and sighed.

But hey, it is what it is, right?

And so this past Sunday, I was a little anxious. Sophie was really excited. For the first time in weeks, she agreed to wear her requisite blue leotard and pink tights, instead of insisting on her Project Runway tee shirt or a lavender tutu. She took the stage for rehearsal and through the tiny screen on my Flip camera, I realized that little stinker knew that dance backward and forward. You couldn’t tell she was different from any of the other kids. (Not that that’s what I’m looking for, people! Well, okay, maybe that’s what I was looking for this past Sunday.)

“OK, Sophie, just do what you did in rehearsal,” I said, as I struggled to pin the silver pipe cleaner crown on her head, and pinned on the butterfly wings. “And what are you not going to do?!”

“I not going to run offstage or hug or kiss anyone,” she said, dutifully and very convincingly.

“Or wave?”

“Or wave. I no wave, Mommy.”

Then the audience poured in. We couldn’t see him, but we knew Ray was someplace, and Sophie kept asking about it. We snuck down a few rows to say hi to Annabelle, then my dad arrived, and then Sophie’s absolute best friend in the entire world, Sarah, came in with her mom. Sophie shook with excitement, itching to get over to Sarah, but there was no time. The show was about to begin.

I pictured her leaping off the stage, mid-dance in front of hundreds of people, screaming, “Hi Sarah! Hi Sarah! Hi Sarah!”

She did ask for Sarah throughout the first four numbers, right up to the time we got up to go to the stage.

“Don’t forget, Sophie!” I said, hugging her.

“OK, Mommy! I no wave.” She took her place in line on the stage as Dolly Parton’s “Love is Like a Butterfly” began.

And she was absolutely beautiful, just like everyone else’s kid was beautiful that day, including the three year old in another class who stood completely frozen for her entire number, just staring off into space til the song ended and the teacher dragged her off. But really, Sophie knew all the steps and she did them, I even noticed her instructing a couple of other kids, though I’m not sure anyone else would have known that’s what she was doing. She stood in line when it was time to stand in line, and did her free dance when it was time for that.

Then it was time for the leaps. It’s the big moment in the spotlight for these kids, a touch I really love. The girls line up and take turns running across the stage, hopefully catching a little air. Sophie had a huge smile on her face as she took her turn, racing across, wings flapping, pipe cleaner crown bouncing.

And then it happened. It was quick, but I saw it in slow motion, as she realized this was her Moment and, with an impish grin, lifted her hand and gave a great big wave. I cringed, then looked around.

I know I’m her mom, but I have to say it: Sophie brought down the house. The entire place ahhhhhed, then cheered, and I’m pretty sure every person in the place felt like that wave was meant just for them.

That’s cool. I happen to know she was waving to her BFF, who is already signed up for a week of dance camp together with Sophie, starting just after school ends. Sarah’s mom drove her across town, missing church (a very big deal in their family) and bringing tears to my eyes when I saw them at the entrance to the auditorium; they’d come just to see Sophie.

Sarah and her mom know the importance of friendship. And so does my kid. Silly dance recital. Who cares? For Sophie, it’s all about the wave.

As it should be.

You know, I thought to myself as I cracked open the first Diet Coke of the morning and washed down a Claritin-D and a multi-vitamin, it’s really really easy to write bad poetry and really really hard to write good poetry.

That is not my point here. My point is this. No one told me when I was almost 7 that there was no way I was going to end up as a poet, no matter how hard I tried. No one set any such limitations — not my parents, my teachers or society.

When you are almost 7, the possibilities are pretty endless.

Enter Sophie. She’s almost 7. It’s been a while since she’s talked about what she wants to be when she grows up, but suddenly, it’s back as a topic of conversation.

Mostly, Sophie wants to be a veterniarian. But the other day she announced, “I be a mother when I grow up!”

That, for obvious reasons, is the biggest heartbreaker of all for me, although I do maintain that I’ll do everything in my power (well, you know what I mean) to make sure that at the very least, Sophie falls in love and has great sex.

The girls had just settled into their booster seats in the car this morning, when — probably motivated by the strong desire to own the large rainbow pack of dry-erase markers we were bringing to Ms. Y — Sophie asked, “Can I be a teacher when I grow up?”

“Of course!” replied Annabelle, whose own list currently includes fashion designer, ballerina, actress, writer and scientist. “You can be anything you want to be, Sophie!”

I didn’t say a word.

But it did occur to me, as I backed out of the driveway and we headed off into the day, that Sophie is already quite a teacher.