Sophie’s birthday is Saturday.

Yep, Rapture Day.

Just to be on the safe side, we had an Unbirthday Party in her classroom earlier this week — with dancing, party hats, blowers, glow sticks and enough candy to secure my place in hell.

It was fun.

It wasn’t til I had the curling iron in my hand yesterday morning that I realized I’d never tried to curl Sophie’s hair before.

It’s not about Sophie — there’s not a lot of time for any sort of hair primping in our house. With only minutes to spare til we absolutely-positively-had-to-leave-the-house-or-we’d-be-inexcusably-late, I unearthed the curling iron from the bottom of a basket in the bathroom that (literally) exploded with rubber ducks, travel-sized lotions and several books.

No time to pick anything up. We were on our way to the girls’ annual ballet recital and Sophie’s teacher had requested that her students’ hair be half up/half down and curled, with flowers in it.

If you ask me, that’s a lot of nerve. But considering I’m lucky if my children don’t leave the house with gigantic rat nests emerging from the backs of their heads, I’m probably the wrong one to ask.

So there I am, curling iron in hand, and Sophie’s not having any of it. Annabelle helped me convince her that the curling iron does not hurt (except when Mom accidentally pulls a little too hard) and I managed to insert several ringlets into her stick-straight hair without burning either of us.

Success. She looked so cute. I got it half up/half down, secured it with a rubber band, and freed her from Hair Jail. Sophie ran to look in the mirror, Annabelle at her heels.

A few minutes later, they were back.

“Mo-o-o-m!” Annabelle announced, shaking her head. “Sophie says she looks like an ugly princess.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.

“She what?” I asked.

“Sophie, tell her,” Annabelle said.

“I look like an ugly princess,” Sophie said.

There wasn’t time to stop and argue, so Annabelle and I tried to convince Sophie that she looked beautiful as we all hustled out the door. As we pulled out of the driveway and I had a few minutes to think, it dawned on me that I knew exactly what Sophie was talking about.

I love my hairdresser. I love her so much that even when I’ve forgotten to make an appointment and I’m desperate to get my hair cut (and colored) I will wait another six weeks til she has an opening, rather than go to anyone else. Molly’s great. She specializes in curly hair. My hair doesn’t curl as much as it used to, but Molly cuts it to make the most of the wave I have left. The only time we get into trouble is when she wants to style it.

“Oh gee, sorry, can’t stay, gotta get back to work,” I mumble, shaking my wet hair from her fingers and scrambling out of the chair, even when I don’t really have to get back to work.

“PLEASE!” she begs as I run for the cashier. “Please let me play with it!”

“Play with it” means blow it dry with a difuser, then wrap it around her fingers to make curls, and finally use the curling iron. I’ve let her do it a few times and every time, I’ve regreted it. It’s not that my hair looks bad, it’s that it doesn’t match my face.

I look like a dork. Silly. Like I’m trying too hard. I look, I realized yesterday, thinking about it in the car, like an ugly princess.

I am sad that Sophie felt like that, of course, but I have to admit that I was also a little bit proud. That’s a sophisticated (okay, neurotic may be a better word) epiphany for any almost-8-year-old.

By the time we got to the recital, Sophie had come around.

“I look awesome!” she announced, as we got out of the car and headed for the stage.

And she did.

Today, Annabelle decided she’s not a little kid anymore.

Which would have been just fine, except today was the day that I had seats for the Dan Zanes concert. Front row center, purchased last October, right when the went on sale. Four tickets — one for each member of the family.

If you haven’t heard of Dan Zanes, you should — as long as your kid isn’t pre-prepubescent. In fact, even if you don’t have kids at all, you’ll like Dan Zanes. He makes the coolest kid music. So cool, I have to admit, that neither of me kids (nor my husband) likes him very much.

Who knew? We’ve had his videos and CDs for years, listened to him on the kids channel on satellite radio, even saw him in concert once already and had a blast. For me, it was a given. Who wouldn’t want to go a Dan Zanes concert?

Annabelle, that’s who. When she protested that that’s music for babies and reminded me it was several years since the last time we saw Dan Zanes and she was just a little girl then, I pointed out (perhaps not very kindly) that she does still enjoy Sesame Street.

She stood her ground — and I stood mine. Damn it, we were going to have a good time. In a rare moment of complete parental agreement, Ray and I decided we’d all go. He was an exceedingly good sport; til we got there.

And when we got there, and took our front row seats, even I had to admit something:

The parents like this music better than the kids do.

Pretty much to a person. Maybe it was because I was focused on the audience rather than the music, but I didn’t see one happy looking kid. Annabelle was right — she was way older than most of the other kids. And the toddlers all looked the way my kids looked. Like they were just putting up with it.

“Where are the characters?” Sophie wanted to know, before she put her hands over her ears and left them there.

The parents, on the other hand, they were in heaven. And who can blame them? When you listen to bands with names like The Wiggles and Ralph’s World all day,  you can use a break in the form of truly good music — great voices, hip performers, a variety of instruments. They even brought in a teenaged Latin jazz band to accompany Dan Zanes (who plays the harmonica, the Jew Harp, and a variety of stringed instruments, accompanied by horns, drums and an upright bass) and the kids just looked bored.

I stand by my taste, and I adore Dan Zanes. I enjoyed watching him perform today, sort of. Sophie and I stayed in the front row (she thought maybe he’d invite her on stage, a pleasure apparently reserved only for the kid of the owner of Fairytale Brownies, which had provided the band with a case or two of treats) while Annabelle and Ray slunk away a few rows. When Sophie and I got up to go to the bathroom, Ray caught my eye.

“Let’s go,” he mouthed.

The show wasn’t even half over. Annabelle was doodling on her program. Sophie tugged my hand. Ray was halfway to the exit. A song ended, another began. “House Party”. One of my favorites. Hadn’t we had about a million dance parties in the kitchen to this one? Maybe, a million years ago.

Sophie broke away and followed Ray. I stopped for one last look, and felt something tug on my dress. It was Annabelle.

“Let’s dance, Mommy,” she said, taking my hand and swinging it. We stood side by side, watching the band. I looked around at the bored kids and the exuberant parents and smiled down at Annabelle. What a kid — little or not.

“Let’s go,” I said. She didn’t look back.

They were selling tee shirts in the lobby. “Anyone want one?” I asked halfheartedly.

“Let’s not memorialize this day,” Ray said.

I know I’ll never forget it.

I love eavesdropping on the backseat.

This afternoon I was driving Annabelle and a friend home. Somehow, the topic of immigration came up, which led to a discussion of the friend’s heritage. I’m paraphrasing here, but this is the gist of it.

Annabelle’s friend mentioned that her mother is Mexican.

“What about your father?” Annabelle asked.

“No,” the friend said. “He’s Anglo.” That means he’s from England, she added.

“But he’s Mexican now that he’s married to your mom,” Annabelle said.

“Oh yes,” the friend said with pride. “He’s Mexican now.”

The overwhelming sense of relief I feel when Mother’s Day ends is matched only by the relief I experience  on October 28, the day after my birthday.

I know this is messed up.

Don’t get me wrong — it was a terrific Mother’s Day. The best ever. Really. The first words I heard were from Sophie:

“Happy Mother’s Day, Daddy!”

This was as they rushed off to “secretly” make me breakfast in bed. That was followed by time to fold and put away five (!) baskets of laundry, a trip to Walgreen’s BY MYSELF, and — after some nagging, I’ll admit — a family trip to the art museum.

I got handmade cards, flowers, a phone car charger, the new Fleet Foxes CD, a painted paper fan (Sophie) and duct tape earrings (Annabelle — she made them to resemble a favorite pair I lost). After the museum, we had dinner with my parents at a cool new restaurant and the day ended with a brisk, late-night walk on Tempe Town Lake with one of my BFFs.

I never had time to write that blog post I meant to write, the one about all my mom writer friends, both virtual and live.

At dinner, Annabelle asked, “Mommy, when I grow up, can I take your writing class?”

See? A really wonderful day. And yet last night when I came home and realized those dishes in the sink were all mine, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Why is that? Why can’t I just revel in a lovely celebration?

Whatever you did Sunday, I hope you reveled in it!

This Saturday, May 7, my dear friend and co-teacher Deborah Sussman and I are proud to present the 9th (we think it’s 9th, we’ve lost count!) Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event at stage 2, Scottsdale Center for the Arts.

The event will begin at 2 p.m. It’s free and open to the public, and will feature 22 (!) of our current and former students, reading their work. We don’t advise bringing your kids — some material will not be appropriate. But please bring yourself. Your mom, if she’s available.  And some Kleenex.

Here’s a sneak peek at a piece former student Kim Porter will be reading:

     I cry when I sing.
     I also pee when I laugh. And sneeze and cough and jump for joy. But that’s a defect I’ve come to terms with. It hardly bothers me anymore. What bothers me is that I cry when I sing.
     I hate that I cry when I sing.
    Ok, that’s not true. I love to cry when I sing, I hate to get caught. And I always get caught.

We have a couple workshops planned for summer (not just limited to moms!) and registration for the next Mothers Who Write workshop will begin July 1st. Details here (with more to follow soon).

There are two kids at Sophie’s school with Down syndrome.

Sophie. And another little girl, who happens to be in Sophie’s class. Let’s call her Amelia.

Sophie and Amelia look nothing alike. And yet, of course, they do. Even before Sophie chose wire-rimmed glasses that look a lot like Amelia’s, the similarities were striking, and not just because both girls have straight brown hair. The eyes, the nose, the tongues that slip out — almost 8 years later it still strikes me as incredibly bizarre that a chromosomal abnormality makes people look alike.

Tonight Annabelle, Sophie and I all had our bare feet propped on the coffee table and I was noticing how much different Sophie’s toes look from Annabelle’s and mine. It’s true. It just is.

And yet, Sophie and Amelia look nothing alike. Amelia is tall, she has a different gait and sweet round cheeks. She’s the sar of the monkey bars 365 days a year, while Sophie refuses recess when the temperature’s above 85. (Now, THAT she gets from me.)

You might expect that the two are best friends. Not so much. They hang out — sometimes. Sometimes not. Two completely distinct little girls.

The other day at Brownies, Amelia’s mom told me about an encounter Amelia had on the playground with a school staff member. The staff member — who has been around both girls plenty — kept referring to Amelia as Sophie.

Not cool, the mom and I agreed. Not cool at all. But not entirely surprising, to be honest.

The next day, at ballet, one of my best mom friends and I were chatting about the week’s events, and told her the story. She smiled.

Turns out, Amelia often greets my friend’s daughter, Lily, as Annabelle. Lily and Annabelle look about as alike as — Sophie and Amelia.

“Hey,” I said to Amelia’s mom today, when I told her that story, “maybe we all look the same to them!”

And we cracked up.

Annabelle popped a tooth tonight. Her tenth. Per tradition, she wrote her tooth fairy a note, folding it carefully and putting it (and some shredded cheese) next to the pillow holding her tooth.

I love reading those notes. Tonight’s was short, but I think it will always be my favorite.

“Do you like my cursive?” Annabelle wanted to know. And how was the cheese? When did the tooth fairy lose her 10th tooth? And just what does she do with those teeth? Does she like to dance?

And there was a bit of news among the questions.

“I got into [CHARTER SCHOOL NAME]!” she wrote.

My heart soared.

This morning I literally stood on the steps of a castle and got the news that Annabelle was accepted into this charter school, our dream school. OK, my dream school. Ray’s dream school, my mom’s dream school. Not Annabelle’s dream school. Not yet, anyway.

This will sound corny, but it was a day of dreams (small ones, anyway) come true.

If you live in Phoenix, and particularly if you grew up here, you’ll know what I mean when I say I’ve always dreamed about poking my head inside Tovrea Castle, the wedding cake of a once-falling-apart historic building perched on a hill near the middle of the city.  Particularly at night, it looks like it’s hung from the sky. Today I got my tour. Turns out, all I would have had to do was ask, years ago. Who knew?

Not so with that charter school. We’ve had tours and math exams and ballet auditions, paperwork to fill out, lottery numbers to try to make sense of and finally, a lot of waiting. I’d been checking my email constantly for a month, hoping for news from the school, and I stepped out of the castle this morning into the sunshine and held up my phone and there it was, the email announcing that Annabelle had made it in.

My eyes teared up in the sunshine. Look, I won’t pretend it’s like “Waiting for Superman” or anything — Annabelle is the kind of kid who would likely be fine wherever she lands. But this school is 5-12, with as little of the high school bullshit as possible and huge doses of dance and music along with terrific academics. I was hesitant about ditching public education, but this place was hard to resist — particularly with rumors floating around that our home middle school might be closing.

So we applied, despite Annabelle’s nerves. For months I’ve been prohibited from even uttering the school’s name in her presence, so tonight when she and Ray came in the door (he had broken the news), I wasn’t surprised to get a “NO!” before I’d even finished asking the question, “Can I say anything about next year?”

OK, OK. I gave her a hug and we ate dinner, did homework, read books, watched some TV and she wrote her note to the tooth fairy.

I sat up late, working on my laptop, waiting til everyone was definitely asleep (Sophie is as interested in Annabelle’s tooth as Annabelle is — she left her some cheese, too!) then carefully picked up Annabelle’s letter and crept into the kitchen to read it.

Maybe this school is Annabelle’s dream, too, and she’s just about to know it. I wrote the tooth fairy’s reply (the cheese was great, I was 9 3/4 when I lost my 10th tooth, I’m not a very good dancer but I love to watch you) and tucked it in the envelope with the obligatory silver dollars and pink glitter –and a big smile on my face.

I was licking the envelope when my phone beeped a text with some news.

Tonight, the school board voted to close our home middle school.

It was a Big Weekend.

The cousins were here, visiting from Denver. Aside from the fact that I spent a little too much time studying my (adorable) almost four year old nephew and comparing his cognitive abilities to Sophie’s, it was a truly lovely time — beautiful weather, grand company, and my baked French toast turned out just right. I also taught myself to make cascarones (the eggshells dyed then filled with confetti and closed up with tissue paper, then glittered, and yes they are time consuming!) and we topped the whole thing off last night with Thai food.

The perfect Easter, as far as this Jew is concerned.

And now, with the spring holidays over, it’s on to birthday season.

For a holiday packed with symbolism, there was nothing particularly significant about the choice of this year’s seder theme at my house, “Passover on a Stick.” My dear friend Cindy and I were entertaining ourselves over cake pops (what’s up with that trend?!) at a Bat Mitzvah not long ago, when she got a gleam in her eye.

It was hard to top last year’s Heavy Metal Seder, but I think we did a good job.

Turns out, there are many traditional Passover items that don’t do well on sticks. Like brisket. And matzo. Matzo balls, wine, meringues, almond cake — and just about anything on the seder plate: not  sitck-worthy.

I did manage to shove some canned macaroons onto lollipop sticks and dip them in chocolate and sprinkles; Cindy had the genius idea to bring the kids Wikki Stix. The rest of the guests got creative, too: rhutabaga in ginger, dipped in creme fraiche and served on toothpicks; fruit and mint on skewers; grilled veggies and fries on skewers; and even gefile fish/cucumbers/tomatoes/horseradish – on sticks.

Don’t worry, we got some seder-ing in there, and even a round of Dayenu. Most of all, it was a lovely evening filled with family and friends — for some, the first seder. (Hopefully not the last for anyone, though we might have scared a couple people away.)

And may I recommend sangria at your next Passover celebration? The vanilla/apple/cinnamon/red wine version I’ve been playing with lately tasted like charoset in a glass.