We’re going to Disneyland soon, and Sophie’s hoping we see the new Disney princess, the purple-loving, blue-eyed Sofia I read about a couple weeks ago. Yes, there’s a new Disney princess, and she and Sophie have a lot in common.

When Sophie mentions Sofia, I change the subject. I never should have brought it up. I wish I’d never seen the article about her.

At first, I was so excited about the fact that there was a princess with a similar name, who actually looked a little like my Sophie and — what are the odds?! — loves the color purple, that I didn’t notice the fine print.

Sofia is a princess who will never age. She’ll stay a little girl forever, won’t grow up and fall in love and (after enough angst and chase scenes to fill a feature-length animated major motion picture that can later be re-released in 3D to make extra money) marry like, say, Cinderella or Belle or Snow White. Prince Charming won’t ever sweep Sofia off her feet.

She’ll stay a kid forever. Will always live with her mom and dad, won’t get a job, won’t fall in love and marry and move away. She’ll forever live in suspended animation, learning lessons about how to share.

Sofia won’t even have her own feature-length film, according to the story I read. Just a made for TV movie and a show. If she does show up at Disneyland, I’m guessing it won’t be for a while.

I didn’t tell Sophie that. She’s looking forward to meeting another purple lover in person.

I don’t think Sophie will mind much when Sofia doesn’t appear on Main Street. She’s really into Tangled, announced the other day that she’s growing her hair out so she can be Rapunzel for Halloween next year, and she’s always had a thing for Snow White; there will be enough princesses to keep her happy.

It won’t surprise you to know that I don’t much care for any of the Disney princesses — I prefer Sophie’s favorite, Olivia the Pig, a feisty kid who carries her weight in her hips and never attracts chriping birds or sweet, helpful rodents. As far as I’m concerned, the princesses have always been a necessary evil during the trip to the Magic Kingdom Ray insists we take every year.

Until I read that story about Sofia, I’d never given much thought to Sophie, vis a vis the Disney princesses. Annabelle outgrew them long ago — she might stand in line to see the fairies, but she’s happy to skip the princesses in favor of Space Mountain. Not Sophie — she wants to meet every character, and so that’s what we’ll do, she and I, while Ray goes on the rides that give me vertigo.

It could happen, but right now I don’t forsee a time when Sophie will outgrow the princesses. Sitting here, I’m feeling a little vertigo come on.

Long ago, I gave in to and even started liking the notion that Sophie will (most likely) always want to go to Disneyland, will (most likely) always believe in Santa, will (I’m certain of this, I still do it myself) always turn on Sesame Street when no one’s looking. Like Princess Sofia, in some ways she’ll never grow up, even if she does get a job and fall in love and get married and even (one of her current obsessions) learn to drive a car.

I am cool with that. But you don’t need to hit me over the head with it, Universe. Jeez. And right before we’re going to Disneyland.

I hope I can shake my Big Picture princess thoughts. Otherwise it’s going to be a very long three days, and I’m not just talking about the lines.

I’m dashing off to Target this morning. Last minute Santa shopping. And the fourth night of Hanukkah.

Being a non-observant Jew married to a fallen Catholic is exhausting. And expensive.

That’s not to say we’re ignoring the real reason for the season — we’ve had great times with family and friends and it’s not even Christmas Eve. But of course gifts are a part of it.

The first night of Hanukkah, I got cocky. (Always dangerous — pride before a fall, that kind of thing.) We gave Annabelle an item from the top of her list, a “vintage” (read: crappy old) typewriter found at a flea market for 20 bucks.

Sophie got a three-pack of Olivia the Pig panties.

I’ve got the only kid in the universe thrilled to receive underwear for a holiday gift. So thrilled she stopped several times that night to hug me and say, “Thank you for making my wish come true!”

So yeah, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Till I woke up the next morning and realized that — for the first time, ever — I’d fallen asleep without tending to tooth fairy duties. Annabelle had lost one that afternoon and frankly, the whole thing got lost in the shuffle of the last day of school before break and the first night of Hanukkah.

So shoot me.

I think she wanted to. Annabelle still talks about the tooth fairy and all that, but I got an extra dirty look when she asked me if I had any suggestions as to what had happened to Tabitha Fairchild (note to self: if you are going to concoct an elaborate tooth fairy scheme, make sure you follow through each and every time).

For the record, Tabitha came the following night, full of silver dollars and a letter bearing explanations as to what had happened (she didn’t recognize Annabelle’s note — she’d typed it on her new typewriter and Tabitha was looking for Annabelle’s handwriting).

“Not very magical, huh?” one of my cousins commented last night at dinner when I told the story.

No, not very magical. It was the best I could do. No, I told the table, I don’t think Annabelle really believes anymore. She’s on the cusp of 10 and a half. She’s an aetheist, for Christ’s sake. But she hasn’t given up on the TF and Santa completely.

“She’s sort of in belief purgatory, I think,” I told them.

So I’m off to a different kind of purgatory — Target two days before Christmas.

And then, damnit, I’m going to get a pedicure. By myself.

Every year I’m tempted to write a post about how much Sophie reminds me of the title character in Elf — then I remember I already did that, years ago. Possibly more than once.

It was another Elf moment at swim lessons a week ago, I’m told. Here’s some photographic evidence. Thank you, Courtney and Melissa, for documenting! I’m also told that some stalking occurred — glad that was not documented.

Dear Santa,

I love you. You’re the best Santa Claus I ever had. I love Christmas. I want paintbrushes and baby stuff, too. We are watching Elf right now and I saw you on Elf. But you are fake on Elf. What’s your favorite color and what’s all the reindeers’ names and I love you the most. Courtney Funk (that’s Sophie’s sitter) says I love Christmas. You’re the best, Santa. You’re the super best best Santa, ever. I hope you are staying warm at the North Pole. Do you like Rudolph? You’re the best Santa ever I ever, ever, ever had.

Love, Sophie — Your Christmas Friend

We have a new babysitter starting tonight, and she’s Jewish. Not Jewish like me, but Jewish like I suspect she actually goes to synagogue.

So I’m feeling a little self conscious about the giant Christmas tree in our living room.

In our nearly 14 years of marriage, Ray and I have often had trees, but of the tabletop variety — and fake. One year we did get a live one but I didn’t water it enough and it died almost immediately, so I don’t count it.

Last night I asked a question on Facebook: Am I supposed to decorate the back of the tree? All my Jewish friends said yes; my friends who’ve actually had Christmas trees said no. I thought that was funny, that the Jews wouldn’t dream of “cheating” in this regard, and yet so many of us have such a sliding scale approach to the traditions and tenets of Judaism. Like how my grandmother would never cook a ham in the house, but she loved to eat bacon out. Or how in my mind, a tabletop tree is okay, but a real one from a Christmas tree lot is somehow over the edge.

For so many of us, it’s really all about family traditions anyhow. And that’s certainly the case this year. Ever since Ray’s mom died almost three years ago, his father’s been bringing her stuff over to the house. First it was her sewing machine, then a silver tea set, then boxes of random things, and finally, the Christmas decorations.

That one really hit me. We’d always celebrated Christmas at Ray’s parents’ house; each year they invited the girls over (alone!) to decorate their big tree — a full-size but a fake, the kind that’s pre-lit and folds up. I think the tree’s someplace in our house, too, but we didn’t get that out. Ray did show up in the living room the other day with the Christmas decoration box, and set it down next to our boxes of Christmas and Hanukkah stuff.

The year my mother in law died, I convinced my father in law to have Christmas at his house. We brought most of the food, he decorated the tree. It was nice; as nice as it could be under the circumstances. But obviously (and understandably) not for him – later he announced he wouldn’t be hosting Christmas again.  So that Christmas box hadn’t been opened for years, had probably been sitting in the hot garage, and when I tried to get it open, the duct tape covering it had hardened.

“I can’t open the box,” I told Ray. He accused me of not trying hard enough. Of course he was right.

I was afraid of the box, afraid it would upset the girls, afraid of that giant tree. What if it looked like crap when I was done? I stood in front of it and sang a little song in my head:

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, you kinda scare the shit outta me….

Eventually, the thing had to get decorated. Last night we lit a fire, kept the TV off for once, and Ray ran to the hardware store for lights. I was impressed that he knew to start with big ones on the bottom, putting the smaller up top. I had no idea that’s how it’s done. I got out the garlands I usually drape over the mantleplace and wrapped them around the tree; they looked pretty good.

Then Ray got out a knife and opened his family’s box of Christmas decorations. And you know what? It wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be. By bedtime (okay, a little past) we’d almost finished. (Above are the results, as of last night.)

It didn’t look perfect, like my  mother in law’s always did. The live tree tilts just a little, and there isn’t really enough room for it in our tiny space. When I asked that Facebook question about the back of the tree, someone joked that that’s where you put all the kids’ handmade ornaments. I’ll be honest, I hid some of the uglier ones back there. But most of them — including the ones Ray made as a kid — are front and center. And they look awesome.

I bet our babysitter will think so, too.

I heard a small voice behind me.

“Where’s Sophie?”

I’d been wondering if anyone would ask. It was almost halfway through the Saturday night performance of the Snow Queen, and the sprites — already covered in green glitter, hair teased in ponytails all over their little heads – were putting on their unitards and wings, getting ready for their scene.

Sophie’s chair was empty, her costume untouched.

This had all been decided way ahead of time. When they cast Sophie as a sprite, the show’s directors announced that while the other kids would perform in two shows a day (a matinee and an evening performance) Sophie would just perform at the matinees. “She’ll get too tired otherwise,” I was told.

To be honest, I wasa little bummed, knowing that Annabelle not only would perform in all the shows but in two different roles (a rosebud and a snowflake!), quite a coup. But I kept my mouth shut. This was a big deal for the directors as well as for Sophie. There are enough balls to be kept in the air at this production without my adorable little wild card thrown in the mix.

We decided Ray would take Sophie to Chuck E. Cheese Saturday evening, and go home with her best friend Sunday.

Watching Sophie fall asleep at the table when we got a snack after that first matinee show, I realized the director had been right. She was tired. And the distractions worked beautifully. Ray hustled her off to see Chuck E. and I brought Annabelle back to the theater for the evening performance, where I’d volunteered to work backstage. All good.

But no one thought to explain to the other kids why Sophie wouldn’t be there Saturday night.

“Where’s Sophie?” one sprite asked, then the others started asking. “Where’s Sophie? Where’s Sophie? Why isn’t Sophie here?”

My favorite little sprite (aside from Sophie, of course), a tiny blonde named Gillian, chimed in, sounding alarmed: “Sophie just has to be here!”

I looked at the backstage manager, who’d come over to see what all the noise was about. “They want to know where Sophie is,” I told him.  He just looked at me.

“Well,” I said, turning to the kids. “That’s a good question.”

Pause.

“She’s just not here!” I said finally, with a big smile. “She couldn’t make it. But she’ll be here tomorrow!”

As it does with 7-year-olds, the subject changed quickly. But I kept thinking about it. And the more I thought about it, the happier I was. These little girls loved Sophie! They wanted her, missed her. They didn’t see her differences, or if they did, they didn’t mind them. I hadn’t seen any of them interact with her much during rehearsals; I worried the whole time that she was just in their way — sitting too close, asking too many questions, hard to understand.

Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Better to leave everyone wanting a little more, I figure, than to overstay our welcome. The backstage manager smiled at me. “She’ll be in all four shows next year,” he promised.

Maybe she will. She’ll certainly audition, as long as she wants to, and after this weekend I can’t imagine she won’t. Sophie had a blast. And she did so well! She waved a couple times when she wasn’t supposed to, and fidgeted with her costume a bit, but other than that she knew all her steps and executed them well.

For me, she stole the show — from everyone but my sweet Annabelle. What can I say? It was a stage mom’s dream weekend.

My only real regret is that they videotape the show once a weekend — on Saturday night. So all we’ve got are backstage pictures, and some really great memories.

I do not relish my role as the R-word police.

I particularly do not enjoy calling it the R-word (if you are not versed in this subject, the R-word s “retard”).

I much prefer picking on people for punctuation than word choice — after-fucking-all, I work at an alt weekly, the kind of fucking place we can use the F-word whenever we fucking want. (Although I like to tell young writers, “Just because you can use it doesn’t mean you should.” It’s a powerful, sometimes toxic tool.)

Anyhow, I don’t want to tell you what to say. And yet a couple years ago I found myself emailing a colleague, requesting that he refrain from tossing the R-word at staff meetings. When it became an issue, our boss backed him. I get it. Free speech and all that. (For the record, I don’t notice the guy using the word as much anymore.)

But I’m sitting here on the couch next to Sophie as I type this. Last night I watched her participate in rehearsals on the big stage for the Snow Queen performance this weekend. She did all the moves, followed directions, really rocked. But during a long stretch when she and the six other “sprites” sit cross-legged on the ground, watching the big girls dance, I noticed her mouth hanging open. And remembered how funny I used to think it was when a certain political writer at the paper called our state legislators “mouth breathers”.

And then there’s the fact that I took someone else (Jason Rose) to task for an unpleasant tweet earlier this week. Shouldn’t I say something even if I like the person? So yesterday, when a Facebook friend I’ve met once or twice in person — a sweet woman (if I’m not mistaken, she’s told me about her own special needs kid) posted a status update that said something to the effect of, “stare hard, retard,” I made a brief ecomment: a sad face.

I felt sad and yucky for the rest of the afternoon, even after the woman quickly apologized and took down the offending status update, as much for saying something as for what she said. This whole thing is exhausting.

I’d much rather discuss the fucking its/it’s rule.

I cracked up when I saw the press release for “A Very Gaga Thanksgiving” — which I didn’t catch on TV over the holiday weekend, mainly because we were busy being entertained by our own GAGA, my mother. (Plus, I can’t tell you the name of a Lady Gaga song.)

This drawing of her grandchildren — which accompanied a Thanksgiving story and decorated each plate at our Thanksgiving table — pretty much says it all. (My nephew Benjamin stars as the king; story was written by his sister Kate.)

Very Gaga, in all the right ways.

Thanksgiving was so uneventful this year that it’s taken me a week to even mention it. Best part of the day: The younger generations gathered at my house, per tradition, to give my mother some alone time to get ready. I made several side dishes and a couple pies to bring to Gaga’s (with varying results, and that’s being kind) and after I’d filled the kitchen with dirty dishes, my sister shooed me off on a walk by myself and managed to watch all five of our kids and load the dishwasher.

I was very thankful.

I do have to thank Jason Rose for one thing. He reminded me this week that it’s time to register Sophie for the Special Olympics.

Over the weekend, Rose — who has been in public relations in Phoenix for as long as I’ve been in journalism (read:  a long time) — tweeted the following football/hockey commentary:

usc-ucla? Felt like was sitting at a newport beach yacht club. Coyotes? Midgets, special ed and axel rose wannabes nearby

Under the best circumstances, that tweet was ignorant and offensive. It’s also, let’s be honest, the kind of thing lots of people say every day. Mild, actually, compared to what I overhear all the time. Funny, I never much heard those things before I had a kid with Down syndrome. Now I can hear you whisper the word “retarded” a block away.

But here’s the “you can’t make that shit up” part. At the time, Jason Rose counted the Special Olympics of Arizona among his clients.

Really.

I say “at the time” because — per its zero-tolerance policy — the Special Olympics has already ditched Jason Rose.

My as-yet-unanswered question: Why did they hire him in the first place?

Jason is notorious in Phoenix. In the 20 years or so he’s been around, he’s represented some low lifes and done some pretty gross things. But I’ve usually gotten a chuckle out of him — he’s not a complete scum bag so much as a man with no moral compass. Jason’s never met a client he wouldn’t represent, and he’s a master at matching distasteful clients (if you live here you’ll recall the Joe Arpaio/Pink Taco mash-up) to create something truly disgusting — and headline worthy.

Not that there’s much worthy about most of Rose’s pursuits. He’s not as clever as he thinks, but he’s long had one trick up his sleeve that makes him all but irresistible to journalists: He always returns a message. Always. In a place where the state attorney general once refused to return calls from my newspaper for his entire 8-year-term (I’m not saying we didn’t deserve it, but still) that’s a rare and valuable thing.

And it means I’ve had a grudging respect for Rose. Til now.

Rose’s star seems to have quietly drifted downward in the past couple years. The last prominent client I can think of in his stable was Phoenix Mayor Phil Gordon; Jason jumped up to represent him when it was revealed the mayor was having an affair with a lobbyist who was using her position to make money at the city’s expense. Only Rose would volunteer for a job like that. (Well, it’s Phoenix, so he’s not the only one…. But one of a select few.)

So I wasn’t so surprised to see his firm’s name on a Special Olympics of Arizona press release earlier this year. That’s vintage Jason Rose: Chuck yourself at the most altruistic endeavor you can find to balance out the sleaze. You’ll be irresistible.

Jason’s tweet just hit home — hard — for me the fact that he was using this organization to further his own cause. He couldn’t even be bothered to stop making fun of special needs kids.

Is Jason Rose irresistble now? His mantra has always been that there is no such thing as bad press, but can Rose be thinking that today? I’m guessing he’s thinking about lowering his rates.

I couldn’t resist emailing Jason my sarcastic congratulations yesterday and true to form, he emailed right back.

“My intent was the opposite,” he wrote.

Yeah, I bet it was.

As I was finishing this post, Jason called to apologize. I don’t think the call went as well as he hoped. I asked him to do the special needs community a favor and stay away from it. From us.

I will say this: I bet a lot of folks are going to think twice before making fun of special ed kids again anytime soon. In writing, anyway. So I guess I have Jason Rose to thank for that, too.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to register Sophie for track and field.

I had one overwhelming thought at the end of The Muppets.

Why didn’t I learn my lesson with the remake of Fame?

I so wish I’d stayed home instead of dragging my family to the mall on the day of the film’s release.

Ugh. She already ruined Julie and Julia — now I officially hate Amy Adams’ guts. Don’t get me wrong, the Muppet characters were just as adorable as ever. The Flight of the Conchords’ guy’s music was swell. But there was no magic. Not for me, anyway.

My kids loved The Muppets, which is good, because it means I can buy the old TV show on DVD and watch that with them instead of Good Luck Charlie and Shake It Up. (More evidence that Disney is evil — though I will admit to watching Good Luck Charlie once or twice by myself. Scary.)

Anyhow, for those of you not indulging in a little Black Friday shopping (I’m beginning to think this is a Friend Test — if you are currently standing in line at Costco to buy a 4,000 inch flat screen for $99, I’m not sure we have anything to say to one another) here’s one of my favorite scenes from the original Muppet movie.

A palate cleanser, if you will.