In honor of the season, a holiday shopping post.

I can’t think of a time my sister and I have disagreed on anything parenting-related. Not to one another’s faces, anyway. But this American Girl thing is tough.

It started with Hanukkah. Jenny wanted to know what she could buy the girls.

Well, I told her, they’d like something for their American Girl dolls; Annabelle would love something nature-related and Sophie really wants the wheelchair.

Jenny seemed fine with that, til she got inside the store and the text messages started flying. I knew she wasn’t thrilled earlier this year when AG opened in her city, Denver, but I figured after several months she’d have gotten over it. Apparently not.

“This goes against every ounce of me,” she wrote.

“The wheelchair?” I replied. I knew what she meant. It’s sort of creepy that Sophie wants a wheelchair.

But that’s not what she meant.

“yes,” came the sarcastic reply. “didnt u know i dont like disabled people? american girl!”

Oh. Whoops. That was a little embarrassing, even in front of your sister.

“woohoo channukah for the girls is done. big mistake was letting kate come to amer girl. she’s obsessed.:(”

Kate is my 7-year-old niece. The texts kept coming.

“truthfully the american doll thing is f-ed up. grown women drooling over dolls ick.”

“No one is offering to buy YOU one,” I answered.

“true…but kate has hers picked out. jonathan is going to KILL me. By the way I added a book to the gift box to make myself feel better. the wheel chair helped. when is the doll with A or DS coming out?”

Yeah, I can’t imagine an American Girl with autism or Down syndrome will be hitting the shelves any time soon. But at least they don’t have collagen-injected lips. One did get bullied. There’s even a homeless one! And I know it’s like saying you read Playboy for the articles, but I really do love those American Girl books.

I just don’t see that the doll thing is such a big deal. Yes, you can go overboard with AG — just like you can go overboard with a lot of things. (Really, what the fuck are our kids doing with $150 iPod nanos???)

I do suppose (see picture above) I could compel my girls to take better care of their dolls. I really only meant for them to have one each, til the Jewish one, Rebecca, came out — then what was I to do? So now we have several floating around the house, and a Rubbermaid I try (mostly in vain) to keep packed with all the accessories, so they don’t get lost.

So shoot me. I’ve done far worse as a parent — and I’ll do far worse. At least I haven’t bought my niece Kate an American Girl doll. But apparently my sister’s about to cave.

“oh i am strong. we left with nothing. she has to wait a whole 3 weeks for hannukah. go me.”

I don’t watch E.R. anymore.

Mostly because the show went off the air a couple years ago, but even before that, I stopped because after Sophie’s first heart surgery, I couldn’t stand listening to the actors scream medical terms over the bodies — even if it was gobbledygook. Medical dramas were no longer an escape; medical drama was something to escape from.

But all these years later, I can’t stop thinking about one particular episode of E.R. I finally looked it up tonight, while the pies were baking for Thanksgiving tomorrow (whoops, today). It’s episode 130, called “Viable Options,” and it aired April 6, 2000. Until I looked it up (which was surprisingly easy — wow, there are a lot of fans of E.R. out there on the Internet), I didn’t recall a lot of details about it, more the feeling I walked away with.

The main character in the episode — at least, in this particular story line in the soap opera — is Dr. Kerry Weaver. She was never my favorite. Not touchy feely, a real bitch. But this is her epiphany episode. In it, she feels compassion for a 14-year-old girl with a rare genetic condition that’s left her in a near-vegetative state. She can smile — sort of — and responds a little to human contact, but for the most part, she’s not doing much. Yet her foster mother is absolutely devoted to her, and when it appears the girl will perish without an invasive medical procedure, the woman throws herself at Weaver’s mercy.

I’m not proud to tell you that I was repulsed, watching this episode. I felt sorry for the foster mother who was so pathetic that this was what she attached herself to — a “pet,” as one of Weaver’s colleagues put it, most unkindly. I was surprised when Weaver took the mom’s side. I simply couldn’t imagine having compassion in this situation; from my utilitarian (pre-motherhood) perspective, there are plenty of healthy kids — kids who know what day it is, kids who have a shot at a good life — out there who need foster parents. Why not ditch this girl for one of them? And how could you truly love someone in such a state? The girl wasn’t the only one who was sick, as far as I was concerned.

I’ve never told anyone about any of this. But now that I’m telling you, I’ll admit that I’ve thought about it probably once a week (at least) since Sophie was born. And as time has marched on, I’ve come to better and better understand that foster mom.

Now, I’m not in any way suggesting that Sophie is in a near-vegetative state. Hardly. But sometimes when we’re out in public I catch people looking at her like she is. And she might as well have been when she was born, that’s how much I knew about Down syndrome. I was horrified. I never thought I could love her right. In my world, from day one, the covetable people have been the aloof ones — the ones who played hard to get. The ones who just might be smart enough to realize I wasn’t quite worth it. It’s been my job to win them over. I’d say this began with my father and extended all the way up to and including my first daughter; Annabelle was awfully colicky, after all. A message?

Sophie? Sophie was easy. Not vegetative, but easy. Stubborn, sure, but loving in a way I’ve never experienced. Looking back, I realize that in some small way I resisted that love for a long time, and then one day, I gave in to it, the way Meg gives in and lets Aunt Beast nurture her in A Wrinkle in Time.

I’m not sure I can explain it right, but I think I can’t forget that E.R. episode because somewhere along the way, I’ve come to completely understand that foster mom’s love for her daughter. It’s not cerebral, it’s from the heart. It’s not something you can explain, but something you breath in your kid’s hair when she falls asleep on your lap after a long day — no matter what “long day” means in your particular world.

I still don’t know how that fictional foster mom (or the many real-life ones out there) do it. I’m not saying I could. But I am grateful to Sophie for teaching me just a little bit about what it might be like — and why it really might be love.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I don’t want to look a gift cornucopia in the mouth, but the photo above (even cockeyed, I’m not sure why it went vertical when it’s supposed to be a horizontal shot) seems to embody some of the problems we’re having in second grade.

This came home with Sophie yesterday. I recall something similar — but much messier — coming home with Annabelle in second grade.

“Did you make this, Sophie?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Um, okay. I’m not going to pry. But it’s obvious she didn’t — and I wonder if she was even in the room when the whole cornucopia mosaic thing happened. You probably can’t tell, but there is one piece of purple paper in the middle of the brown cone, so maybe she got started then was pulled away — to speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, adaptive PE, or the resource room. And some well-meaning adult finished the job.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Really and truly, I’m going to shake off the cornucopia blues and enjoy Thanksgiving. Nothing to worry about — til Monday, anyway.

I finally saw the movie Waiting for Superman a couple weeks ago. If you have anything to do with education or any interest in education (and, now that I think about it, particularly if you don’t) — you need to see it. The guy who made An Inconvenient Truth is trying to do for education what he did for the environment — boil down an amorphous, eyes-glazing-over topic into a fascinating, heartstring-tugging, our-future-is-at-stake portrait.

He did a good job. I pretty much sobbed through the whole thing, except for the few minutes I dozed off. (Hey, it’s still a documentary, and if you put me in a dark room in the afternoon for any amount of time these days, it’s gonna happen.)

Boiled down (because even the best cinematic effort is going to do that — the nuances of this particular topic are too much for the big screen) the movie’s message is that public schools (at least, lazy teachers and the unions that support them) are bad, and charter schools are good. I take issue with some of that, but I also took away the message I was supposed to take away: Things are really terrible and someone’s got to do something to make them better.

I get that.

I sobbed through the movie because I related to so much — and because there was so much in it that I don’t relate to at all. Right now, both my girls go to public school. It’s a great school, an aberration. Hardly super-urban, but not lily-white or incredibly moneyed, either. It’s near a university campus, which means you have some highly motivated parents poking in (mostly) the right places.

It’s been a good ride, but I fear it’s about time to get off — for Annabelle, at least. The school only goes through fifth grade, and the neighborhood middle school does not share its good reputation. The neighborhood high school is supposed to be even worse.

I’ve always said I’ll send my kids to public school til things go south, and with Annabelle in the fourth grade, the abyss (ok, maybe not an abyss, but a real decline) is on the horizon, and there’s a very tempting alternative.

A charter school. Arizona did the charter school thing earlier and more aggressively than many other states. As a result, here in the wild west we have a lot of charter schools. A lot of crappy ones, but a few really, really good ones, too. And so next March, we’ll do our own Waiting for Superman act of entering a lottery. There’s a 1 in 3 chance Annabelle will get into the performing arts school we’re hoping for. It starts in 5th grade, so we’ve got to go for it now.

I say “we,” but Annabelle’s not so sure. My mother the ballerina has been pushing this place for years, and we have friends whose kids are thriving at the school (and a couple who didn’t like it so much). I went to an orientation this fall and fell in love — the place is small and quirky, with rigorous academics and wonderful programs for voice, dance and theater. As the lottery date approaches, Annabelle’s asking more questions. She’s understandably nervous.

This morning, on the literally 2-minute drive we have to the girls’ elementary school (it’s that close, we’re that spoiled) Annabelle asked me where the school is. I told her it’s downtown, near my office. Then she asked a question I wasn’t prepared for.

“Will Sophie go there?”

SHIT.

I could practically hear both girls lean forward in their booster seats, waiting for my response.

“Well, sweetie,” I said, “probably not.”

“Why?”

“Hmmm,” I finally said, turning into the school parking lot. “You know, it’s not an easy answer. I’m going to think about how to explain that.”

“Do they have a special education program there?”

“Well, that’s part of the problem. They really aren’t –”

“Don’t they have someone there who can help her?”

No, I wanted to say. As far as I know, they do not. Legally, I’m not sure whether a charter school can turn a special needs kid away, but I know this simply is not a place for Sophie.  

As it turns out, there really isn’t a place for Sophie.

If Annabelle doesn’t get into the arts school, she can do fifth grade at our elementary school, and then there are probably a dozen really good options — a different public school in our district, another charter school, maybe even (not that I’m so keen on this) a private school.

But Sophie? Ugh. It’s not good. I was eager to meet with the special ed lawyer we’ve hired not only to talk about how to make things better at our current school, but to talk about options beyond it. If things get really bad, I’ll have to send Sophie someplace else, and even if they don’t, we still need to plan for sixth grade. I figured this lawyer would have a long list of suggestions.

Instead, she shook her head. If Sophie was really low functioning or if she had autism, yes, there are lots of charter and private school options, she told me. But there are no schools locally that do a good job of serving a high functioning kid with Down syndrome.

SUPER.

Waiting for Superman did an amazing job of showing just exactly why education is so important for kids at inner city schools — kids from economically disadvantaged families. The film even profiled a girl in a suburban setting, where money isn’t as big a deal, but the schools still aren’t so hot. I don’t blame the filmmaker one bit — he had already bitten off a mighty hunk — but there was literally not one word about any kid with special needs. That topic was not covered at all in the movie.

Annabelle and Sophie will both be okay. Ray and I will make sure of it. We have the means — at a lot of levels — to do that, at least I hope we do. But what about the special needs kid who goes to one of those shitty schools in Waiting for Superman, who doesn’t get into a charter school designed to help him? What if there is no charter school to help him?

It’s gonna take more than Superman to fix things.

Please don’t tell anyone. But the truth is, I’m not a huge fan of pie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I won’t eat it, but given the choice I’ll take ice cream or a handful of M&Ms. Even — if we’re being really honest here — a cupcake.

But after last weekend, I love pie.

The idea to throw a pie social in downtown Phoenix was born across town in Tempe, literally in the middle of the street. One day last spring, my dear friend Cindy Dach and I had just spent an entire lunch trying to figure out what sort of food event we could throw together. I’d been given a mandate at New Times to come up with some community events for our food blog, Chow Bella, to co-host. Cindy basically runs this town (between managing the indie bookstore, Changing Hands, and helping to run the group that makes First Friday art walks — and much more — happen downtown) so it was a no-brainer.

But that day we’d wracked our brains, and nothing. Walking back from lunch (okay, yes, we jaywalked) I stopped in the middle of McClintock Road and said, “Pie.”

If Cindy was involved, it had to be pie. She’d proclaimed it the new cupcake months (years?) before and had begun showing up at dinner parties with these amazing pies she’d baked from scratch.

And so we had a pie social. I really can’t take any credit for it beyond that — Cindy masterminded the thing the way only she can, modeling Pie Social after a successful event that’s gone on for years in Brooklyn, and making it Phoenix’s own. It wasn’t easy. I did a lot of the marketing, which isn’t something I know how to do, and even at the last minute we were worried about permitting with the county. After all, we were asking hundreds of people to make pies in their kitchens and share them. That’s not very 2010, when it comes to health regulations.

But the whole thing went off without a hitch (okay, we were short a few knives, and one of the “celebrity” pie chefs we brought in got a little snobby) and in the end, literally hundreds of people gathered to eat pie on a sunny November afternoon.

Some of my favorite people in the world were there, including my dear friend Estelle, who is very wise.

She pulled me aside and said, “Look at what you did! Look at what you created! You came up with an idea, and all these people came and they are enjoying!”

I quickly pointed out that it was Cindy’s idea, not mine, but still, what Estelle said warmed my heart. As I look back over 2010, I realize I haven’t been so creative, not it the way that typically warms my heart. I haven’t written a single story for New Times, I’ve even fallen behind on Girl in a Party Hat. I’ve been too busy running events, managing pay sheets, editing food blog posts and cursing that new four-letter word in the journalism world, BLOG. (Not the same in my work world as it is here, not by a long shot.)

But Estelle was right. There are all different ways of creating, if you open your mind to the notion. I got misty, watching people line up with their pies. Even Cindy (far more stoic than I) admitted she almost got teary, looking at the slideshow after the event, and she’s already started talking about dates for next year. And we got a chuckle out of the pie story in the New York Times this week.

Maybe next year Cindy will have time to bake, on top of everything else. Since I, unlike Cindy, have no qualms about cheating when it comes to pie, I short-cutted for the Pie Social. Here’s the recipe for my salted peanut caramel pie. I’m not sure how it went over with the masses, but I didn’t think it was bad for a novice effort. Maybe I’ll even make one for Thanksgiving.

Salted Peaunt Caramel Pie

Thoroughly thaw 1 box of Trader Joe’s pre-made pie crust. (Overnight in the fridge and then some; I had to put mine in the microwave for 30 seconds.)

Ingredients:

50 individually wrapped caramels (that’s the hardest part, unwrapping them!); 1/4 cup water ; 1/4 cup butter ; 3 large eggs; 3/4 cup granulated sugar; 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract; 1/4 teaspoon salt; 1 cup salted peanuts (or chopped pecans if you’re more traditional).

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Microwave the caramel candies, water and butter at 30 second intervals til well-melted.
3. In a medium bowl, combine eggs, sugar, vanilla, and salt; beat well.
4. Stir into the caramel mixture gradually; mix well. Add nuts then pour into unbaked pie shells. (I had enough caramel for two pies, though the recipe this is modified from said I’d just be able to make one.) Bake for 45 minutes.

I’ve been such a downer lately, I thought I’d share some good news. Nothing major — and goodness knows tonight everything could go to hell in a homework handbasket — so I’ll tell you this now.

Sophie had a spelling break-thru (is that how you spell that?) last night. At least, it felt like that. We had a long talk with the special ed attorney about spelling last week. Sophie struggles with a long list with big words each week, the list the rest of the class gets. It’s much too hard for her, and even shaving a few off was feeling tough, so we asked for a separate list. I showed one of those to the attorney, who was not pleased. She pointed out that the words were much too easy for Sophie — and she’s right.

The truth is that the real challenge for Sophie is handwriting. And she’s not quite ready to pound the words out on the computer (and I’m not sure that accomodation is always made, in any case). So the teacher and I made a deal that I’d pick a few words for Sophie to work with each week. This week’s words: broom, boot, moon, spoon, food and cartoon. Then I began casting about for ways to practice.

“Write the words in shaving cream,” the attorney suggested. I pictured shaving cream from floor to ceiling, and rejected that, but came up with my own idea: Play-Doh.

Worked like a charm, and this morning, when I asked her, Sophie spelled every word (except cartoon) with ease, making me realize that maybe she should take the tests orally. I’ll ask the teacher about that.

The real touchy-feely moment of the evening came after spelling, when Sophie went to her room and chose a book for her reading homework. “Bread and Jam for Frances,” my absolute favorite. I’m not going to tell you she sat down and read the whole thing cover to cover, but she could have if she’d had the stamina. That kid can read. We took turns and ultimately decided to save the second half for tonight. Yay.

(P.S. And yes, RobertPolk, I do see how she’s holding her head, and just today I got a referral for a new eye doctor.)

Today I bought Sophie her first ballet slippers.

Not really the first, she’s had several pairs — but all hand-me-downs from Annabelle. Today Sophie and I went to the dance store together, marched in past the aerobics knits and tutus and back to the shoe department, where a nice young woman perched Sophie on a velvet step stool and slipped pink leather shoes on her tiny feet. Sophie was more excited about the nylon footies she had to wear to try on the slippers but she was happy with the ballet slippers, too.

I could have continued to get away with hand-me-down slippers for years, but I had to think of something to distract Sophie yesterday afternoon, while Annabelle was at ballet. It’s been two weeks since The Great Ballet Debacle. Last week I lied to Annabelle and said class was cancelled, and neither girl went. But this week I had to do it — pick the girls up at school, rush Annabelle to class, then figure out how to distract Sophie for an hour.

The ballet slippers took a good 45 minutes. Sophie insisted on putting them on in the car, and rushed into the ballet studio ahead of me. She scooted past the parents gathered outside the classroom, watching through windows, and stopped short in front of her (now former) teacher’s door.

“That’s my class!” she said, turning to me, confused.

I reached her just before she turned the door knob.

“NO!” I said, a little too sharply, snatching her up and trying to think fast, desperate for an option. I sent her into the other class — the older girls’ class, the one Annabelle takes. My mom’s the teacher, so I figured there wasn’t much harm in a small interruption, and Sophie settled onto a bench to watch, her slipper-clad feet dangling as she sucked hard on her thumb.

When class was over, Annabelle grabbed her ballet bag and headed for the door. Sophie wasn’t done — she loitered as an even older group of girls gathered for class. She got an extra-long hug from my mom, then practiced her skipping all the way out the door, seeming none the worst for the experience.

But I know better. I know Sophie. And on the way home, she asked me the question she’s been asking for the last two weeks. She asks it the way she begs me to tell her the story of when she choked on a mint last summer, like she wants to relive some exquisite misery. Or like she’s trying to figure something out.

“Mommy, why don’t I have class with [teacher's name] anymore?”

“Oh, it’s such a big rush on Mondays,” I said, as I keep saying. “And you’re tired after school. It’s better to just take ballet on Saturdays.”

She didn’t say anything, but I know. Sophie knows better.

The other day Sophie asked me, “How do you spell gummy?” and I walked over to see what she’d pulled up on the computer.

The Gummy Bear Song.

We’ve hit a new low folks, except that I have to admit that I can’t get the song out of my head. It’s like Barney Goes to a Rave.

Sophie can do a remarkable (and hilarious) butt-shaking imitation of the gummy bear. But I’m not sure she’ll be alloved to watch the video any more. I just pulled it up to find the link to show it to you and noticed that there are not only several butt-shaking scenes but also several times where the gummy bear actually grabs his crotch.

That we don’t want in the elementary school hallways.

A few months ago, my dear friend Cindy Dach and I decided that Pie is the new Cupcake.

And then we decided to prove it. If you live in Phoenix or somewhere nearby, come to Pie Social, this Saturday, November 13, from 2 to 6 p.m. at 5th and Roosevelt streets in downtown Phoenix. Come and taste, for a $10 donation, or make 2 pies and taste for free! We’ll also have some local celeb chefs on hand with their own creations. Here’s a Field Guide if you need it.

Hope to see you then!