Naming it was hard. There were so many choices. My first thought was “Guns as Roses,” or “Guns ‘n Poses,” then “Pistol Whipped.” “Project Gunway.” “Put a Gun on It.” In the end, it was “Gun Show.”

“Gun Show” was taken on Instagram (why was I surprised?) so after some trial and error, it’s “2013 Gun Show.” Which is fitting, since I started last week, on New Year’s Day. Really, it started a few days before that. I was leaving my favorite nail salon — a sweet little spot in a nice part of town, not one of those cheapie walk-in places but not as expensive as a full-on spa, with sparkly tiles, complimentary iced tea and classic movies playing on a loop — when I noticed it on a display by the door: a tiny, rhinestone-encrusted gun pendant, hanging below a necklace that spelled out LOVE.

I felt myself flinch.

If it had been there on my previous visits, I hadn’t noticed it — and I know why. Newtown was a tipping point, even for a gun loather like me. That’s not fair. Today is the second anniversary of the Tucson shooting — which literally hit close to home — and I ask myself, “Why didn’t I notice things like rhinestone-encrusted gun pendants after that?” I don’t know why. I didn’t. I should have. We all should have — as it turns out, Newtown seems to have been a tipping point for a lot of people.

Let’s hope so, anyway. Before Newtown I didn’t notice things like rhinestone-encrusted gun pendants, but now I do. And so I decided to embark on a little project for 2013: Gun Show. Almost immediately, someone sent me the URL to a tumblr site devoted entirely to photographs of “cute guns” — pink revolvers, pink and black camouflaged rifles. You know, cute guns. That’s not quite what I’m going for here. Look, I get that a lot of people out there want to hold onto the right to bear arms — no matter how I feel about it. I get it. (I don’t like it, I want to change it, but I get it.)

But what does it say about this country that so many people in it choose to accessorize with guns? Owls, peace signs, mustaches, bicycles, hedgehogs — all cool, fun expressions of one’s personality and preferences. Guns? Not for me. And I have to ask, why for you? I can understand sleeping with a gun under your pillow. But sleeping with your head on a pink pillow with a gun embroidered on it? Yep, you can get one on Etsy.

WHY?

When it comes to safety, I suppose it’s safer to sleep with the embroidered version. But that’s not the point. I don’t feel safe in a world that tosses deadly weaponry around with such abandon, literal or figurative. I hate that I’m so numb to it that it took me so long to realize it was all over. After the nail salon I spent some time looking for other examples and quickly came up with way more than I expected — possibly enough to fill every day of an entire year, though I don’t intend to force myself to do this every day. Most days.

A week in, it’s already working — making me more aware of what we fetishize in this society, what we put on a pedestal. Or hang from our ears.

Self righteous and preachy? Totally. But hey, it’s a free country. You have the right to bear arms, both rhinestoned and otherwise. And I have the right to tell you what I think of it.

If you’re on Instagram and you want to see the project, follow @2013gunshow. And I’d love to see any examples you find. Trust me — you’ll find them, whether you want to or not.

I lucked out on the morning of Christmas Eve and happened to be in the car — by myself — when NPR’s Morning Edition played its annual excerpts from David Sedaris’ “Santaland Diaries.”

It was the 20th anniversary of the original broadcast of an essay that ultimately made Sedaris a household name (well, in my house, anyway) and in many ways launched a whole genre of confessional (true and sometimes not so true) storytelling that is sometimes good, often bad and in a few cases, really ugly. (And I’ll be the first to say that I’ve had my own ugly moments, experimenting with the form. It’s not as easy as it looks.)

But I digress. If you’ve never heard David Sedaris read “Santaland Diaries,” you must immediately Google it and have a listen. Reading Sedaris doesn’t do him justice, and while he’s had some great hits since, this truly is his best work. You will love it, I promise. One thing that struck me, as I sat (okay, hid) in the car and listened Monday morning is how timeless the piece is — a story about what it’s like to work as an elf during Christmas at Macy’s department store. Like the best Christmas classics, it’s all as true today as it was 20 years ago.

The last excerpt really hit close to home for me.

Tonight, I saw a woman slap and shake her growing child. She yelled, Rachel, get on that man’s lap and smile or I’ll give you something to cry about. Then she sat Rachel on Santa’s lap and I took the picture, which supposedly means, on paper, that everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be, that everything is snowy and wonderful. It’s not about the child or Santa or Christmas or anything, but the parents’ idea of a world they cannot make work for them.

Ah, I thought, that was 20 years ago. What about today, where sharing our kids’ images and quips has become a competitive sport? Again, I’ll be the first to admit my own guilt. And I’ll admit that I totally related to what Sedaris said: I’ve never actually slapped one of my children, but I have on occasion begged, cajoled and threatened both girls before snapping that photo and wiping away the tears with an Instagram filter.

Not this year. Not on Christmas morning, anyway. The Friday before Christmas, Sophie pulled a shirt over her head without first removing her glasses, leaving herself with a very shallow but very large and nasty looking scrape just below her eye. No photos for us. I was bummed — of course I wanted the perfect shot of Sophie ripping into her Monster High long underwear — but I must admit the lack of a photo op forced me to savor the moment just a little more.

The day after Christmas, the scab fell off; and the picture-taking resumed. Habits die hard. Anyhow, I thought to myself this morning as I bribed Sophie with hair products so she’d let me snap her picture during a bang trim, David Sedaris doesn’t have kids. He just doesn’t get it.

In any case, it’ll be a while before I take a photo of the kids without thinking of him.

Last month, a local chef came over to make cookies. I knew what she’d say when she walked in my kitchen.

“Oooooh, look at that stove!”

The oversized, white enamel Gaffers & Sattler stove came with the house, which was built in 1948. Previous owners remodeled the kitchen in the late Nineties, putting in pink and blue formica, blonde cabinets, a fancy built-in refrigerator and a hideous mauve sink — but they kept the stove. I oohed and ahhhed when I first saw it, too.

“Don’t you just love it?” the chef gushed, as she unloaded her bag of baking supplies on the counter.

“No,” I said matter of factly, reaching for cookie trays. “I fucking hate it.” And at the look of horror on her face, I added, “Just wait til you see the cookies.”

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d willingly get rid of a vintage stove. Years ago, I ripped an article out of Real Simple about a woman who traveled cross-country to find someone to fix her old stove. That’s me! I thought. I’m Vintage Stove Girl! Even before all the shows about pickers and junkers (and hoarders) made it popular, I was poking around thrift stores and dragging friends to flea markets. “Other People’s Shit” — I love it. History, character, a piece of furniture (or a tchotchke or an appliance) with a story to tell. The stove sold the house. When it stopped working so well — when the burners didn’t always light and the door had to be duct-taped shut, to me that just added charm. But then the thing started cooking unevenly, and heating up the kitchen like crazy. At one point, I have to admit, creatures were spending time in the half that had never worked. The stove needed an overhaul, desperately, and the only vintage stove repairman we could find in the state wanted to take it away for six weeks — for $3000.

I stalled, switching out the duct tape every so often and tossing lit matches at the burners from across the room. (That might be a slight exaggeration about the match tossing, but you get the point.) Finally, it was time. It was time, in fact, to redo the whole kitchen. I figured we’d send the stove away, planned for it, thought about how the new kitchen would look with the Gaffers & Sattler center stage.

And then one day, I changed my mind. It was nothing dramatic; to be honest I don’t remember the final straw. Maybe a burner that wouldn’t light or a particularly under/overcooked batch of vegetables. I looked at that stove and instead of a treasure, I saw an eyesore. I was done. Instead of defending my oven to visitors, I began to talk smack about it.

The chef carefully peeled the duct tape back and opened the oven door, pulling out the cookie sheet. Half the cookies were raw, the others burned.

“See?!” I said.

“Okay, I get it,” she admitted, standing back to consider both the stove and the cookie sheet.

“Hey! I know!” she said. “You can always turn the stove into a planter. Or maybe a bookcase!”

Um, no thanks. The next week, I marched into an appliance warehouse and bought a brand new, stainless steel wall oven/microwave combo. It’s everything that my old oven isn’t. I love it.

I sat at the appliance saleswoman’s desk as she wrote up the sale, fiddling with my phone. “Hey!” I said, holding it out, “want to see the stove I’m replacing?”

She wasn’t so interested, but I took the phone back and stared at the stove, admiring the giant knobs, the still-shiny enamel, thinking about everything I’ve cooked in that oven and on the stovetop: my first matzoh ball soup; my first brisket; my first Christmas turkey; my first apple pie; my first (and second and third — I kept screwing up) loaf of bread. Every year for the last 15 years, I’ve pulled hundreds of holiday cookies from that oven. This year has been no exception. The kitchen remodel’s scheduled for January, so all month, I’ve waxed nostalgic as I’ve baked in the kitchen — even gotten a little sentimental over the pink sink and that hideous Formica.

A couple weeks ago, a house across the street from us disappeared. Literally. It was there one morning, gone by nightfall, a tear down. To be honest, it wasn’t a particularly attractive house from the outside; I never was inside, perhaps it was a mess. But knocking down an entire house? I was horrified. I stood in the yard and stared for a while, then turned and walked into the kitchen. The Gaffers & Sattler stared at me, accusingly, the replacement stove just a room away, waiting for January.

Nostalgia aside, there’s no turning back. Nor will there be an oven planter in my backyard. But in the next couple of weeks, there will be a Gaffers & Sattler oven — in working condition, needs a little TLC, circa 1948 — on Craig’s List. She deserves someone who will truly love her.

Vintage Stove Girl (or Boy) is out there.

Funny how something as simple as giving can seem so complicated.

Do you give the drunk homeless guy on the street some cash, or your leftovers from dinner, or nothing? Stop for the veteran with the tattered sign by the freeway? I have a friend whose kid spent weeks trying to get ahold of the Special Olympics to sign up to volunteer, and earlier this month (after three unreturned phone calls and as many emails) I gave up on my plan to have Sophie’s Girl Scout troop carol at our local ARC facility this Christmas season. I get it — the folks who run these organizations are overwhelmed, sometimes undertrained.

A simple charitable act gets complicated before you know it, and it becomes so much easier to just be on your way.

Not at our neighborhood elementary school (the one where Annabelle went and Sophie still goes). There, each Christmas, some kind souls put up a tree and hang tags on it bearing wishes for community members in need. You take a tag, buy and wrap gifts, and deliver them back to the school. This year I grabbed two tags and was touched that one family’s wish list included a microwave, pots and pans — and dish soap.

Dish soap. I mentioned it in a Facebook status update and instantly, I was flooded with comments from friends who wanted to give to this family and the little boy from my other tag. Legos came from Washington, D.C., yarn from Cave Creek. A handyman refurbished a microwave, and included a gift certificate for a service call. I gathered the gifts, added a few and the girls and I wrapped them up Thursday night. Sophie insisted on including notes to both the family and the boy; I had trouble explaining that we needed to remain anonymous, as did the recipients. “Ho ho ho ho ho,” she wrote, addressing them as “Boy” and “Family.”

Friday morning I loaded Sophie and the gifts into the car and we drove to school, where the principal greeted us as we pulled up, shivering in short sleeves. “It’s Arizona!” he giggled. “I refuse to wear a coat!” We all laughed. Sophie held the door for me, then the bell rang and I gave her a hug (ok, several, we’re talking about Sophie) and hustled her off to class. I left our packages in the office lobby, wished the office staff well, and headed home.

I got on Facebook to write an update about how successful the giving tree thing had been, and what a gift our little school is — and saw a link to a news story about a shooting at a school so much like our school it sucked the air out of my lungs.

What sort of charitable act can we perform, in the wake of this? Now that’s a tough one. How about a grass roots effort to ban semi-automatic assault weapons? And another to increase awareness about mental illness? Armed guards at every elementary school in America? A bullet proof vest for every child?

I don’t know. It’s not something microwaves or Legos will take care of, this time. But we can’t give up because it’s hard. These schools are the centers of our universe, the roots of the trees that are our children and the people they will become — if they’re luckier than those kids in Newtown. We’ve got to do something.

We were on our way to the pediatrician yesterday when Sophie asked the question again.

“Why do I have special needs, Mommy? Why do I have Down syndrome?”

The appointment was about a rash, not even with our regular doctor, but I figured the fact that we were en route to a medical professional was a sign.

“Hey, why don’t you ask the doctor?” I said.

She made me ask, because Sophie can’t pronounce the words Down syndrome.

The doctor stared — first at me, then at Sophie.

“Well!” she said in her best Voice to be Used with Toddlers and the Developmentally Disabled, “That’s just how you were born!”

Sophie stared at her. So did I.

“Um, can’t you at least toss in a chromosome or something there?” I asked.

The doctor looked panicked. She promised to prepare our regular pediatrician for the next time we come in. “Boy, I bet Sophie really keeps her Mommy and Daddy on their toes!” she said in her best Voice to be Used with Parents of Special Needs Kids. Then she developed an overwhelming fascination with listening to Sophie’s heart. At least I walked away with the prescription for the antibiotic we needed.

Driving home, Sophie said, “I don’t want to have Down syndrome.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I feel left out.”

She went on to explain that a bunch of her friends were playing that day — without her. Then she said she was sad when she went to choir and her best friend went to the playground. We talked about how everyone is different, how we all have varied interests.

“I really don’t think it’s because you have Down syndrome,” Annabelle told her.

And maybe it wasn’t — yesterday. But let’s face it, it is. And it will be — more and more.

Later at home, I showed Sophie a video about Down syndrome that one of my friends shared on Facebook. “That helps,” she said. “Now can you read me some news stories about Down syndrome?” (Ah, the daughter of journalists.)

So I googled “Down syndrome” and came up with stories about abortion, depression, physical maladies — nothing Sophie-worthy. Luckily Ray came into the room just then, took Sophie on his lap, and told her stories about people he’s met with Down syndrome,  like some really strong weight lifters he interviewed a few years ago for a story. “Cool!” Sophie said.

“Did that help?” I asked, when she crawled back on the couch next to me. “That helped,” she said as she put her thumb in her mouth, finding a comfortable spot on my shoulder.

And soon she was asleep.

At the risk of tempting fate (we’ve got two more performances today) Sophie killed it yesterday at Snow Queen.

The role of Wood Sprite — the littlest kids in the cast, who scamper around the autumn scene of this Phoenix Nutcracker alternative, making “sharp shapes” and pretending to cause mischief — is a good one for her. And while she did a fine job last year, this time around she really nailed the whole thing. She didn’t wave from the stage at inappropriate times, didn’t have to be scooped off at the end of her scene, didn’t need to have another kid assigned to her as a “helper,” and most important, perhaps, in the world of the theater, she behaved herself backstage.

She even played with the other kids and, dare I say it, blended right in.

I like to think that I’m not one of those parents of a special needs kid who wants her child to “pass” — and I know she never does — but backstage last night, Sophie was just another member of the cast, and I have to admit that it was really nice. It’s a big deal for me, as possibly for others who are too nice to admit it; as far as I know, in 20-plus years, there’s never been a kid like Sophie in the cast.

True, she was the oldest wood sprite by quite a bit. And who knows how she’ll react next year if that’s the role she’s offered again.

“Did you have fun?” I asked Sophie after a really long day. (Last year she only performed in two of the weekend’s four shows; this time she’ll do them all.)

“It’s stressful,” she admitted. “I can’t suck my thumb on stage.”

OK, so she’s not like the others. But Sophie still kicks butt. And — with that first Special Olympics cheerleading practice scheduled for next Saturday —  I intend to revel in it all day, even if she does sneak a wave or two in from the stage.

Come see for yourself — I believe the 2 pm show today is sold out, but there might still be tickets (herbergertheater.org) for 5 o’clock.

Today is Sophie’s half birthday.

She really goes for that sort of thing,  so  I got a brightly colored cake from Fry’s and cut it in half, then raided the Hanukkah stash for nine and a half candles. Sophie was thrilled when she woke up and saw the cake, and when she blew out the candles she insisted on telling us her wish, which was more of a proclamation: “I love Mommy and Daddy and Annabelle.”

A nice start to a nice day. The girls didn’t have school (when did THAT start, getting the Wednesday off before Thanksgiving?!) so I made arrangements with my friend Rachel, the mother of Sophie’s BFF Sarah, to watch Sarah for half the day; the girls would go to Rachel for the other half so I could run to the office. It seemed appropriate — half a day off on Sophie’s half birthday.

Perfect, right? And it was a perfect day — the weather was gorgeous, I made cookie dough and caught up on work emails while the three girls played school, then I fed them baloney sandwiches and ran them around the park before we headed out for ice cream. At the ice cream shop they played a board game and sang songs in the car on the way home.

I’d like to say it was one of those days where I forget Sophie has Down syndrome — but to be honest, I never have those days. After what happened left I’m wondering, maybe Sophie doesn’t, either.

We were almost home when Sophie asked a question from the back seat. Totally out of the blue. I hadn’t heard the topic come up for months.

“Mommy, why I have Down syndrome?”

“Well,” I said slowly, trying to not botch it like I usually do, “when you were born — I mean, when you were created — some science happened, and so every bit of you is just a little bit different than everyone else.”

“You’re special!” Annabelle said quickly. “Sophie, it’s awesome that you have Down syndrome.”

Silence from Sophie. And then, “I don’t want to have Down syndrome.”

“But Sophie, we’re all human beings,” Sarah said. “Really, we’re all the same.”

Silence.

“Why did you mention it, Sophie?” I asked.

“I want to be like Sarah,” she said. “I want to be bigger.” Sarah is a good foot taller than Sophie — and it’s hard for my kid to keep up with her in other ways, too. They’ve been best friends since kindergarten.

Sarah began to reminisce. I’d never heard the story of the first time they met. “Sophie asked me to help her onto the toilet,” Sarah said matter of factly. “I didn’t even know her name then. Later we were walking down the hall and Sophie told me, `I’m sick. I have Down syndrome.’”

“You’re not sick!” Annabelle interrupted. “You’re just different, Sophie. And it’s okay. You’re the smartest person I know! You try your best and work really hard and that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah,” Sarah chimed in. “You’re not sick.”

In a very small but matter-of-fact voice, Sophie said, “I have special needs.” (That killed me.)

More silence.

And as quickly as it started, the conversation ended. We pulled into the driveway, and talk turned to the location of Sophie’s Justin Bieber nightgown.

Of course, I kept thinking about the previous conversation. I wonder if Sophie did, too.

I did it. I’ve been talking it about (a lot — apologies to those who have listened to me go on) and today I finally did it. I sent in Sophie’s Special Olympics registration. For cheerleading. What follows is a piece I read last month at an event sponsored by a group called the Lit Mamas. The lights were so bright I couldn’t tell if the audience was cheering — or cringing. In any case, next month Sophie starts cheerleading practice. I’m quite certain this won’t be my last post on the topic.

It was the perfect moment.

The sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, the waves were crashing just loudly enough to drown out the noise of the other families on the beach. And for the first time all week, most of my own family was nowhere to be seen.

We’ve been coming to this stretch of La Jolla – my parents, my younger sister and me – for a week every summer for nearly 30 years, and over time, our ranks have increased – with boyfriends, then husbands, and now kids. Back in the day, I’d spend hours on this beach, frying under Bain de Soleil (for the St. Tropez tan) SPF #4 and reading book after book, or sleeping, moving only when I really had to pee.

Now I’m lucky if I can pick up a magazine – let alone turn a page – before someone cries, or escapes running down the beach, or vomits sea water in my lap. These days I wear cover-ups and hats, slathering my exposed spots with Neutrogena SPF 70 that includes something called Helioplex that leaves a really attractive white film all over me – and my children, when I can catch them long enough to pour gobs of it on them.

But this day, this moment, something odd happened. I looked around, and it was just my mom and me, wrapped in beach towels on our lounge chairs, all alone on the beach. Jackpot.

I was just starting to doze off when my mother spoke.

“Ames, there’s something I have to say.”

My eyes flew open. OH FUCK, I thought. It’s cancer. When your 70-year-old mother uses that tone of voice, how can it be anything else? FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. FUCK.

I threw off the towel, sat up and turned to face her.

“Um, what?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, my heart racing.

“I really think you should consider letting Sophie do cheerleading in the Special Olympics,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, are you fucking kidding me?” I shrieked. “I thought you had – um, well, I thought. Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Don’t scare me like that!”

She continued on, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I know how you feel about cheerleading, the whole feminist argument and all, but just think about how much fun Sophie would have! She loves to dance, and she loves people. She’d have such a great time.”

Before I could say more than “I’ll take it under advisement,” a throng of children and husbands descended and the moment was gone.

But I did think about it. A lot. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it, and that’s got me really annoyed, because, frankly, I’ve got other things on my mind.

Sophie has Down syndrome. She will be 10 next May. All children come with their own special challenges, but Sophie’s really loaded for bear: She had open heart surgery before she was 1 and more open heart surgery at 4. She’s had three operations for clogged tear ducts (none of them worked, by the way), half a dozen pairs of orthotics for her feet and several pairs of glasses for eyes that don’t work right. She has her own lawyer, who bullied the neighborhood school into keeping her there, and every day I drop her off I wonder how much time we have left at that place before they tell us it’s just too much work to keep her there.

I can tell what you’re thinking. But please, don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t. And if Sophie was here tonight, you’d know why. The kid kicks some serious ass. She’s smart, funny, and I know it’s a stereotype but she’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. She can also be a total jerk. I love her like crazy.

So that’s why I take any decisions made on her behalf very, very seriously. And I’m not talking about the decision to crack open her chest and fix the hole in her heart. We had no choice there. I’m talking about the day to day aesthetic choices, the stuff that matters a lot more to all of us than we’re willing to admit.

When Sophie was just a few days old, I made a decision. If she was doomed to a life of bagging groceries, so be it. But she would never wear a bow tie when doing so, like the clerks at the high end market in town, A.J.’s. No way.

Not a good look for people with Down syndrome.

Over the years, the list has grown: No overalls, no top hats, no sailor suits. There is no rhyme or reason to my fashion pronoucements (although the overalls thing might have something to do with Of Mice and Men) – they simply come to me. And it’s not like I’m so High Fashion myself. I’m not; nor does it bother me that my husband shows up at the office every day a wrinkled mess.

But for Sophie, it’s different. She’s got to look her best.

Again, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, who cares – your kid is mentally retarded. She’ll be LUCKY to get a chance to bag groceries. Who cares what she wears while she does it?

I care.

Always have. I made sure Sophie had hot pink Converse to wear over her ugly foot braces when she was learning to walk, and scoured the thrift stores for Oilily and Baby Lulu outfits when she entered pre-school. She always has the cutest backpack in her class.

At the same time, I try not to stifle her creativity, which is why some days, she hits the playground in her fanciest party dress and tennis shoes. The other day she insisted on gigantic pink-lensed sunglasses. Sort of Diana Vreeland with a twist, I decided, and let it go.

But I have my limits. Sophie’s the tiniest kid anyone knows, so she gets all the hand me downs, and I hide the bags our friends give us til I can search them by myself late at night, getting rid of the overalls and the Elmo tee shirts she loves but is way too old for. And nothing too hoochy mama.

When Sophie turned 8, I signed up for the city of Tempe’s Special Olympics newsletter. That first season, the choices were as follows: bowling, speed skating and cheerleading.

OK, no bowling. Not as a team sport, anyway. No way. First, it’s not real exercise. And second – well, do I really have to explain myself? It’s just not a dignified sport. And speed skating? Yeah, right. So that left cheerleading.

And thus, my existential crisis.

Look, here’s the thing: Sophie is going to spend most of her life on the sidelines, no matter how hard I try to make it otherwise. She won’t likely drive a car or go to college or live on her own – if she does any of those things, it will be a truncated version. Special Olympics is one chance she gets to step on a level playing field. Why should she be off to the side, jumping around?

“But she’ll look so cute in the uniform!” a friend said.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport,” another friend said. “Anyhow, cheerleading isn’t what it used to be. It’s very athletic!”

Not for Sophie, who can’t turn a cartwheel – let alone do a backflip off the top of a human pyramid. No. Cheerleading for Sophie will only ever be a photo op.

“Oh come on,” my mom’s voice echoes in my head. “She’ll have fun!”

Ballet class is fun. Swimming lessons are fun. Running track in Special Olympics – that was a blast. Sophie loved it, ran her heart out, cherishes her fourth place ribbon. That was a lot of goddamn fun!

Cheerleading??? Do we really have to go there?

Right now you’re thinking: Wow. That woman really overthinks everything. You are right. I do. It’s exhausting. And wait – I’m not done.

I haven’t admitted this to my mother, but the truth is that I’ve been thinking about cheerleading since before I was Sophie’s age, and it’s not because I’m some crazed feminist. It’s because I always wanted to be a cheerleader.

I mean, really, how many kids choose to be on the speech and debate team? That was just a way to keep busy during the dances and other typical events I wasn’t included in when I was in high school. I watched the other kids like an anthropologist, and realized at an early age that the one sure-fire path to popularity – at my school, anyway – was cheerleading.

It wasn’t going to happen. I turned my last somersault when I was four. Like Albert Brooks’ annoying, nerdy-smart character in Broadcast News, as a kid I consoled myself with the thought that someday, I’d be more successful than any of them. That didn’t happen (some of them are damn fine real estate agents!) but I have lived happily ever after – and happier than a lot of them, if what I see on Facebook is any indication.

And now I’m charged with the happiness of two young girls. The truth is that I just don’t see any upside to Sophie being a cheerleader. It won’t bring her great popularity – and here I’m not talking about how, often, kids with Down syndrome become the mascots of their high school – elected Prom Queen, named “team manager” – and it won’t result in great athletic prowess.

It’ll just be – well, it’ll just be fun.

After months of thinking about it, I did the thing I should have done the first day it came up. I asked Sophie.

“Hey, Sophes,” I said one night before bed. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Do you want to do Special Olympics cheerleading?”

“YES!”

So Sophie will be a cheerleader — for one season, at least.

And I’ll be in the stands – cheering.

I snapped tonight in the check-out line at Walgreens.

Back story: What the fuck is up with Walgreens? I’ve been shopping at the same store for more than 15 years, and until a few weeks ago, no one said boo to me when I came and went, and I liked that just fine. Then one day I walked in and the same clerk who’s been ignoring me for years called out a super cheery, “Welcome to Walgreens!”

I was quite startled. I smiled slightly and went on my way.

“Be well!” the same clerk bellowed after me as I left.

Clearly there’s a memo floating around from Walgreens headquarters, because the same thing has happened — regardless of the clerk or time of day — ever since. I find this incredibly annoying. It went on for a while at Safeway, too, but someone must have clued the Safeway folks in, because suddenly it stopped. No such luck at “the corner of happy and healthy.”

“Welcome to Walgreens!” the clerk gushed before Sophie and I had barely crossed the threshold this evening. I was not in the mood. I’d had a long day that promised to stretch into a long night when I realized that not only had I forgotten I’d promised to bake a birthday cake for tomorrow, I was lacking ingredients.

I find myself grocery shopping at Walgreens more and more these days, and I must say I’ve started creeping myself out. But there’s no Circle K near my house (yes, I’d stoop that low) and despite the fact that it’s somewhat gross to buy groceries at Walgreens, it’s convenient.

So there Sophie and I were, in Walgreens. Immediately, the requests (er, demands) began. I told Sophie she could spend $5, tops. During the time we were there, she decided we needed to buy the following: a baseball hat for Ray; a Monster High doll; chocolate-covered pretzels; deodorant; a jumbo bag of Cheetos; Halloween decorations on clearance; Lunchables; chocolate ice cream; a Justin Bieber birthday card that sings; playing cards; and fuzzy purple socks.

(I am not making that list up. And it’s only partial.)

We settled on a small bag of Cheetos, a lemonade, the Bieber card (and another one for the recipient of the birthday cake) and the fuzzy purple socks, along with several grocery items. By the time we got to the check out counter, I was completely wiped out.

“I don’t want a bag for this!” Sophie announced to the clerk, waving the Cheetos at him. But he wasn’t looking. He was in a heated conversation with a guy who’d come back into the store to insist he’d been overcharged for an energy drink. The clerk and the customer  exchanged some heated words, and finally another clerk at the next register explained sales tax to the guy, who calmed down and left.

Ignoring Sophie, the clerk began scanning my items.

“Geez, what, is it, idiot day or something?” he asked the other clerk. And they proceeded to go on (and on and on) about what a loser and a terrible human being the energy drink guy was.

Any other night, I probably would have agreed, even nodded my head or chimed in. But something about what the clerk said bugged me. And something in my head went “ping.”

“Hey,” I said. “Hey!”

He stopped and looked at me.

“That’s not cool,” I said. “You have that whole fake thing about `Welcome to Walgreens’ and `Be well!’ — really, what’s the point when you stand there and badmouth customers in front of other customers?”

He just looked at me.

“No bag for this!” Sophie said, holding up some dental floss.

“Don’t worry about him, Sophie,” I told her, swiping my debit card then grabbing my bags and her hand, shaking my head in disgust.

It wasn’t til I got home and told Ray the story that I realized what had really bugged me. The clerks kept calling the energy drink guy an idiot.

And now I must admit that I’m the biggest hypocrite, EVER. I call people idiots (not necessarily to their faces or loudly to crowds in fluorescent-lit drug stores) all day long. Stupid, moron, you name it. Retard, no. I don’t use that word anymore. But I disparage people for being — well, for being idiots.

We all do it, constantly. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. (Not true; I’ve never heard Sophie call anyone stupid. Maybe once.) And it never really bothers me. But suddenly, tonight, all I can think of is examples where it’s happened. And it keeps happening.

I sat down to watch a movie while my cakes were baking. “Mr. Holland’s Opus” was on; I’ve never seen it, it’s a great movie. But there’s Mrs. Holland, announcing to her husband, “Our son is deaf, he’s not retarded!”

Because let’s face it, aside from being cruel or a thief or a liar, being dumb is about the worst thing you can be, right? Maybe even worse than those things. I don’t blame Mrs. Holland; I’d say the same thing.

So how does my cognitively challenged kid fit into such a world?

Damned if I know. I’m not smart enough to figure that one out.

We got in the car and I opened Sophie’s Cheetos, handing the bag back to her as she buckled herself into her booster seat.

“So now we can’t go back to Walgreens, right Mommy?” she asked.

Smart kid.