I let Annabelle listen to the news yesterday afternoon.

Actually, I made her listen. She’s not one of those kids who begs for that kind of adult privilege, in fact she’s more likely to tell you to turn it off so she can listen to music. But she got that this was important.

“Wait,” she said from the back seat. “That lady they’re talking about on the radio, that’s the one you were just talking about with the other moms at ballet?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

No, not really, though I get where she was coming from. I suppose that if I’m going to raise my kids in Arizona, they’re going to have to get used to this kind of thing.

Annabelle was an infant in 2001 —  I was feeding her and watching a rerun of E.R. when the news cut in on the tiny old TV in her nursery and suddenly, a huge tower was falling. I held the baby close and called for Ray, who was still asleep in the next room. 9/11 defines her life the way it defines all our lives, but it wasn’t the same as yesterday. Yesterday she was 9 years old, the same age as the little girl who got caught in an obviously crazy man’s crossfire. Or maybe he meant that bullet for that girl. I just read that her birthday was September 11, 2001.

I didn’t let Annabelle hear that part, about the 9 year old girl.

But she listened to the radio as an old friend of mine, a journalist in Tucson, talked about Gabby Giffords. None of this is about me, of course, but the whole thing hits a little too close for home. Giffords and I aren’t friends — we had lunch just once years ago while she was still in the state legislature — and I left thinking, “Wow, that woman is too hard a charger even for me” — but we have a lot in common. She is Jewish, she grew up a Democrat in Arizona, we even went to the same tiny college in southern California, missing each other there by a year. She’s way cooler (or dumber) than I am — believes in riding motorcycles without helmets and the Second Amendment — but still, the similarities.

And the hate. There is a lot of hate in this state. I know, I know, in the country, in the world, it’s seeping in and out of every crevice, everywhere. But trust me, it’s particularly bad here. And so the fact that a crazy man showed up at a Safeway in Tucson and shot this quirky, well-meaning, hard-charging, wicked smart woman is no coincidence, not to us here.

Yeah, he’s crazy. Crazy like an Arizonan.

Why do I live here? Why are we raising our kids here? I don’t have a good answer, except this: Because it’s  home. I’ve always said that Arizona is a great place to be a journalist and a lousy place to be a person, and that was never more true than yesterday.

Trying to fall asleep last night, I thought of Harry Mitchell, the sweet man who lost his first election ever last fall. He’d been mayor of Tempe forever and then served a few terms in Congress, losing in November to a creepy guy who’s been running for years and finally lucked out.

But it occurred to me, as I tossed and turned, that Harry Mitchell — a Democrat, another target — is the lucky one. It could have been him yesterday. And then the conversation would really have hit our dinner table, since Annabelle and Mitchell’s granddaughter are good friends at school.

It’s a small world. If it happened in  your state, chances are you’d have the same uncomfortably close connections, the ones that got me up at 3 this morning.

I am so sad, and mad, as my friend Deborah put it yesterday on Facebook. And shaky. The world is very fragile.

The holidays are all about being with the ones you love. Who cares about gifts?

Um, me! A couple of my favorite Christmas presents: Annabelle stitched me a strawberry. And Ray gave me both Lynda Barry books I asked for — “What It Is” (about writing) and “Picture This” (about drawing).

Hope you got what you asked for.

Mainly because I’m a chickenshit who won’t go on anything that moves faster than a carousel, Disneyland split-ups tend to fall along the lines of Amy/Sophie and Ray/Annabelle.

Really, I’m insufferable, even at the happiest place on earth. I’m not crazy about Pinocchio’s daring adventure, and I get scared on the Peter Pan ride. (For the record, I did both on this last trip.)

And I’m not a fan of anything haunted, even pretend haunted. But when Ray offered to stand in line with Sophie at both Mickey and Minnie’s houses, I happily agreed to do the haunted mansion ride with Annabelle.

I try hard not to look worried in front of either kid, ever, but it doesn’t really work. Annabelle’s onto me.

“Don’t worry, Mommy, I’ll protect you,” she said with a big grin, as the line moved along much more quickly than I’d hoped. (Documented in the photo above.)

She wasn’t grinning the whole trip. Oh, she was delighted to go on Space Mountain and Big Thunder Railroad and Splash Mountain (once the weather warmed up a bit). She found the Matterhorn boring and balked only at Screaming Over California. She’s a roller coaster kid, for sure, but she’s not all Ray — there’s still some worrywart in my little girl.

Actually, a lot. She was in tears even before we left for Disneyland because the trip was almost over, which meant Christmas vacation was almost over. She’s concerned that math is too hard, that she’ll sit by kids she doesn’t like in reading, that ballet class is stressful. And she’s really worried about what will happen next year, when she might be at a new school.

She’s me. Truth be told, she’s not me, which is lucky for all of us. If Prozac had been available when I was in the fourth grade, I’m quite sure it would have been recommended. I was a mess. I had this habit of gently poking my teacher (a lot) to get her attention. She finally had to tell me to stop, and I’ve been traumatized over it ever since. They put me in the gifted program that year — a big mistake. Not because I wasn’t smart, but because I got so stressed out by the projects we had to do that I could barely get out of bed. And yet I completed more “independent studies” than any other kid that year.

But by sixth grade, no one thought I was too smart anymore, particularly me. My grades dropped and never did come up again, at least not in the classes I didn’t care much about. I can remember turning a somersault with ease when I was a little kid, but somewhere along the way, I got too afraid to even try.

How do I keep this from happening to Annabelle? How do I keep her from letting the world — from letting her own self — scare her off?

Roller coasters. I really think that’s the key. She’s already the adventurer I never was and never will be, thanks to Ray. He pushes her the way no one ever pushed me. It’s a little painful to watch, sometimes, but never too much. He pushes Sophie in good directions, too, but Annabelle’s really the one who needs it. Particularly now.

The other day I got frustrated and complained to Ray that Annabelle can’t just be happy in the moment. She has to keep asking what’s next.

He commented that Sophie’s the same. And it’s true that she never appears content, either — must always know “what’s after this?” and “what’s after that?” And that, and that, and that.

But I think Sophie’s just making conversation. Whether it’s bedtime or time to go to Chuck E. Cheese, she’s generally pretty pleased about the answer.

Not sweet Annabelle, my worrier. And I’m sure that our real roller coaster ride is still ahead.

My feet will never be the same. But it was worth it. I survived four days at Disneyland — including two 12-hour-plus marathons — at a time when the Happiest Place on Earth was also the busiest, and felt like the coldest. Still, I can hardly complain; despite the forecast, it was sunny. We drove away from the park yesterday just as the rain began to fall in earnest. It felt like magic.

The whole trip did. That’s not to say we didn’t all do our fair share of whining — and that after countless turns on the carousel, my world’s not still spinning just a bit, as I sit still to type this — but it was certainly our best trip to Disneyland yet.

And that’s saying a lot. We’ve gone every year since Annabelle turned 3, and were in danger of missing a year when I hatched a plan to spend New Year’s in Anaheim — never guessing what a popular NYE destination Disneyland is. Never mind. We saw both 2010 and 2011 in the Magic Kingdom.

This morning I asked Sophie, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” She didn’t hesitate.

“When we split up!” she said with a twinkle in her eye, knowing she was being just a little bit naughty in her admission. But I had to agree.

That’s when Annabelle and Ray hit the scary rides like Space Mountain and the Matterhorn, and Sophie and I rode the carousel or stood in line to meet the characters. If you’ve never had the privilege of watching Sophie make it to the front of the line to see Snow White (or Tigger or Alice in Wonderland or Gepetto or Goofy or Minnie or — you get the picture), you just haven’t lived, my friend.

It really is magic.

My favorite moment was when she motioned to Cinderella and asked Sleeping Beauty, “Hey, who’s that girl with the bangs?” I even got her onto the teacup ride, this time, and she needed no coaxing to run up on “stage” and dance with Mary Poppins.

Both girls cried when we left the park, and we had to promise that this wouldn’t be our only trip to Disneyland in 2011. Except for my feet, I didn’t mind a bit.

I might be setting expectations a bit high, but I couldn’t resist this calendar on etsy. Here’s wishing us all the best year ever.

Christmas is over — you have time today. I know you do. Just a bit over five minutes. Watch this. Really. You will thank me. (And Claire, who yet again found an awe-inspiring stop-motion video.)

It’s been more than 30 years, but I can still picture Becky Head’s house at Christmas. Particularly the cookies.

Becky’s mom was from Texas — a magical place from which emerged larger-than-life characters with hair that didn’t move and voices far more interesting than those touched with just a faint Phoenix twang. At Christmas, Mrs. Head did it up right. It was probably just three or four, but to a kid, it seemed she made dozens of different kinds of cookies — including an other-worldly confection called Divinity, what a name! — and the house just exploded with Christmas in all the right ways.

Down the street at my house, some limp blue and white stockings were hung — sometimes — by the fireplace. And every year, I had to remind my mother that there was no way Trident sugarfree gum was Santa’s idea of a good time.

I loved the cookies at Becky’s house, but more than the cookies I loved the idea of them — I loved that each year, like clockwork, all the same beautiful, over-the-top decorations appeared again, and that the cookies were always the same.

Hence, I suppose, the star cookies. A friend in the newsroom where I was working gave me the recipe in 1991, or maybe ’92. I was home from New York, itching to leave Phoenix again, never guessing I never would. But even then, I was creating my own traditions without really realizing it. I started making sugar cookies at Christmastime. My friend was able to decorate a plate to rival any Martha layout; I quickly realized I was better off with stars (and not Star of David, God forbid — they just don’t look as festive and YES, I’m a self-loathing Jew in case you hadn’t already figured that out).

So I made stars. A lot of stars. And every year since. I still have the same Xeroxed recipe that I pull out every time; it’s getting a little crusty. This year I made 12 batches of dough, which was a little ambitious; we may or may not get through the last batch today in an attempt at stained glass cookies.

Becky goes by Rebecca these days, and she lives in San Francisco, where she writes a lovely food blog. I’m still struggling to create tradition.

Tomorrow I’ll  host my first Christmas dinner. Every year since I met Ray (just after the star thing started), we’ve had Christmas at his parents’ home — even last year, after his mother died. It’s what I always craved — a big tree, vintage stockings from Ray’s childhood, and traditional dishes. I even agreed to play games. But this year a big box of ornaments showed up on our porch in October. Ray’s father is done. He doesn’t want to have Christmas at his house anymore. I understand.

It makes me sad (and I can only imagine how the rest of the family feels) so tomorrow I’ll do my best to recreate some of my mother in law’s traditions. I already stayed up late last night making her Irish soda bread — cursing Safeway when it didn’t have buttermilk, and myself when I couldn’t get the dough right, then burned the raisins on top. I’ll roast my first turkey breast and for the third year, Ray will make his mom’s sausage stuffing.

I’m not sure I’ll poke an angel food cake with skewers and pour red Jello over it — some traditions just should not endure.

But I’ve got a batch of stars ready to ice.

The other day I visited Sophie’s classroom. That’s not so unusual (though I’ve not been as good about it this year, I must admit). But I was halfway to the parking lot afterward when I realized that for the first time ever, my daughter didn’t sob when I left. It’s been a not-so-nice byproduct of classroom volunteering. Sophie doesn’t usually get upset when I leave her in other situations (though she’s not always thrilled) but once I’m actually inside the school, she can’t stand the thought of separation.

Not this day. This day she gave me a hug and a cheerful wave. It’s not just that she’s growing up. She had her BFF by her side.

Of all the friendships fostered in 2010 in our household — and there have been many — the most special is the one we’re developing with Sarah and her family.

I’ve written about her before: Sarah and Sophie hooked up in kindergarten. Ms. X noticed early on that the two were pals, she thought it was perfect — explained that Sarah’s the youngest of four and was obviously welcoming the idea of a friend who might need a bit of big sister-ing.

“Oh, and you’ll really like the mom,” she said. “She’s very cool.”

An understatement. Rachel is a class act. Funny, smart — and so kind. I know myself too well. If Sophie had never come around and a kid with special needs had turned up in one of my kids’ classes, I know exactly what I would have done. The same thing I did my whole life when I saw a bagger at Safeway with obvious developmental disabilities. Looked the other way.

But not Rachel. She approached me at Sophie’s sixth birthday party, asking if we could arrange a play date. And not Sarah. She still watches out for Sophie, but over the last two and a half years they’ve developed a deep friendship; it’s incredible to watch.

I suppose it’s not unlike the story I’m working on at the moment (well, for the last few months — it’s slow going) about Spanish immersion programs.

Stick your kindergartener in a classroom where the teacher speaks only Spanish, and the kid will (eventually) emerge fluent. Their brains are sponges at that age, they really do soak it up. I’m seeing it in action. I think it’s the same, in a way, with Sophie. No, not every kid soaks her up — not by a long shot. Ditto for the parents, and I certainly can’t blame them. But a few kids, yes. They don’t see the differences, they’re not resistant to learning. They’re not afraid, like I am, to learn a new language.

I’m watching that at home, too. The other day, Sophie was asleep in my bed, and Annabelle quietly crawled in for a Sunday morning cuddle. I dozed off myself, then rolled over and watched Annabelle. She was propped on an elbow, running her sister’s hair through her fingers as gently as anything I’ve ever seen, gazing at her face. Sure, she gets as frustrated with Sophie as anyone. But I think she loves her in a way you can only love someone you’ve grown up with, side by side.

I watched Annabelle watching Sophie, and wondered just what she saw.

My dear friend Trish hates Christmas.

At least she says so, and I’ll admit she does a pretty convincing job of it. But every year I drag her to the luminaria at the Desert Botanical Garden, along with her daughter Abbie, who is now 15-going-on-16. The two of them are actually on speaking terms, which is amazing given Abbie’s age and a testament to each of them.

But there’s one area where they’ve long disagreed.

Apparently the Christmas hate skipped a generation. The other night, after we all almost wet our pants (ok, maybe I actually did, a little) over Sophie air tromboning with the jazz band at the garden, Abbie spent the night with us, and I asked her how she feels about Christmas.

In that way that only a teenager can be so wisely economical with her words, Abbie said only this: “I love Christmas so much that once I was Santa for Halloween.”

I thought about Trish and her mom — and how much I share her mom’s holiday obsessions — as I stamped out my thousandth (or so) sugar cookie star over the weekend. Trish might not like Christmas, but she’s hardly hard-hearted. This will sound corny, but she’s the kind of friend — considerate, wise, a good listener, a hard worker – who makes you feel like it’s Christmas every day. I totally get why she doesn’t like the pomp, though I am tempted to decorate a little tree and leave it on her doorstep, if only for Abbie.

Somewhere, in the  midst of the holiday excess (and I mean excess in so many ways) there has got to be a happy medium.

(Insert Santa belly laugh telling me how full of shit I am.)