As I commented to Joyce, reading this made my day/week/year! Try to read it without going a little waterworks yourself.

But she was devastated when she saw Annabelle’s purple one.

She didn’t mind that she got second place (maroon), while Annabelle’s project received a first. Sophie wanted purple — her favorite color.

(An aside, regarding the science fair: I credit Ray and blame myself; I forgot to put the all-important “hypothesis” label on Sophie’s project, which cost her points. I rather liked hers this year — she chose the topic herself, “What Do Crystals Smell Like?” and worked really hard putting it together. But as I’ve noted, the Science Fair is really neither “science” nor “fair” — more like a way to see how hard the parent will work. Ray was more successful with Annabelle’s project, which he spearheaded. And it must be noted that Annabelle worked hard, too; she deserved top honors place for her project, about how light is refracted through (by?) a crystal. I suppose Sophie wasn’t helped by the fact that she thought her crystals — formed by one of those Magic Crystal Gardens — smelled alternately like chocolate, Propel, Mommy, mint and Annabelle.)

Anyhow. Back to the waterworks.

It starts slowly, yet happened instantly — the wide-then-scrunched eyes, the red face, the open mouth and finally, the kind of sobs we adults reserve for, oh, something along the lines of the pain you’d endure if someone were to chop off your foot.

I’m sure we’ve already been through a phase of this sort of crying, I just don’t remember it — though as I type this, I’m having deja vu. (Should have made a blog category for “crying” or “emotional outburssts.”)

I recall it with Annabelle, but not with Sophie. It’s sudden, like a tidal wave, and over quickly — luckily leaving no visible destruction. But it’s embarrassing when it happens in public, and impossible to stop. (OK, sometimes a Weight Watchers fudgsicle has been known to help in a pinch, but I hate to use food in these situations, and anyhow, I can hardly carry those in my purse.)

The crying thing is a terrible habit to fall into.

The worst part is my reaction, which tends to be stifled laughter. The crying jags are never over anything serious, and Sophie offers a performance that certainly gives Sandra Bullock a run for her Oscar.  

Maybe if I let her see me laughing, she’d stop. But I don’t want to risk hurting her feelings.

This, too, shall pass. Right?

There is a guy who works at our Safeway — his sister is a former Mothers Who Write student — and I’ve been thinking about having him to dinner. But for now, I’ve been hanging out with Sarah. I’ve never met her, but take a look at her blog and see if you can stop reading.

I haven’t befriend an adult with Down syndrome, but I did meet a pretty cool guy today. He has an adult child with Down syndrome. That doesn’t count. But I’m circling.

I’d want to be friends with this guy even if we didn’t have the DS thing in common. We both work in journalism — though he’s far more distinguished than I can ever hope to be, with my altweekly background. I arrived for our meeting today a few minutes early, and by the time he arrived, I’d spread papers (yeah, my “to do” lists) all over the table at Starbucks, trying to catch up. I shoved them back in the Samoas case I’d brought them in (Girl Scout cookie cases make the perfect briefcase — try it!) and gave him a good laugh.

We spoke for about an hour — both about being journalists in a changing (to say the least) industry and about our kids — and by the end, I felt (hoped) I had met a kindred spirit.

We talked about his son, who is in his 20s and has a good life with lots of friends. But the son’s life is not without sadness. My new friend is bugged (as many of us are) by the notion that people with Down syndrome are happy all the time.

That’s familiar turf to me. I told him I worry that Sophie will be just smart enough to know she’s not smart enough. He nodded.

His particulars took me aback.

When his son turned 16, he told me, the kid woke up on his birthday and was so disappointed to learn –

I filled in the blank in my head, before he could say it:

He was so disappointed to learn that he couldn’t get a driver’s license.

That wasn’t it.

He was so disappointed to learn that he wasn’t better.

Better?! My new friend is soft-spoken, and I’ve got an ear infection. I didn’t hear him at first. Then I got it. Better. He wanted to be all better.

The same thing happened, he continued, when his son turned 21. Again, the young man had figured that on his birthday, he’d wake up and be all better.

I am so happy that I met this young man’s father. But I have to admit that story made me profoundly sad; I couldn’t shake it all day, no matter how long my “to do” list.

It did make me want to meet the son. His father promised to make it happen.

The wind changed yesterday. Mary Poppins blew out of town. And I must admit I’m feeling rather melancholy about it.

For much of February, Mary and Co. took up residence at Gammage Auditorium in Tempe, and in a short time she’s become quite the topic of conversation in our house. We’ve owned the movie (on both DVD and VHS) for years, but it’s never held much interest. Then the stage show came to town, and my mom asked if we wanted to go.

It was magic. As Mary literally flew off the stage at the end of the musical, I wasn’t just teary, as I often am at the end of a good play. I was sobbing. I looked over at my mother. Same.

It might have been because both girls so thoroughly enjoyed the performance. (A first for Sophie — sitting happily through a long production that didn’t feature characters covered in fur.)

Maybe it was because we had been lucky enough to score tickets the previous day for a tea party with several of the cast members, including Caroline Sheen, who plays Mary Poppins. Sophie literally sat on her lap, then made the connection during the performance. (And for days afterward, asking, ”Where is Mary Poppins?” and happily receiving the news that she was here in Tempe.) 

Perhaps it was because I have a real affinity for Mary Poppins, with so many wonderful caregivers in our lives — in the form of teachers, therapists and what’s becoming an alarmingly large collection of babysitters. (That’s what happens when you hire college students; they graduate and leave and break your heart.) 

But the truth is that I know why I was so affected, and it has more to do with George Banks than Mary Poppins.

George Banks is the uptight, straight-laced, workaholic father who — in the end — comes around after it’s revealed that he had a horrible childhood at the hands of a mean nanny.

If George Banks were around today, he would go to work very early in the morning, play a lot of golf, and spend the rest of his time on the couch, watching TV.

He would be my father.

I hadn’t paid enough attention to the Mary Poppins story before we saw the play to realize how stunning the similiarities are.

Like Mr. Banks, Mr. Silverman winds up being a terrific guy in the end. No, he doesn’t sing and dance. He still watches a lot of TV. But he also calls me on a regular basis, comes to Annabelle’s piano recitals and plays tic tac toe with Sophie. (I do have to remind him to let her win.) 

I’m guessing I’ll never know much about my father’s childhood. His family moved a lot — there was, I know, a Bar Mitzvah in Cedar Rapids, Iowa (a largely Jewless place) that may have been a low point — and clearly he was not raised by a mother as effervescent as either Mrs. Banks or my own. I bet all that has something to do with his standoffishness.

In any case, no Mary Poppins ever arrived on the scene to forever change Amy and Jenny Silverman and their parents.

But I do think the arrival of grandchildren might have nudged my father in the right direction.

Particularly one little girl who pays no attention to which direction the winds of Papa’s mood might be blowing. She climbs on the couch and onto his lap, sticks her thumb in her mouth, sighs contentedly and snuggles in.

I watch from the doorway as his big hand awkwardly strokes her hair and I don’t sob, but I do get a little teary.

It’s the stuff that’s not written down that’s harder — the Big Stuff — like the promise I made to myself literally years ago that I’d get to know a grown up with Down syndrome.

Reading Andrea Fay Friedman’s responses to the “Family Guy” controversy reminded me of it. I can’t really figure out what I think of her responses, and that’s mainly because I’ve never known an adult with Down syndrome. I have trouble grasping where she fits into those comments and (frankly) where her family does.

Admitting that probably makes me a horrible person, or (I hope)  just an ignorant one. One who needs to make some friends.

Not that every adult with Down syndrome will have the same abilities and perspective and sense of humor. I know that. But it’s a point of reference I don’t have.

Next time I make a “to do” list, I’m committing that one to paper.

And if you’re interested and haven’t seen these, here’s a response from Friedman. Here’s another one.

Last night Sophie brought me a book to read before bed — The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.

I know it well, although I also knew for sure (despite the fact that we own way too many books I have trouble keeping track of) that I’d never read it to either of my girls.

“The Giving Tree” is one of those children’s books you buy before you have kids. After you have them, you realize that a story like this — about a tree that loves a boy so much she gives him her apples, her branches and finally her trunk — is too impossibly sad. Not something you can easily share with your child.

But Sophie chose it and I read it, and as I read it I thought (in that sick way we can all multitask at this point) about how it seemed more okay to read it to Sophie than to Annabelle — and not just because Annabelle’s got two years on Sophie.

Sophie loved cuddling and listening to a story, and don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of stories she does “get,” but not this one.

Will she ever?

Yes, for sure. Someday, I’m certain, she will, and we’ll read it together and cry. For me to say I’m sure she will someday get it is big. I once wrote that I strongly doubt she’ll ever “get” the book “A Wrinkle in Time.” I was chastized for that, so for now, my jury will at least remain out, if not undecided.

But “The Giving Tree,” yes. Sophie will fully understand loss. Today she doesn’t, which frankly is okay with me. Today is the one-year anniversary of Ray’s mom’s death, and I know I’m corny and always on the lookout for signs, but I did find it interesting that Sophie handed me this sad, sweet book about an apple tree on the eve of this anniversary.

Sophie doesn’t really understand why Ray had an apple tree planted in our front yard a couple months ago. Last week (coincidentally — I’m sure even he didn’t remember — it was the anniversary of the day his mother went into the hospital) he sent me a picture of the first blossom on the tree.

This morning it had several more. We haven’t said anything to the girls (yet, anyway) about the date. Annabelle misses her grandma enough; would this be rubbing it in, to say something?

For months Sophie said, “I miss Grandma” whenever she was tired. It was like a mantra, hard to know if she really knew what she was saying, even, or if it was just one of her conversation starters.

Someday, she will get it, just like she’ll get “The Giving Tree”. And I suspect that will be both a sad day, and a happy one.

As with much in life, I can never decide if “The Giving Tree” really has a happy ending or not.

I mean, I did want to figure out whether that Down syndrome Girl episode was funny or not, on its face (general consensus from admittedly biased GIAPH readers: not really) but the truth is that this isn’t about a not-very-funny TV show.

It’s about Sarah Palin. As Stacey eloquently put it in the comments on the previous post, the thing that’s so infuriarting is not that the Family Guy folks decided to make fun of someone with Down syndrome — it’s that they did it to get Sarah Palin’s goat. (For the record, I’m also with Kathleen, who points out thank goodness we live in a country where people can make a not so funny TV show about just about anything, if they want.)

I really don’t see why they didn’t just cut to the chase and make fun of Palin herself, since everyone else does.

I will say here that as someone who also writes reminders on her hand — “milk,” “pay Visa bill,” “call dentist” — I don’t find it at all strange that Mrs. Palin writes crib notes to herself when giving a policy speech as part of her would-be presidential candidacy.

Argh! Don’t you see? This woman and I have way too much in common.

Damn you, Sarah Palin. I don’t want to have anything in common with you. And if you emerge from all this as the Poster Mom for Down syndrome, I’ll be really really really pissed. So far it hasn’t happened – for one thing, I don’t get the impression you’re that interested in the subject —  but you know, it still could. When that whole presidency thing tanks, you’re going to be looking for work. The non-profit world just might beckon. Perish the thought. Hopefully the NRA will be hiring.

Of course, it’s not only about Sarah Palin, either.

Palin aside (again), the Family Guy thing struck a nerve because the whole “Is it okay to make fun of people with Down syndrome” thing has bugged me for years. Is anything about Down syndrome funny? Rather, is it okay if anything about Down syndrome is funny?

Here’s an essay I wrote when Sophie was 2. It’s a little raw. (For one thing, I used the word retarded a lot back then.) I’m not sure I would write it exactly this way today, but that’s what happens when you reach into the time machine. (And apologies if some of this material is retread for regular readers. Bits and pieces might be. Also, it’s really long. Sorry.)

I have come to the conclusion that when you have a retarded kid, you can’t make fun of retarded people.  

 The other day, a guy at work showed up in a tee shirt that said, “Homosexuals are so gay.”

 All day, people pointed and laughed.

 I tried it out on Sophie.

“People with Down syndrome are so retarded.”

 Not funny.

Sophie is only two, so I’m leaving the door open to the possibility that at some point, having a retarded kid might be funny. But for now, it’s not. And that really pisses me off, because I’ve always been the kind of person who tries to look on the sick-joke side of life. I like to think I have a good sense of humor, and it’s grounded, like most funny stuff, in the ability to be self-deprecating. For example, I love a good Jewish joke (as long as it has nothing to do with ovens), and as long as I – or another Jew – am telling it. Even at the height of the politically correct thing, you could still snark on yourself, right? And now that we’re past P.C., the world of comedy is pretty much a free-for-all. It’s so post-modern. The other day I heard a joke I thought was really funny:

What t do you call a black guy who flies a plane?

 A pilot, you racist.

 I told that joke so many times and laughed so hard, that finally my husband, who voted for George W. Bush and is not at all P.C., asked, `What kind of a bigot are you?’ That stopped me cold. I thought that was a joke that made fun of bigots – but maybe not.

It’s all gotten so confusing, and no more so than when it comes to Sophie. It’s not funny to make fun of your kid with Down syndrome. I know; I’ve tried. We took the girls to have their pictures taken with Santa (OK, so I’m not a very good Jew) and in the picture, Sophie looks, well, retarded. I pointed that out to a colleague at work, who looked like he wanted to kill himself. Or me.

I’ve thought about it a lot, and I might have figured it out. It’s not funny to make fun of your retarded kid – or, really, any retarded person – because there’s no way that kid or person will ever be in on the joke. By nature of the exact situation you’re making fun of, they can’t make fun, too. Sure, they’ll laugh along, but will they really get it?

So far, Sophie doesn’t. Of course, that could be because she’s 2. I’m planning to hold out hope. I could use a laugh.

Ever since I had my kids, but particularly since Sophie was born, I feel like someone turned off a filter in my head. Lights are too bright, sounds are too loud. I can’t bear to read a story in the paper about an abused kid, but I can’t tear my eyes away, either.

Before Sophie, it was sad when a kid was sick. Now I can’t watch my formerly favorite guilty pleasure television show, E.R., because I recognize the string of medical terms they’re shouting over a patient. I really try not to feel sorry for myself. Yeah, Sophie had open heart surgery when she was 3 months old, but her heart is OK, now. And yeah, last month she was crying bloody tears after eye surgery, but the surgery was minor, and I sat in the waiting room at Phoenix Childrens Hospital during the 15 minute procedure and watched parents carting their children to chemotherapy in little red wagons and wondered how on earth they find the strength to do that?

So you understand that I can use a little levity in my life. And I want you to have some, too, because I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, or for Sophie. I don’t want you to ask how it’s been on Annabelle, her 4-year-old sister, or how this whole thing is affecting my marriage.

Recently, a guy I work with pulled me aside and said, “Look, a lot of times, in staff meetings, people use the word retarded. Want me to ask them to stop?”

“No,” I replied, honestly. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t even notice it.”

And I hadn’t. But from that day on, I’ve noticed every time anyone, anywhere, has used the word retarded. And then I’ve noticed how often, just afterward, they wince.

Do we have to talk about that? Let’s just have a laugh.

I’m trying. I used to read constantly. I still read, but now it’s usually those horrible parenting magazines or Sandra Boynton books. In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I sneak into the bathroom and read the books I want to read — gobbling them like cookies in the near dark. I love David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, mostly because nothing’s off limits for those guys. They make fun of themselves, and they make fun of everyone else. But one night, I had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t handle that anymore.

I was reading Burroughs’ latest book, a collection of essays, and I came to one that delved into one of his favorite topics, cruising at bars, and he recounted a tale a friend told him about going out drunk and picking up a guy, waking up the next morning and realizing, to his horror, that his conquest had Down syndrome.

Perched on the toilet (don’t worry, the seat was down. Between two dogs, two cats, two kids and a husband, I don’t have anyplace to sit and read quietly anymore) I thought I was going to vomit. I put the book down and climbed into bed, and lay there and thought, `Well, at least that guy with Down syndrome was high functioning enough to go out to a bar by himself. And to know he was gay. That’s something.’

That’s not enough for a person – me – who two years ago would have howled at the image of Augusten Burroughs’ friend realizing he fucked a retard.

And that’s part of it. Not only is that stuff not funny anymore, but I sicken myself at the thought that it ever was funny to me. What kind of a horrible excuse for a human being am I?

Wait. It gets worse.

When Sophie was about two weeks old, I suddenly remembered “Pink Slip.” “Pink Slip” is an instructional video made in the 70s. Dead serious at the time, but now a joke making the rounds on the Internet. A friend of mine got a copy years ago and we watched it again and again and howled. I’d never known anyone with Down syndrome. (I didn’t even watch that show with Corky in it.)  I’m not even sure I knew that Jill, the main character in the video, had it – just that she was kind of slow. The video portrays Jill’s entire family – in incredible detail, including her father  – teaching Jill about her period. It even includes a scene in which Susie, Jill’s older sister, pulls down her pants to reveal her own thick maxi-pad.

Shit, I thought, staring at my new baby. I’m going to have to get a copy of “Pink Slip” for myself when Sophie hits puberty.

I know I’m supposed to completely change my personality, now that I have a kid with Down syndrome. I’m to take pleasure in life’s simple joys, as revealed to me in Sophie’s beautiful smile. And it is beautiful, and she does bring me a kind of happiness I never knew existed, which is what parents of kids with Down syndrome always tell you. It’s true, I’m not trying to discount it. I’m just trying to figure out how to handle all that joy, and still have a laugh.

Now, if I was a. a regular viewer of Family Guy and/or b. not the parent of a child with Down syndrome, I might find it hilarious. But i doubt it.

Be honest. Have I lost my sense of humor?

I’ll reserve further comment — for now.