I wouldn’t call myself a morning person or an evening person — I tend to droop at either end of the day. 

But lately, waking up hasn’t been so bad at all.

Ever since she got out of the crib and into the big girl bed, Sophie’s been crawling into bed with us — at night, if she can get away with it, but more typically once it’s light out. As soon as she arrives, I’m pretty much done sleeping. Wake me, and that’s it. Ray’s more of a roll over and go back to bed kinda guy. Annabelle will sleep as late as you let her.

So Sophie and I spend a lot of mornings together. She pads into our room, crawls up between us, and we both toss and turn til I give up and grope for my glasses. (A lovely development of the mid-40s — blindness.) And we start our day.

Yesterday, instead of crawling in with us, she came around to my side, saw that I was stirring, and took my hand, kissing it gently. “I love you,” she whispered, looking hopeful. How could I not get up?

She led me to the bathroom, even put the seat down for me, and sat on the bathroom mat to chat.

So sweet. It’s the little things. We should all have someone to walk ahead of us in the morning and put the seat down.

Speaking of little things, this morning Sophie crawled in and cuddled up, thumb in mouth, ready for a few more minutes of rest. I wasn’t ready to get up either, so I closed my eyes. Something told me to touch my ear, and when I did, sure enough, one of my small silver hoop earrings was missing. Trying to be quiet, I groped around a bit, hoping to find it, wondering if it was gone for good. No luck. I sighed and rolled over.

And then came a little voice. “Here Mommy,” Sophie said, pressing the earring into my hand and settling back for more cuddling. We both sighed – happily this time — as I put the earring in and closed my eyes.

“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” — Carl Sagan

We got busy with the fondant over the weekend. And the fondant smoother and the lazy susan that lets you turn the cake as you ice it with the special spatula so it looks perfect, like on “Cake Boss.”

What a pain in the ass. And what fun. Annabelle’s fast approaching that age where she just can’t be bothered with much of anything. But here, on the cusp of her 10th birthday, we spent a joyful night spreading and sculpting and decorating a heck of a cake. 

A cake, I might add, made from a box mix, iced with boxed frosting. (And, if you’re really into these things, you must know it was covered in canned fondant, not homemade.)

Last year on her birthday, Annabelle told me in no uncertain terms I was to make her cake from scratch. I stressed but managed to produce a pretty good chocolate sour cream number, thanks to Heather. This year she said it was okay if I took the short cut; I did make a special trip to Trader Joe’s for the better mix, this was no Betty Crocker affair. (OK, come to think of it, the frosting was BC.)

Driving home from an extra trip to the grocery store for something or other, wondering if maybe I should turn around and go back for the long list of “from scratch” ingredients, I caught the tail end of one of my favorite NPR shows, “The Splendid Table,” just in time to hear the quote above. I’d never heard it before. But it will become my mantra, I assure you.

Thank you, Carl Sagan. I’m off to stock up on cake mix.

My little girl is getting so big.

Sophie dressed herself the other day —  in a red tee shirt, black capri pants and sparkly Mary Jane tennis shoes — and it took me several hours to realize that not so long ago, those black capris were black pants that dragged well past her ankles.

It’s the thyroid medicine. Sophie’s been to two follow ups in the past six months, and both times she’s grown. The last time it was half a inch. She’s still the littlest kid in the second (soon to be third) grade, but finally, she’s inching up.

I’m glad she’s healthy, but to be honest, I like my kids short. Let’s not rush that whole growing up thing; it’s happening fast enough as it is. Plus, it’s become a bit of a parlor trick: The girls open their mouths and surprise strangers, who typically eyeball my kids and guess Sophie to be 3 or 4, Annabelle 6 tops. Annabelle hates it but Sophie doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, the other night we were out for dinner and Sophie announced, “Mommy, I don’t want to grow any more. I want to get smaller and smaller and be your baby and you can carry me always.”

Sophie loves to “cuddle to sleep” on the couch, then be carried to bed. Often these days, when I pick her up at the end of the evening, I whisper in her hair, “Pretty soon, I won’t be able to do this anymore, you’re getting so big. One of these days I’ll go to lift you up and nothing will happen!”

I never realized she could hear me.

Sophie’s so bright, advanced in many ways. At least, advanced past where I thought she’d be, where I think she’ll be. And yet I would not be honest if I didn’t tell you I wish for a pill to make her brain grow, too.

In a big picture way — really, in most of the ways that matter — my little girl is an old soul. She knows when I’m sad and just what to do to make me happy; she remembers sweet details of our lives that I’ve forgotten; she knows just the right buttons to press to piss off her big sister.

It’s the little pictures I worry about — the ones that zoom by, day to day, making up the movie of our lives. Will I have to keep the front door locked Sophie’s entire life, to keep her from wandering out it? Will she ever conquer basic math or learn when it’s time to end a phone conversation? Part of me hopes she doesn’t — math is overrated, and everyone should get at least one annoying but love-filled phone call from Sophie at least once in their life. (Her text messages are pretty awesome, too.)

But a bigger part of me worries that as she grows up, those things we find cute will curdle. I’ve written about the Salad Days before. I looked at those black now-capri pants and saw one more sign that they’re coming to a close. I wonder if Sophie knows it, too, somehow. Maybe that’s why she begged to stay small.

I’ve told you about it before — the family tradition my sister began when I turned 40. I keep my framed list of “40 Things We Love About Aunt Amy” by my desk at work, and look at it every day. My mother is celebrating a birthday today — as part of her gift, I will not give you the number, I’ll just say it’s a happy occasion and leave it at that. We had a big slumber party over the weekend (complete with I Heart Gaga shirts) and presented this list we compiled for her — all the grandkids contributed, as did my sister and our husbands.

It only begins to do her justice. Happy Birthday, Mom! We love you!

A Number of Things We Love About Gaga

Gaga’s funny.
Aunt Jenny loves Gaga a lot.
So does Aunt Amy.
Gaga is Mommy’s mom.
Gaga likes to draw.
Gaga always has a craft in her laundry room.
Gaga makes the right shakes.
Gaga is married to Papa
Gaga appreciates a handful of candy corn.
Gaga once danced on television in New York City.
Gaga waves her fingers around when she drives.
Gaga is the best mom, ever.
Gaga hums when she eats.
Gaga lets me keep the paintbrushes.
Gaga dances.
Gaga makes computer animation.
Gaga always needs a social worker.
Gaga can write a great limerick.
Gaga always makes low fat bacon and low cholesterol Egg Beaters.
Gaga has a country club.
Gaga farts when she laughs.
Gaga laughs when she farts.
Gaga knows how to grow penicillin in her fridge.
Gaga takes us to the beach.
Gaga lets me sleep on the couch.
Gaga makes me feel special.
Gaga doesn’t mind if we keep her toys upstairs.
Gaga doesn’t mind if we take her toys home with us.
Gaga has a roof to explore.
Gaga lives at the Camelback Mountain trailhead.
Gaga is very glamorous.
Gaga teaches my friends the alphabet dance.
Gaga is a picky eater.
Gaga is a good audience.
Gaga has a cabinet full of vitamins and supplements.
Gaga makes a good turkey (even after it drops on the floor).
Gaga is nice to everyone.
Gaga knows why the plumber’s niece got divorced.
Gaga threw a shower for a check out clerk at the grocery store.
Gaga once volunteered for Common Cause.
Gaga is a ballerina.
Gaga won’t go near the pool unless the water is 90 degrees.
Gaga tells stories.
Gaga eats at Wally’s.
Gaga is groovy.
Gaga has excellent taste in literature.
Gaga makes good pancakes.
Gaga has a big house.
Gaga is a very good Scrabble player.
Gaga loves to sing.
Gaga loves all her grandchildren the same.
Gaga likes music.
Gaga had a bird land on her head at the beach.
Gaga was on TV when she was a little girl.
Gaga says Santa Claus doesn’t discriminate.
Gaga loves moo shu chicken.
Gaga only needs one glass of wine.
Gaga has been known to drink a Diet Coke in the morning.
Gaga loves the color blue.
Gaga has shown up to a party in a tutu.
Gaga dressed up like Lady Gaga.
Gaga dressed up like Mickey Mouse.
Gaga likes to get a French mani/pedi.
Gaga calls Uncle Ray “Rocky”.
Gaga once peeked in a mobster’s trash.
Gaga can needlepoint.
Gaga makes the best brisket.
Gaga is a very lucky driver.
Gaga makes the best daughters.

The girls and I were watching Fear Factor (Ray’s idea — anything to keep the Disney channel at bay) tonight when I interrupted some disgusting act or another with a request:

“Annabelle, you need to practice piano tonight.”

She fired back immediately: “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie, you need to practice, too,” I said, not really paying attention.

“I don’t want to,” Sophie said.

“Okay,” I responded.

This made Annabelle mad and I can’t say I blame her. I don’t make Sophie practice piano and I don’t make a secret of it. It’s not fair. But, as I tried to explain to Annabelle in a moment of exhaustion, life is not fair. That just made her madder.

We wound up leaving Sophie on the couch and going into my bedroom so I could enumerate, at Annabelle’s request, the things Sophie has to do that she doesn’t: music therapy, physical therapy, swimming lessons (that Sophie doesn’t like), math tutoring all summer…. I explained that really, Sophie comes to piano lessons mainly because she likes to do what Annabelle does. She might play well someday, but honestly, right now that doesn’t matter. Right now she has so many other things to do, it feels unfair to make her practice.

Annabelle  gave me a dirty look. I tried again, thought about the REAL reason I don’t make Sophie practice. This time, I went for broke.

“Look,” I said, “I love both of you girls more than anything in the world, you know that. But the truth is that Sophie exhausts me. I know you know what I mean because I know she exhausts you, too. There are so many things I can’t convince her to do without a big fight. Little things, all day long. I can barely get her to get in the car most mornings. It’s just too much to get her to practice piano, and if the only way you will practice is if she practices, I’m totally going to lose it. I know that might not be fair, but it’s true, and I need your help. I need you to practice your piano and not worry about Sophie.”

It was shitty, and maybe at almost 10 Annabelle wasn’t ready to hear it, but she already knows it — so what the heck.

After I said it, she gave me a hug and we agreed not to talk about piano anymore tonight. We went back in the living room and joined Sophie and we all watched some attractive young people eat bowls of rat that had been run through a blender (seriously).

When the rat segment was over, Annabelle popped off the couch and announced cheerfully, “It’s time for me to practice piano!”

As I write this, I can hear her tapping away on the keyboard in her room. Maybe being honest wasn’t the worst thing, after all. All I know is that for my money, being a parent is whole fucking lot scarier than anything they can dream up on that stupid show.

I found myself humming the old Sesame Street tune last night as I reflected back on the trip the girls and I took last week to Denver.

Don’t get me wrong: It was a fantastic trip. Denver has a lot of things Phoenix doesn’t — including fabulous summer weather, a cool restaurant with a “pajama breakfast” for the kids, a hands-on art workshop space with (among other things) a pottery wheel (Annabelle’s entranced and Sophie took a turn, too) and this place called Casa Bonita.

Casa Bonita defies description, but one writer put it well (I’m paraphrasing) when he said it’s as though Tijuana and Disney had a bastard child and dumped it in a strip mall on Colfax (a sketchy part of town) in Denver. Cliff diving, an arcade, live shows, treasure chests — and the whole place smells just like it smells when you get on Pirates of the Caribbean. And the food is beyond terrible. It was awesome. (South Park’s spoofed it; worth a google search.)

More than anything, Denver has The Cousins. Ben, Kate and Sam — ages 10, 8 and 4. My sister Jenny and I had kids at the same time, except after the second, she kept going. It’s a tight fivesome, but as with any group of kids, there are squabbles and differences and hurt feelings. Annabelle and Kate are super-tight (I’ve written about this before) and Sophie wants in, in the worst way.

Jenny and I try to keep things balanced out — the girls need to include Sophie, but it’s important for Annabelle and Kate to have their own time, too. They don’t mean to leave her out, I don’t think. But sometimes they’re simply moving at a different speed; it’s not fair to always make them slow down. I watch the two of them together and think about what it would be for Annabelle to have a “typical” sister. And I feel sorry for myself, and sorry for her — and sorry for Sophie, too.

More than once during the trip, Sophie announced, “Mommy, I’m mad at you for no reason!” It took me a while to realize she was trying to tell me her feelings were hurt. She and her cousin Sam, the 4 year old, have a wonderful relationship — they fight like an old married couple, my sister says. She’s right. They play well together, too, and I watch them and wonder if that damn school psychologist was right; maybe Sophie does have the cognitive abilities of a 3 year old. And if she does, will she ever surpass that? Sam will get older, soon. He won’t want to play with her anymore.

One of these things is not like the other. Look at the three girls in the picture above, bellied up to the crepe bar, Sophie without the dexterity to sit on her feet — half Kate’s size (well, almost), looking for love.

She got a lot of it in Denver, don’t get me wrong. But I got a narrow glimpse into a future that’s widening.

I wonder how Sophie will handle it — how the rest of us will handle it. We’re still in the Salad Days, I think, though I feel it drawing short. Last night, back in Phoenix, I took the girls to dinner so Ray could work late. Annabelle and Sophie got each other giggling so hard they couldn’t stop, wrapped around each other on the other side of the booth from me, and I watched them, feeling enchanted.

“Sophie,” Annabelle said, when they paused for a breath, “if I had another sister I would cry and cry because she wasn’t you.”

Sophie beamed. Then Annabelle turned to me.

“Did you hear what I said?” she asked.

“Yes I did,” I told her. “That’s lovely.”

Silently, I wondered why she felt the need to double check.

Annabelle slept til 8 yesterday morning.

No, it wasn’t the first day of summer. It was the last day of school. Who’s ever heard of an elementary school that starts at the civilized hour of 8:50 a.m.? Me. And since we live just a few blocks from school, we slipped out of the house at 8:40 most mornings this year. (Which is not to say we didn’t have our fair share of late slips.)

I let her sleep late because Annabelle had cried herself to sleep the night before. The tears started again in the morning, continuing off and on all day. Poor girl. I tried reminding her how scared she was to come to this school — how as a tiny 4 year old she spooked when some big boys (probably fourth graders) played dodge ball a little too close to her, as she and and I waited to fill out her kindergarten registration forms.

I have my share of complaints about this school — tribulations regarding Sophie’s treatment there, and don’t get me started on the PTA and a few of the parents — but as I told the principal today (more like hiccuped, as I fought tears) it’s been the perfect place for Annabelle. In so many ways (for a typical, low maintenance kid) this is the neighborhood school at it’s finest. For Annabelle, the place was home the last five years. Three of those years, she’s had Sophie just down the hall or the stairs.

It’s been a great run, but it’s time to go. The charter arts school is the right place, I know it is, and I think Annabelle knows it is, too. But that didn’t help today, when it was time to say goodbye. After school she cried in her room for a long while, then emerged red-eyed and we headed to a pool party and I watched her play with kids she’s been with since kindergarten. A few are going to the charter school, too, but she’ll leave good friends behind — and equally important, a place where she felt so comfortable.

Maybe a little too comfortable, I thought last night, when I opened her report card and gazed at all the As. I’m prouder of the Os for outstanding effort. Sophie got a bunch of those, too.

Come August, Annabelle will need to be at school — across town — at 7:45. She’ll be back at her old school for events and just to hang out (Sophie will still be there — for the time being, at least) but as Annabelle pointed out to me today, it’ll never be the same.

I had to agree.

That’s

Earlier this week, Sophie’s teacher sent home a note asking that students bring a “sturdy” bag to school to pack up their stuff from second grade.

Yesterday was Christmas in May. Along with the random spelling tests and half-finished worksheets were several treasures. Like a haiku (I had to count the syllables to be sure) called “Winter”:

Santa brings me toys
Snow angels with Annabelle
We drink hot cocoa

And a sensory tribute to spring:

Spring looks like sun.
Spring sounds like birds chirping.
Spring feels hot as summer.
Spring smells like flowers.
Spring tastes like yummy pizza.

Looking through the bag, I have to admit I had the same feeling I had when Annabelle was in pre-school and brought home elaborate construction paper animals that would be challenging for a 10-year-old. (Busy teacher!) I sort of doubt that Sophie wrote a haiku unassisted. 

But I love that she was exposed to the process. And that yummy pizza line? All Sophie.  

I don’t want the year to end. This morning Sophie was out of  sorts. Her teacher and I followed her to the bench where she was prepared to plant herself instead of going into the classroom, and as we trudged through the gravel, I whispered to the teacher, “Don’t you think Sophie needs to repeat second grade?”

The teacher turned and grinned, but only for a moment. Her attention was on Sophie.

I love this teacher. She and Sophie fell for each other many years ago at a science fair at the school. Sophie’s got good taste. This woman’s an old soul with a lot of experience on top of it. And she absolutely adores my kid. That is how I felt about kindergarten and first grade, too, but I don’t have that feeling about any of the third grade teachers. It makes me nervous.  

It wasn’t an easy year. But looking back, it was a good one. We haven’t had a bad one yet, actually. We scrape by no matter what, and Sophie has learned and grown — in her own way. And she will next year, too.

That’s what I need to keep telling myself. I think I’ll hang a beautiful watercolor that Sophie (or someone) made in second grade on my inspiration wall as a reminder.

How can it be three years?

I’ve never been completely clear on just who the girl in the party hat is. Sometimes it’s me, sometimes it’s Annabelle — usually it’s Sophie. Or some sort of sensibility about how life should be led.

In any case, thanks for hanging with us. Hats off to you, friends.

One of Sophie’s wishes for her 8th birthday is to stay up all night. I’ll let you know how that goes. This song by Frances England is in heavy rotation on the kids channel on satellite radio — and every time I hear it, I think of Sophie.

Oh, Sophie. You do have a mind of your own, my sweet, impossible girl, and while you exhaust me, I never get tired of trying to figure out just what’s going on in there.  My greatest wish for you (a naive one, I know — but isn’t that the best kind of wish?) is that this line in the song comes true:

“And someday I’ll be the one who makes my own decisions.”

Meantime, we’ll celebrate with purple-tinted mint chocolate chip cupcakes, lots of paintbrushes, and an all-nighter with your best friend, just as you demanded, er, requested.