“Who actually goes grocery shopping at 10:30 at night?”

I looked up from my the depths of my cart, from which I was trying to extract a slippery bottle of berry-flavored Propel. Apparently he was talking to me, as he rang up Ray’s Lorna Doones and Sophie’s mini quiches.

“What? Oh, yeah, ha ha.” I tried to laugh. The guy was so young he was shiny, hair gelled into crispy spikes.

He grinned, waiting.

Oh. Shit. I was expected to respond.

“Well, I have two kids and a full time job,” I said. “When else would I go?”

“Well, I have one kid and a parttime job!” he sang.

I just looked at him, smiling as much as I could muster, waiting. SO?

He just grinned.

Can I go now? I asked silently, still smiling.

No. Not yet.

“Want to donate some money to prostate cancer?”

Um, okay, sure. A dollar. (I’m tapped out. Last month was the Special Olympics, and I gave five bucks every time I paid for groceries. And I’m at Safeway a lot. Not just late night. Early mornings, too.)

“OK, a hundred dollars!” he called out. I blinked. What? “Oh, gotcha! Just kidding!”

The lights are way too bright in there. 

Mercury is in retrograde. I knew it. My friend Betsy confirmed it last week, when I emailed her to ask. I talk to Betsy most often when things are going wrong, only because she’s the only person I know who knows when Mercury is in retrograde. I have no idea what that phrase means, which is why I keep repeating it mindlessly. (And mindnumbingly.) I just know that when a series of bad things happens (big or small, usually a combination) I ask Betsy, and sure enough, M is in R.

The only other astronomical (or is astrological? is astronomical even a word, aside from meaning huge?) phrase I know is “When the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter’s aligned with Mars,” but since that’s part of the first line of an upbeat song from the Hair soundtrack, I’m guessing that’s a sign of good, not bad.

I would Google the whole M in R thing, but I don’t have time, because, like I said, so many bad things have happened, big and small, in the past week.

I won’t categorize them, but one of the worst is that Abbie is sick.

Abbie is the rock star of our extended family, the sweetest 13 year old girl you’ll ever meet. (My old friend, her mother Trish, begs to differ, calling her Princess Hormone – but I’ve yet to see a sign. I know I reserved my pubescent moods for my own mother, so I believe Trish.) The sweetest, and the most maternal. She comes by it honestly. Trish’s mother confirms that Trish was born to mother; Abbie’s the same. And so it’s no surprise that many of my kids’ earliest baby pictures were taken on Abbie’s skinny lap. She’s the Pied Piper. My kids will follow her anywhere, fight over her, profess their love for her incessantly.

Which is why our house was quiet this weekend, after the news that Abbie won’t be staying with us for the next week while Trish is out of town. It’s nothing too serious, but serious enough to quash the plan. I walked by Sophie’s bedroom door this morning and noticed Abbie’s carefully cursived “Happy Birthday” still left on the chalkboard from the last time she was over, and got sad.

Still, she’s around. Abbie’s not slumber partying on the living room floor this week, but she did pop up yesterday afternoon — in the form of Annabelle.

Lately, Annabelle and Sophie have actually been spotted playing together. There are still squabbles in the bathtub (close quarters) and today someone (i’m not sure which girl) let out a wail in a pitch normally reserved for a true act of torture when Sophie disturbed Annabelle’s pile of Neopet trading cards. But for whole minutes at a stretch, these two will disappear into Annabelle’s room and entertain themselves and one another. A small miracle. I don’t even mind cleaning up the mess.

A couple times, eavesdropping on a play session, I’ve realized that Annabelle is reminding me of someone — but I couldn’t put my finger on it til yesterday afternoon. We were at my sister in law’s house for dinner, and the girls were bored. They’d played with both the pet chihuahua and the pet boa constrictor (I pretended to make an important call outside for the latter; I don’t want the girls to be scared of snakes, but there’s no freaking way I’m going to be in the same room as one!) and Sophie had discovered that Aunt Carolyn does not own any Elmo videos.  The meatloaf was gone and it wasn’t time for chocolate cake, and the adults were talking in that annoying adult way.

I looked over and noticed the girls together on the floor, and heard a familiar song. Annabelle was on her back, Sophie straddling her, and AB was singing, “This is the way the lady rides….This is the way the cowboy rides…..This is the way the farmer rides…..” and bouncing Sophie gently or faster, depending on the character. They were both cracking up.�

Suddenly I realized who Annabelle’s been reminding me of: Abbie. Without realizing it, I’m quite sure, Abbie has taught Annabelle how to be a big sister. Funny, since Abbie’s the younger of Trish’s two. But it’s all there: the patience, the sweetness, the humor, the grace.

In that small moment, I forgot all about the bad week, and thanked my lucky stars.

One of my proudest moments in parenthood — ok, in life — was when I realized that Sophie was potty trained.

Not at night, she still wears a diaper at night, and I’m not saying she doesn’t have the occasional accident, but as soon as we really decided to set her free in panties, she rose to the occasion (or rather, squatted to it).

Yes, she was almost 5. Still. Let me have my moment.

Ray won’t. He, too, is thrilled that Sophie pees and poops in the potty, but doesn’t like some of my techniques. Of course, I question them, too. (My M.O. for all things big and small, whether he believes that or not.) The whole thing’s too much to get into — I have 11 minutes to wrap this up, that’s when my mother in law’s birthday corn muffins should be done (don’t be impressed, I used the “Jiffy” mix) — but here’s one example:

Yesterday morning, I plopped Sophie on the potty (she’s still to small to get on and off easily) and said, “OK, Sophie, pee!”

She was in ball buster mode, so I did what I often do, and turned on the sink.

“Ahh, Listen to the water. Doesn’t that make you have to go?”

This is one of my own mother’s oldest tricks. It almost always works for Sophie, too. Trouble is, Ray was in the room as well. (We have a bathroom shortage in our house.)

“Don’t do that,” he said, and turned the water off.

“Why?”

“She’ll pee every time she hears running water.”

I sniffed. “Well, mother did that to get me to go when I was Sophie’s age, and I don’t pee when I hear running water.”

“But you don’t have Down syndrome.”

Oh.

My kids are freaks.

They actually like healthy food.

It’s embarrassing sometimes. We were at the Denver Zoo last weekend with the cousins, and everyone was hungry, so we quickly loaded up a tray and nabbed a table. I actually felt a little self-conscious as Annabelle munched on plain lettuce and begged me to save her some grapes, while Sophie ate sliced turkey and several hunks of pineapple and watermelon.

The girls are far from perfect. They prefer juice or lemonade to “ice cold water,” cousin Ben and Kate’s beverage of choice. And I didn’t call my first blog post “Chocolate Dance Party” for nothing. Annabelle has a thing for gummis. But given the choice, they’ll almost always go for fruit — at least on the side.

I wish I could take credit. The food thing has weighed on me (pun intended) since long before I hatched these two eggs. (Speaking of which, is it better to give them eggbeaters, or the real thing, or do mainly egg whites and toss a couple eggs in for color? I still don’t know.)

My mother recalls that she was always very careful about what she gave me, which I say led to a life-long obsession with forbidden food. But Mom insists that when it was obvious that first plan hadn’t worked so well (I was unpleasantly plump from a very early age) she tried the opposite with my younger sister, giving her pretty much whatever she wanted. That didn’t work out so well, either. (Let’s just say that you’ll never see either of our bat mitzvah pictures posted on the Internet, if Jenny and I have anything to do with it. I also have to say that Jenny is now a stick. Bitch. But she earns it; she runs several miles a day.)

And, unlike when we were kids, now the obesity epidemic is in full swing, the papers full of warnings (I just read a Yahoo headline when I signed on to write this) that what we teach our kids will dictate their jean size for life.

Against all odds (and probably only partly due to my own efforts — I DO make an effort – although Ray will tell you he’s way better at the food thing, his former McDonald’s/Taco Bell addictions aside, and it’s true that he’s not bad, although the department where he truly kicks my ass is exercise, a topic for another day) my kids are healthy — on the small side, if anything. Both love good food. Neither is obsessed, even when it comes to Sophie’s chocolate ice cream.

The other day, cracking up, my mom told me that Annabelle had complained to her, “I’m hungry for carrots, Gaga.” (She made due with three small bowls of blueberries.)

I give my mother in law the credit.

You should see my in laws’ wedding picture. Pat’s waist was 20 inches, tops. Teeny tiny. Non-existent. Break in half skinny, but healthy looking. Bitch. I’m sure it’s partly luck, but I also know she eats healthy (and says she’s had to watch it more as she’s gotten older). As my mom likes to say, I clearly traded up, when it comes to genetics, and Annabelle has the body to prove it. (And here I have to stop to say that my own mother, Gaga, was an equally beautiful — and just about as tiny — bride. But she probably didn’t eat for a month before her wedding.)

I also know that Pat has taken great care to teach both girls — particularly A.B., who in turn has shown Sophie — to love healthy food. She does it by feeding them fruits and vegetables and explaining how good they are for them, but in a low key way and without pushing. She’d never push — she insists that as the grandma, she doesn’t have to make them do anything they don’t want to do.

I’m cool with that. Hey, my kids like brussel sprouts. Who am I to complain?

And since she IS still the grandma, she won’t deny the occasional treat, like a Dum Dum lollipop or a small baggie of M & M’s.

She’s a great role model. Reading back over what I’ve written, I’m really not sure why she’s been able to get the girls to eat so well, and to carry the good habit into their worlds. It’s like that elusive thing that makes some girls popular in high school.

I”m grateful. All of us — particularly Sophie, who, if Down syndrome stats hold true, will be doomed by a low thyroid on top of whatever metabolic disaster she inherited from the Silverman side — can use every crumb of help we can get.

And so tomorrow, on Pat’s birthday, we’ll have corn muffins (Grandma’s request) and chocolate cupcakes. But most everyone will likely fill up on the homemade fruit salad.

I was doing an interview this morning for a profile I’m working on for my day job — don’t want to spill my own beans now, but I’ll link to it (if I’ve figured out how to do that by then) when I’m done, it’s a story about an artist here in Phoenix whose art is related to her kids — when I was reminded of a quote from my mother that I typed out and emailed to myself a few months ago.

The profile subject was talking about her mentor, a woman very accomplished in their mutual chosen craft, photography, and remarked that the mentor gave her something neither of her parents had given her: in short, a tough time. The mentor challenged her to work harder, questioned her art, pushed her. Refused her unconditional love.

I thought about that, and said (I’m bad at just listening during interviews, I always babble about myself), “Well, isn’t that the role of the parent, to give unconditional love?”

I told the artist about my own mother. “No matter what I write, on any topic, she’ll call to say, ‘That was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written!’ And she’ll mean it.”

I didn’t add that it can get a little daunting, all that love. If you’re as insecure as I am, it turns back on itself, rendering all compliments worthless. (See? Motherhood is a thankless task.) But I do think it’s the best way to parent — as long as it’s legit. You gotta feel the love; you can’t lie.

It wasn’t til I had my own kids that I got it. (No duh. What an obvious thing to say. But true.) I stare at Annabelle and Sophie, marveling, completely convinced that such beautiful, sweet, smart girls have never before existed. The sweep of Annabelle’s brow, the curve of Sophie’s cheek. They are so exquisite, it almost hurts to look at them. 

Funny — show me a photograph of either kid and their flaws pop out. But in person, perfection. Maybe that’s something I should ask that photographer about.

Oh, back to the quote from my mom. We were out to lunch, splitting an order of roast chicken and corn tortillas. I’m not sure of the exact topic we were on when she said it, but I wrote down the quote. I mean, wouldn’t you have written it down? You tell me if this is not the nicest compliment a mother has ever received from her own mother:

“If I were to come back in another life, I’d want to be your daughter.”

Brian silently motioned me into the den, away from the kids, who had invaded every other corner of the big house.

I was visiting my sister’s family in Denver, and we’d all come to Brian and Meredith’s for a Memorial Day BBQ. Brian was done cooking; we’d all eaten (Sophie had actually consumed a buffalo burger, then passed out in front of Elmo on the living room TV; Annabelle was in the basement playing frisbee) and everyone else was distracted by ice cream sundaes.

Brian shut the doors to the small office, closed the blinds, and my brother in law Jonathan quietly joined us a few minutes later.

I felt like I’d been invited into the drug room to try someone’s new baggie of crack, and in a way, I had been.

Waving me into his comfy office chair, Brian leaned over and pulled up YouTube on his Dell, plugged in some key words, and stepped back.

Two dorky guys on stools, with guitars, filled the screen, and the dorkier of the two started singing about “Business Time” — part Adam Sandler, part Hall and Oates, maybe even a little Ween (Ray’s obvservation when he saw it later) – and we all laughed til our sides hurt, even though Brian and Jonathan had seen this clip before, probably more than once.

Yes, I’m the last person to hear about “Flight of the Conchords”.

I can barely keep up with the latest funky kids’ music (Bare Naked Ladies’ “Snacktime”) and the best kids’ cable TV show (“Jack’s BIg Music Show”). Beyond that, I’m so culturally clueless I haven’t even heard of the hottest new show on HBO.

Of course, now that I’ve been tipped off, those Conchord guys are everywhere: On a poster on a co-worker’s office wall, on the cover of the Bust magazine I read last month (obviously not very closely, I now realize — I read right past them), all over the Web.

Honestly, I’m already sort of sick of them, and I haven’t even seen their show.

That’s so totally a lie. I’m off now, to channel surf.

When I was in high school in the Eighties, I was all about the Preppy Handbook. Apparently it was written as a joke, but to me it was the Bible — the guide to a world I knew nothing about, an orbit that included The Hamptons, sailing, straight hair and big cities. I memorized the book (no, really, whole passages!) and found the few places in Phoenix that sold the clothes I craved: oxford cloth button downs, espadrilles, and belts/purses/headbands with tiny frogs/whales/lady bugs embroidered on them, all in primary colors, plus, of course, a lot of pink and green.

I liked Preppy because to me it signaled All Things East Coast — that’s where prep schools are, after all — and what I wanted more than anything was to live far away, in a city like New York or Boston.

It never occurred to me that I could have truly lived the preppy life just a few blocks from my home, at the country club. Of course, back then, the Shmashmortion (sorry, no real names, but that brought to mind my favorite scene from “Knocked Up”) Country Club was truly exclusive.

There’s an old family story: that my sister (who was at the time in elementary school, and taking swim lessons at the country club, thanks for a family friend with a membership) woke up from a nightmare. “Mommy, I dreamed the pool was filled with wasps!” she screamed.

I’m not sure if that story’s true, but it’s too good not to repeat. And the broader truth, of course, is that the pool WAS filled with WASPs. I left high school for college, and by the time I’d graduated and moved to Washington, D.C. to take my first job, the only remnants in my wardrobe of the preppy thing were a few Laura Ashley pieces. I was a big liberal, really a socialist, I’d confide when tipsy on happy hour drinks, and I’d figured out what that whole preppy thing meant, and it didn’t include me, a JEW.

When I finished grad school and moved back to Phoenix to take my first newspaper job, I proudly wrote a front page story about how the country club refused membership to a prominent black businessman. And that is why, as you can imagine, I was shocked as sh*t (hey, can you cuss in a blog? I’m not sure) when my parents JOINED THE CLUB.

First, I was surprised the club wanted Jews. But my dad had just gotten a big promotion at work, so apparently Jews with Big Jobs were OK. (This was maybe 15 years ago.) My mom explained that they really didn’t want to belong to the club, but it has the best golf course in town. (My father’s one and only hobby.) So what could they do?

Then the club was remodeled. And I noticed my parents started going there — a lot. I refused, on principle.

Then I had kids. And still I held out, mostly. I gave in a couple times for Easter and Christmas parties, and I did let my mom take the girls by herself on occasion, but I didn’t truly stop plugging my nose til this spring, when Jenny came to town and wanted to celebrate all three of her kids’ birthdays by the pool.

“Fine, but I’m not wearing a bathing suit,” I emailed her.

“Good,” she replied. “Because we’re skinny dipping.”

Turns out, there’s an awesome wading pool, just right for the kids, particularly Sophie. No need to strip down; they have lifeguards on duty. The pool glistens, it’s so clean. The sun shines just a little brighter. Sitting with my dad, watching the merriment, I had to admit it WAS sort of nice.

“But I don’t see a single minority,” I sniffed. “Not even an Asian.”

“There’s one!” he called out, pointing.

Fine, but I didn’t see any brown skin, in any hue. And no one invited me to the Men’s Grill. Still, I had to admit that the girls had a super time. So this week, I decided it was more important to be a good mother and daughter than to make a stand no one was noticing anyhow. I threw my mom a bone.

“How about if we take the girls to the club to go swimming and have dinner?” I asked.

I’m sure she jumped out of her skin, but to her credit, appeared nonchalant. So we met there tonight and the best part — aside from one woman who, I kid you not, was wearing pink leather sandals monogrammed in pale green with her initials, to match her pastel patchwork pants, leading me to wonder to myself, “Did she have those in the Eighties? Or are they new?” — was that the place was DESERTED. Also, the weather was perfect. We’re experiencing a downright creepy spell of Global Cooling here in Phoenix, this month.

The girls waded in the pool, we ordered food (the canteloupe could not have been more perfectly ripe) and after dinner, Annabelle and Sophie gave a “performance” on the gorgeous green lawn while Mom and I reclined on thick striped cushions in oversized wicker chairs. (Which matched the kid-sized ones thoughtfully placed alongside them.)

Even I had to admit it was a lovely evening. Until, just as we were leaving, with nothing more than a small cough to signal what was coming, Sophie puked all over herself, me and the beautiful flagstone patio.

I take that as a sign. Of what, I’m not sure.

About halfway to our gate at Denver International Airport, Annabelle stopped in her tracks and her Hello Kitty suitcase (actually, the Hello Kitty suitcase she stole from Sophie, who didn’t care since she was wearing her elephant backpack) dropped to the ground.

“Mama, are we still in Colorado?”

I understood. We’d been in the airport for more than an hour, and so far, as I explained to Annabelle, it had been a lot of hurry up and wait. “That’s all a part of traveling,” I explained. “I don’t like it,” she replied.

Me, either. It’s a lot more fun to hurry up and wait with a pile of magazines and a Starbucks — better yet, a vodka tonic. I hadn’t brought a shred of reading material on this trip — four days in Denver, to visit my sister Jenny and her family, my first solo trip with my two girls — I knew reading wouldn’t happen. I was right. My sister even brought her copy of People into the bowling alley, hopeful we could look at it while the kids bowled, but I knew better. Sophie had to be watched every second. Twice I caught up with her in the shoe rental kiosk.

For the most part, I have to say that Sophie was better than anticipated on this trip. Much better. I don’t give the kid enough credit, I know that, and I suspect Jenny thought that on occasion, over the course of our visit. She was polite about it, but the last half hour of her time with us must have changed her mind.

When she had her third kid, Jenny became the proud parent of not only Sam, an adorable lump of cheeks and hair with (finally!) our family’s coloring, but also a Honda Pilot. I have to say that after a weekend in it, I’m having some mini-van envy. The three older kids fit nicely in the “way back,” as we used to call it in the days of our mom’s Volvo station wagon(s), while Sophie and Baby Sam each took a window in the middle aisle.

Somehow, on this final trip, Annabelle wound up in between the two. Big mistake. I wasn’t thinking about it, I was too eager to get coffee before the airport (I knew my only chance for caffeine was whatever I could slug down in the car) and didn’t realize Jenny had graciously put Annabelle up with the other kids, so she wouldn’t be lonely after we’d dropped Ben and Kate at school.

Within a few blocks, Sophie was whacking Annabelle with books. While I ran into Starbucks, Jenny swapped Sam and Annabelle. Now he was in the middle. Another mistake. She handed Sam two graham crackers, and while Sophie refused crackers of her own, this child who had been only sweet and loving to her cousin for the past four days, suddenly became, as Ray and I like to refer to her from behind our hands, The Ball Buster. BB for short.

It’s like a split personality. Suddenly, the BB went from hitting her sister, to grabbing her tiny cousin’s wrists and trying to force the graham cracker into his mouth, then she really went for it and wriggled half out of her carseat (I have no idea how, I get carsick if I turn around in a moving car) and started locking and unlocking the door and rolling/unrolling the window. I yelled at her, to no avail. (I am a huge pushover; it never works when I yell. I’m waiting for Sophie’s fine motor skills to catch up, so she can flip me off. I’m sure it’s coming soon.)

FInally, my sweet sister turned around and growled, “Sophie! Stop it! Get back in your seat and leave Sam alone!” Like magic, Sophie calmed down, settled into her seat, and didn’t move for the rest of the car trip.

Sam, however, immediately burst into tears.

So you can imagine how excited I was about traversing the Denver airport with my two angels. (Annabelle really was an angel — she does have her moments, but more and more, that kid is too good. Like Sophie, she has a sixth sense about when I really need her to behave. The difference is, she DOES behave.)

To be fair, Sophie did hold my hand while we walked through a line longer than any I’ve ever seen at Disneyland, to get through security, and she didn’t bolt when I let go of her to find our boarding passes and my ID, take my shoes off, then the girls’ shoes, seal my lip gloss into its clear plastic bag, find and turn off my phone and put all of our junk into three separate plastic bins. At least they didn’t make us do the full body scan. Have you seen those things? Jesus Christ.

But Sophie WAS being her BB self. With the hand not turning purple from her mother’s firm grip, she insisted on poking Annabelle every 30 seconds or so. In between, she yelled, “YOU’RE BAD!” and stuck her tongue out at random strangers. I swear, keeping her from actually touching anyone was harder than getting into graduate school. Finally, we were out of security and on the elevator to the train to the concourse (have you ever been to this airport?) and then on the train, and then in for a 15 minute walk to our gate.

A few gates shy of ours, anticipating total disaster, I stopped for bribes — a small bag of M&Ms. We arrived at the gate, where I begged for seats together (that wasn’t actually hard, given the whole “YOU’RE BAD!” thing) and finally crashed, literally, on the carpet by the window, with a few minutes to spare before boarding.

The M&Ms were a disaster themselves – they don’t just melt in your mouth, not if you’re Sophie, but I was gloating privately over the fact that I’d easily located a paper towel in my bag to wipe her off when she decided to bolt. I grabbed her around the waist as she leapt toward a crowd, and she swung her head back violently — and straight at my mouth.

I actually had to ask Annabelle if there was blood. Not my proudest moment as a mother. No blood, my six year old assured me, and in my best imitation of my sister, I yelled at Sophie to calm down and be good. Then I shoved the rest of the M&Ms down my throat, gathered up the girls and our stuff and, mustering the last of our collective energy, we crawled onto the plane. Annabelle refused to sit next to Sophie (smart girl) so I settled in the middle seat and prepared for her to terrorize (sorry, bad word choice) the plane.

Instead, we three fell fast asleep, me holding onto Sophie’s foot, Annabelle’s head in my lap.

We touched down in Phoenix and a text message appeared: “I just found Sophie’s medicine,” Jenny wrote. Her heart medicine.

I had left behind the one thing I can’t replace.

Growing up, I can remember my mom singing this really annoying song that started, “Sisters, sisters. Never were there such adoring sisters.” I don’t recall the rest of the words, but I do remember that she’d sing it when my younger sister Jenny and I were fighting — which was often.

Actually, it probably would have been better if we’d fought more. At least that would have signaled some sort of relationship. With four and a half years between us, and no common interests, we might as well have been living on opposite ends of the planet, instead of in adjacent bedrooms. Through grade school, high school, college, first jobs, grad school and weddings, we had nothing to talk about.

Then we both got pregnant within weeks of each other. Overnight, there weren’t enough hours in the day. Emails ping ponged back and forth on everything from creaky crotches (we both had them) to shower games (neither wanted them). Ben was born in May, Annabelle in July. A year later, Jenny told me she was pregnant again; within a week, so was I.

Kate arrived in April. In May, I called Jenny from my hospital bed and choked out, “They think Sophie might have Down syndrome.” “I’m coming,” she said. Before I could insist that she and her healthy newborn stay away, she walked into my hospital room with Kate in a baby seat, carrying a sweet Gund bear blanket for Sophie and a fake boombox for Annabelle that plays three grating songs. We still have it. Both girls love it. (I don’t think the batteries have ever died. It’s like a Hanukkah miracle.)

I freaked a little when Jenny called to say she was pregnant with her third. Ray wanted another — still does — but I know what the statistics say, and I know that another baby with Down syndrome might not be as lucky healthwise as Sophie has been so far. (Not that Sophie was all THAT healthy, two open heart surgeries down.) For a while, we were back on unfamiliar turf, Jenny and I. That passed.

Sam turned 1 earlier this month, and this weekend the girls and I are here in Denver for a visit. The cousins adore each other. Jenny and I, who never had a relationship with our own cousins (gee, our childhoods are sounding rather emotionally barren, huh?) love seeing our kids together. Both of my girls love Baby Sam so much it gives me pause — but so does the juggling act Jenny and her husband Jonathan have got going with their threesome. (Of course she’s not so busy that Aunt Jenny didn’t have to find the elusive single-serving chocolate ice cream I never did find, although with a tiny Elmo cake. We sang one final Happy Birthday to Sophie.)

What really stops me in my tracks is the relationship between Annabelle and her cousin Kate. Annabelle and Sophie have a terrific rapport. They really do. Sophie teases and pulls hair, but more and more, the two of them will disappear into Annabelle’s room to play together. I’ve never seen a soul as patient and loving as Annabelle, and Sophie adores her older sister. I can even fool myself into thinking our household is normal — til I see Annabelle and Kate together.

These two are truly BFFs, cracking up and playing intricate pretend games; she’s two years younger, but Kate keeps up with Annabelle almost effortlessly. They’re almost the same size; in fact, Annabelle sometimes wears Kate’s hand me downs. I look at them and see soul sisters in a way I fear I’ll never see it with Annabelle and Sophie, no matter how much they love each other.

I don’t know how Sophie will ever keep up. I put Kate and Sophie side by side on bright yellow swings at the park today. Kate’s only six weeks older; you’d never know it, and not just from their physical size.

This afternoon, Jenny and I left Jonathan with all five kids and ran around the corner to get pedicures. The woman sitting next to me in the pedicure chair — pretty, with perfect eye makeup and long red nails — was telling someone else there that she’s been blind for many years. Her service dog was the only thing that gave her away, that and her peculiarly beautiful pale green eyes, with turned out to be prosthetics.

The man talking to her apologized for so many questions, and the woman said no problem, she’s often asked to speak in schools. I was glad, listening to her; she was upbeat in a completely real way, matter of fact about her life. No self pity for her, at least none today.

About halfway through our pedicures, Jenny realized her cell phone had fallen into the water and was soaking along with her feet. On another day, I might have cried over that. I can say the same for her. Instead, we looked at each other and shrugged. Then laughed. (Although everyone in the salon seemed to have a piece of advice for her about how to save the phone, by the end of the evening she’d given up hope. I’m sure we’re headed for the Verizon store tomorrow.)

Watching Annabelle and Kate play on the train together tonight, as we rode Denver’s light rail downtown for sushi, I tried to think of the woman with the green eyes that don’t see, and shake myself out of my funk. Be happy that Annabelle has Kate, I told myself.

I’d like to tell you that it worked.

My heart is broken — again.

I should have learned, by now, that young love never lasts. She always leaves.

This time it’s Jeanine. After two years of nannying for Sophie (and sometimes Annabelle) she’s graduated from college, and off to grad school in California. We wished her well with gift cards from IKEA and Anthropologie, and I relived (again) the mixed emotions that come with finding that first apartment that’s really your own (and losing it to stupid lease rules, only to find a better one days later) and packing to move away.

We hired Jeanine on the spot because she volunteered at Phoenix Childrens Hospital and her dad ran the DEA for a big hunk of the country. She talked a lot, at the beginning, about church. That was cool with me — not my bag personally, but religion (to a point, at least) can only be a good thing in the person who watches your kid.

(In fact, I wish Jeanine was here right now, in my sister’s basement in Denver. Sophie just handed me my bra and a shirt and she’s on her way now, I see, with the rest of the contents of our suitcase; she wants me to get off the computer and get dressed. I understand. She’s excited to be visiting her cousins. Hope you’ll understand the thusly disjointed nature of this post.)

Back to Jeanine. By the time she left us, yesterday, she hadn’t mentioned church in months (for all I know she still goes, but picked up on the decidedly anti-organized tone around our fallen Jew/fallen Catholic house) and she was dating her one-time anatomy T.A., who sports long blonde hair and a snake collection. (He studies pythons, I believe, and his collection includes one formerly named #27. Jeanine renamed her Nina, she told me.)

As I wiped the tears away (more tears, but I promise, it’s been a particularly wet week) and got in the car to leave for the airport, I remembered that it took a while for us to get used to Jeanine and, I’m sure, vice versa. I’m sure we’ll love her replacements.

But I’ll never forget Jeanine — how she showed up to Sophie’s heart surgery with homemade muffins, how she chased Sophie through Target, teaching her to “Stay With Me” and how she risked being ostracized by insisting “No Thumbs”! every time, when Sophie’s mom was being, well, a bit of a pushover.

Sophie doesn’t understand that yesterday was the last day she’ll see “Nean” (a few weeks ago, she finally mastered her name, but I’ll always think of Jeanine as Nean) but I know that by next week, she’ll be asking for her.

“I am sad,” Sophie’ll say, standing up in her crib, running each index finger down from an eye, a holdover from the sign language she’s pretty much ditch. (Something that must have driven Jeanine crazy — that my 5 year old is STILL in a crib — but, one more thing I love about her, she never said a word.) “Where is Nean?”

I have to figure out what to say. I wish I’d asked Jeanine’s advice, before she left.