Sophie’s favorite part of Legoland was the Sophie-sized-sink (DIY is a big deal in her world) in the bathroom:

My favorite part of Legoland was the sign for the bathroom:

Those are two of the few things at Legoland that are not actually assembled from Legos. Actually, there’s more — I was suprised, it’s a pretty hefty theme park (with hefty prices). I’d been expecting mini-cities built of Legos. They’re there, but the Lego folks were smart enough to put all the components of the the typical theme park in, as well. (The marketing at that place is phenomenal, from the Volvo partnership, including VIP parking for Volvo drivers and a Volvo-sponsored kid “driving school” to the Lego-shaped Jello molds in the gift shop to the gargantuan Lego creatures everywhere.)

Still, Sophie was clearly a little disappointed, given that Disneyland is her one point of reference. (The place I really want to take her is the Sesame Street theme park, but it’s in Pennsylvania, so I don’t forsee an opportunity. Maybe the Beaches all-inclusive in Jamaica, with the Sesame ST. theme? Also unlikely. Legoland is in Carlsbad, convenient for us this week, as long as we don’t get lost, which we did, badly, on the way home, and with no gas. Nice. A scene out of the movie Vacation, our-style.)

Sophie asked for Elmo as soon as we arrived, and was not happy when the Fairy Tale ride didn’t include Winne the Pooh, though Annabelle told her Little Red Riding Hood was Snow White; she seemed to buy that.

The sad moment for me was when she tried to hug one of the life-sized Lego characters — clearly she missed the Furries at D-Land. (They always make me think of that Vanity Fair article from years ago, about people who dress in those costumes to have sex. Or get horny. Or whatever.)

I’d go back to Legoland (right after payday, rather than right before) if only to see Sophie take a lap on a non-Lego plastic but still cute horse in the medieval section of the park we found at the end of the day. She was so proud of herself, though terrified initially, and Ray had to practically bribe the guy running the ride to give Sophie the blue horse she wanted.

As usual, her feet didn’t quite reach.

She also made a friend at the playground, a little girl who walked right up to Sophie in a sea of other little kids, took her hand and asked her if she wanted to pay.

Now THAT was worth the price of admission.

In the end, everyone but me had to be dragged kicking and screaming (slight exaggeration) out of Legoland. I’m just glad I’m the only one who heard another mom talking about the fireworks display. We narrowly escaped before sunset, making it back only 90 minutes late for Annabelle’s birthday dinner.

Annabelle turned 7 today — for real.

For her, it was just another day, after a month of parties, presents and cake. (I’m sure we’re ruining her; what will we do for her bat mitzvah? Her wedding?)

But wait. She DID have a little twinkle all day, which can’t just be from the trip to Legoland or the Annabelle-sized guitar we gave her (it sucks, teaches me not to shop for musical instruments at Target, but she doesn’t seem to care) or the fact that we’re at the beach with her cousins.

I’m biased, I know. I love her down to the snarls in her hair and the skidmark — well, you know where. But if you knew her you’d agree that the kid is wise beyond her seven years, even though she’s sometimes mistaken for a 4-year-old, and can squeeze her butt into 3T jeans.

I’m watching her unpack the “pocketbook” my mother in law gave her — out comes a brooch, a rhinestone-crusted plastic pink electronic thing and some “Calico Critters” — fuzzy plastic animals she picked out this morning at the toy store.

Her hair is in thick, messy braids, tied at the bottoms with pink curly ribbon from a bday package, and she’s put a too-big bracelet around her ankle. She just told her cousin she named one of the “critters” Sweet Tart.

Incredibly, no Bratz. (But several packages of NeoPet trading cards back in the room.)

I’m too tired tonight to do more than just document her, but for the moment, that (and a “good night cuddle”) is just enough.

Which is good, since Gaga needs to check her email.

You were wondering what Santa Claus does in the off months? I now know: There he was, yesterday, at Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix, in shorts and a baseball shirt printed with NORTH POLE and CLAUS on the back. Red shorts, red shoes, red socks. He looked almost as ridiculous as his wife, who was dressed in a red and white striped shirt and carrying a big bag that said Mrs. Claus and a sour expression when anyone looked their way, which was constant.

“Lady,” I wanted to say. “You’re asking for it.”

I gave it to her. How couldn’t I? “Hey, Sophie, look, there’s Santa!” I called, getting his attention. Sophie was thrilled. Gave him a hug and a kiss and a big hello. I was satisifed, but — clearly risking Mrs. Claus’ ire — Santa offered a photo opp, pulling a red hat from his bag.

Hey, why not?

I don’t know if he was extra nice because of Sophie — what Santa doesn’t have a flock of kids with Down syndrome traipsing after him — or just because. I’ll take just because.

My present came this morning in the form of a young man walking alone on the beach. “Look at him,” I said to my sister. “D.S.?”

She looked. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t notice. I don’t notice,” she said, pointedly. (Must all discussions revolve around your f-ed up kid?? was her unspoken comment — but she would have put it much more sweetly. She’s a social worker.)

“I never used to, either,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.”

The kid was maybe late teens, with a thick middle and a funny-shaped head. His parents were a few hundred paces ahead. His shirt was tucked neatly into his shorts, okay, maybe too neatly to be cool, but he looked good, and his mouth was open. (I used to think the expression mouth breather was so hilarious.)

He had a really sad look on his face, a familiar look, and I realized it had nothing to do with Sophie. He was just a pensive kid walking the beach, just like I always used to do before I got busy with love and a job and kids and all the love and job that goes with that.

Time to think = sadness, in my book. Always has. I don’t vacation well.

(Which is why I’m happy standing literally in a closet, listening to the waves, typing on a computer they’ve tucked away here off the dining room at the place we’re staying, hiding from everyone.)

Back to reality. Who knows what that kid’s reality is, but Im going to consider it a a good one. At least as good as mine. Probably better.

Merry Christmas.

The summer between first and second grade, I had the most beautiful red and white checked outfit my Great Aunt Adele gave me. I insisted on wearing it quite often.

That would have been fine, if the outfit had not been long sleeved and wool, and had I not been living in Phoenix, home of the 122 degree day.

I understood quite well, when the littlest slave to fashion took a wardrobe stand.

Sunday it didn’t quite reach 122, but it was at least 114. I’m not sure where she found it (maybe the same pile from which baby Skylar emerged?)  but at one point in the afternoon, Sophie plunked a thick, fluffy white hat on her head and refused to take it off. It actually looked pretty cute with her skimpy striped sundress. She wanted to wear it to dinner at Grandma’s, so I let her.

That thing was off her head within seconds after I’d plunked her in the car seat.

Who’s the dummy? Not Sophie. I wore that red and white checked outfit for an entire summer; at least it felt that way. I wish I still had it. I’d wear it today.

I’ve already written once about a scary baby doll.

It happened again. Several times in the last few days, I’ve walked past the living room couch and gasped — there lay (laid? pick the one you like best) a baby.

I know Ray really wants a third, but I’m not sure even he’s resourceful enough to scare one up and leave her naked on the living room couch, sucking her thumb.

And this baby could be Sophie’s double, back three or four years. Do you ever have that dream where it turns out you have a baby, and you forgot about it, then there it is?

Oh. Well, lucky you.

Turns out this was no dream. It was Sklyar. We have so many freaking toys we all lose track in this house, and there’s a constant churn that brings old discards (or not quite discards, just castoffs, maybe) to the surface. Sklyar was the doll Annabelle absolutely positively had to have, couldn’t live without, last year on a trip to New York CIty that featured a stop at FAO Schwartz (but not American Girl, something — my debit card? — told me to hold off on AG as long as possible) and a long time in the baby department.

Actually, that’s not the doll Annabelle absolutely positively had to have and couldn’t live without. THAT doll was about $50 more, simply because it came with its own — get this — adoption papers. And a “nurse” running the department. I wanted to run screaming from the place, but instead I reasoned with Annabelle til really I simply wore her out and she agreed to get the same doll, sans papers. (I’m sure our Sheriff Joe Arpaio here in Maricopa County would not approve, but at least Skylar’s pale as the moon, no Mexican blood in her, Joe.) Of course the week we got back from NYC, I heard a hysterical piece on This American Life about that very department at FAO Schwartz. If you can find it on their site, thislife.org, it’s totally worth the time to track it down and listen.

Anyhow, I hadn’t seen Skylar in months, but there she was, stripped to nothing (of course — every doll Annabelle and Sophie have received in the last six years has been stripped naked upon arrival, beginning with Rio de Janeiro Barbie, which the sitter gave Annabelle when she turned 1; thus killing my vow to not let my kids play with Barbies) and laying/lying on the living room couch, waiting to scare me.

Finally, last night, I tossed Skylar back in the landfill, I mean toy pile. At least she doesn’t make noise.

Or emit liquids. I’ve gotta say that one of the funniest moments of motherhood had to be the day my sister called in a panic; she’d just bought my niece Katie a Baby Alive for her fifth birthday.

“Um, I can’t believe I’m leaving this message,” Jenny started, gasping a little. “But we fed Baby Alive an hour ago and she hasn’t pooped. What do you think is –”

And she started laughing so hard she had to hang up.

Damned if I know. I’m scared of dolls, let alone human poo.

Turns out you have to sit Baby Alive upright. Then she’ll poop.

By the end of our Fourth of July celebration last night, Sophie’s face was streaked with red tears, the Elmos face painted on each of her cheeks running down her face.

She couldn’t have been happier.

“Oh, what’s wrong with your little girl?” people ask in the mall or at the grocery store. “Why is she sad?” (Translation: What mean thing did you do to your kid, lady?)

“Nothing,” I always say. Sometimes if I’m feeling magnanimous, I’ll explain. Except for her heart, Sophie’s not afflicted with the serious health problems that can come along with Down syndrome. (Not yet, at least, knock wood.) But she does have very tiny openings, including her tear ducts, which have been blocked forever and refuse any amount of medical Roto-Rootering done to try to open them up.

The third out-patient surgery actually involved placing teeny tiny tubes in her ducts; even that didn’t work. And when the surgeon admitted there’s a chance Sophie will grow out of it some day, we decided to skip any more ioptional procedures that involve general anesthetic.

So Sophie’s eyes are generally teary, if not goopy. It bothers everyone but her, apparently. It does impact the effectiveness of face painting.

That didn’t phase Sophie one bit last night. She still demanded an Elmo on each cheek and when the balloon lady Vera (scrub nurse by day, balloon lady by night) fashioned her the most amazing rubber Elmo any of us had ever seen, she was on cloud nine — even without fireworks, which are apparently too much of a fire hazaard in woodsy, P.C. Flagstaff.

The sparkler on Annabelle’s cheek didn’t fare so well, either, come to think of it. So it’s good we’re going back tonight for more face painting. I hope Vera’s there.

It’s only been a little over a month, but already, Sophie’s pre-school experience is fading away.

I saw it yesterday in our breakfast with the still-fabulous, still-celebrated Ms. Janice — without her classroom as an accessory, she’s now become simply a very good friend, rather than teacher. I had the role of the enforcer (not one I carried out too well, I might add) at the breakfast table.

The fact that pre-school’s quickly moving into the past became a sharper reality this morning, when I pulled the Morning Monkey quilt out of the dryer. (Ms. Janice has Morning Monkeys and Afternoon Alligators — what a workload.) When Sophie had her heart surgery last fall, the folks at her pre-school were phenomenal. Ms. Janice and others came to visit at the hospital and at home, and everyone sent presents. One night Sophie’s bus driver, Sam, showed up on our doorstep with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

But aside from the visits, the best present she got was the Morning Monkey quilt.

A mom I’d never met (she had a son in Ms. Janice’s classroom) made it for Sophie — it must have taken her days (would have taken me years) to sew this beautiful quilt made of several fabrics, each square printed with a photograph of a member of the class, including the teachers, aides and therapists.

Every night, Sophie insists we cover her with the Morning Monkeys (her own photo looks just like a mugshot, I swear, if you can imagine a 4-year-old getting arrested) and every morning she wants me to pretend to be Alex (her boyfriend) or Tatiana (her friend) or Ms. Sydney (her beloved speech therapist). Today she named each kid and adult, kissing her finger and placing it on a face, one by one.

But this morning, I noticed that the pictures on the quilt are starting to fade. Just like pre-school.

Sophie’s in full-on ball buster mode. Has been since she woke up yesterday morning, which is unfortunate, since she had a 2-hour appointment with the psychologist yesterday to continue some testing we started last month to make sure she’s getting the right services.  

I can tell you this: She didn’t score high in the behavior category, if there is one. At one point, she climbed up behind the psychologist’s desk, grabbed a back issue of New York magazine and started paging through, laughing like crazy. (Knowing she was driving me crazy.)

Then last night we swam with the fabulous Ms. X, kindergarten teacher, who got a taste of her own near future when Sophie refused to leave the party. Everyone insisted it was cute; it terrified me.

Sophie even acted up this morning, in front of Ms. Janice, the lead singer of the rock star teacher line-up, the one who swears in two years she never witnessed the kind of behavior performed today at the breakfast table. Sophie’s taken to making this snorting noise and bumping her head into my chest, when she’s annoyed with me, which is often. She stood up in the booth, showed us her chewed up bacon, and refused to behave til her stuffed dog told her to. (A trick I’ve been employing constantly, it seems.)

We did all laugh when I handed Sophie her orange juice. She immediately took a big drink, her tongue sticking right out beneath the straw (a Down syndrome problem, that tongue — too big for a small mouth, combined with low muscle tone).

“Sophie, put your tongue in!” I said.

She stuck it out further.

“Sophie, put your tongue in,” Ms. Janice said, in perfect pre-school speak.

The tongue went back in.

It’ll be back out, I’m sure, when I see Sophie tonight. I just wonder how she’s faring with GaGa; they left breakfast for the mall.

Hey — I decorated.

No, I didn’t figure out how to put funky wallpaper up, like my friend Rene has on her blog, but I did manage to post some links in my (or is it on my)  “Blogroll”.

This freaking blog thing.

Tonight my dear friend Terry told me I need to “ping more platforms”. I asked my dear friend Kari what on earth that meant (I couldn’t figure out how to pull up the link to her blog, but if you google “kindahotmom” and “Karina Bland” you’ll find it) and she said, “Oh, that’s when you use catch phrases like ‘stay at home mom’ and people see it and link to your site.”

Oh. That makes no sense to me, but ok, I’ll say it:

Stay at home mom. Stay at home mom. Stay at home mom.

(The Dorothy approach; heels are clicking.)

I think if I was a stay at home mom I’d hate the term stay at home mom. I know i hate the term working mom. (Stay at home moms don’t work?) But my least favorite is full time mom. Who isn’t?

Ah, a discussion for another late night (one when I’m not battling a cold).

Saturday’s show is up now at www.thislife.org – the last segment in the “Social Engineering” show from June 27 is Sophie’s.

I haven’t tried it (um, no thanks, don’t want to hear the sound of my own voice again — don’t you hate that?) but looks like you can just click and listen.