Annabelle and I are hitting the road.

This week is our Fall Break and on Thursday, Annabelle and I leave for a four-day trip to Portland.

Alone.

Annabelle and Ray have been away alone together several times — on a Brownie camping trip, and skiing at least once or twice. So I decided it was time AB and I take a trip on our own. I told her it would happen when she turned 9, and let her pick the city (within reason, I’m not sure what I would have done if she’d decided on Paris) and she chose Portland, Oregon.

This is in no small part because she’s got a friend there. Claire is the granddaughter of my mother’s very best friend, and after several attempts at hooking the girls up during various visits over the years, last spring it really took: These two precocious, curly-headed, older sisters announced they were BFF. They’ve been pen pals since — an eternity, in a 9-year-old’s world — and itching for a visit.

I bought plane tickets, booked a hotel room and started picking and choosing itinerary items. We’ll spend time with Claire and her family, check in with some of my pals and have some quality alone time. And maybe a VooDoo Donut.

There’s just one problem. Sophie.

(And, to be honest, Ray. He claims he doesn’t understand why I’m doing this. But that’s another story.)

It’s hard to say if Sophie “gets” the whole concept. She definitely wants to come along, does not want to wait til it’s her turn for a one-on-one trip. I promised we’ll go when she’s 9, but I’m sure it will happen much sooner. She’s already chosen her destination: Colorado, to see her cousins.

Envisioning a tearful farewell on Thursday, I took an extra day off work and declared Wednesday “Sophie Day.”

She did like the sound of that. “We can do whatever you want to do, all day long!” I told Sophie. Her face lit up and she did that thing where she vibrates all over.

So far, plans include a play date with a friend from school and a very long trip to Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe the bookstore, chocolate fro-yo and a dinner date at the mall with Gaga and Papa.

“Sophie Day” has served as a distraction, but I’m not so sure it will ease Sophie’s sadness or lessen my guilt when it comes time to get on that plane.

I  hope I’m making the right call with this trip.

At the risk of sounding even cornier than usual, I need to take a minute to thank a friend.

I’ve never met this friend, she lives in Vermont, on the other side of my world. I don’t even know her real name. But starrlife — mother to a pretty little girl who’s got a few years on Sophie but the same chromosomal composition — is so wise, never overbearing, and she always has the right thing to say. (Particularly here. Be sure to check out her blog!)

The qualities you’d want in any friend, but particularly one who, from time to time, offers sage advice about your kids.

This morning was no exception. I woke up to some lovely comments, including hers, about my tumultuous day this week — classroom, thyroid, physical therapy concerns all trumped by a silly birthday party Sophie wasn’t invited to.

In case you miss it, this was part of starrlife’s advice:

…her friends will be true- not like most little girls friends. They will be the ones that she loves and they will want to be with her. I think that’s a big plus compared to my growing up….

You know what? starrlife is absolutely right. I’m seeing it already with Sophie’s small but meaningful circle. And with mine.

Thank you, friend!

I left school yesterday morning with a knot in my stomach, for the dumbest of reasons.

There were plenty of good reasons, trust me.

It wasn’t because I’d had to practically peel Sophie off my leg and push her up the stairs to get her to go to class — for no particular reason.

It wasn’t because the previous day, I’d had Sophie’s parent/teacher conference. Even though the 20-minute conference ran almost an hour and the teacher and special ed teacher assured me Sophie is just fine (reading at grade level, progressing at math, behaving better overall) and I left loving these women more than ever, I still can’t get my arms around second grade. And I’m quite sure Sophie can’t, either.

It wasn’t because we’re now officially Waiting for Blood Test Results. Sophie’s been on thyroid medication for three weeks, and given some stomach issues that are way TMI even for GIAPH, we decided to test her blood now. Given that we are currently seeing a doctor who can’t spell diarrhea (dairrhea — and I don’t care if that was a typo, I don’t think it was, as this woman of indeterminate national origin has no command of the English language — which, seriously, doesn’t bother me one bit as long as you are not my daughter’s doctor and how did I end up with this doctor when I made an appointment with the guy who runs the freaking practice at the local childrens hospital?! Anyhow, we’re switching – the final straw was when the guy taking Sophie’s blood announced they couldn’t find this doctor anywhere in their system and YES I will be writing a letter, at least one) I’m not at all confident in any of this.

It wasn’t because I’d finally, after months of begging the eye doctor’s office, gotten ahold of Sophie’s eye exam records and dropped them off for the school nurse, only reminding myself that Sophie’s vision therapy exercises don’t seem to be doing much and we’ve been without a home occupational therapist for six months and are about to lose Sophie’s biweekly physical therapist sessions even though I begged the caseworker to just cut out music therapy and even speech, so Sophie can get the help she really needs instead. No  horse trading, the caseworker told me. And then there’s the cardiologist appointment coming up and the orthopedist appointment I never did make, or did I? 

It wasn’t because at Annabelle’s parent/teacher conference earlier in the week, her teacher had shown me straight As and Os (O for Outstanding Effort), then leaned in and very kindly told me she does worry about making sure Annabelle has her own space away from Sophie, who’s a frequent (uninvited) visitor to the classroom. I thanked the teacher profusely and agreed with her (and I do sincerely agree) but still, I’m left hating having yet another fear validated. And just how am I going to give Annabelle her space, anyway?

Oh no, it wasn’t because any of that. It was because of a birthday party.

I am almost 44 years old. You’d think I’d be over the birthday party thing by now. But oh no, yesterday morning before school I got just the quickest glimpse of three of Sophie’s classmates — standing together in line waiting for the teacher to lead them upstairs, all reading beautiful, hand drawn thank you cards from the birthday girl, the bright crayon colors glinting in the sunshine — and that was enough to knot my stomach, ruin my day. 

Sophie didn’t notice, she was too busy sucking her thumb and putting the death grip on my leg, and if she had noticed, she probably wouldn’t have cared because yep, my 7 year old with Down syndrome is more mature than I am.

The truth is that if Sophie had been invited to that birthday party I would have bitched and moaned and stressed out about it, then watched miserably as she failed to fully interact with her (not really) peers. And I would never, ever want someone to invite Sophie to a birthday party merely because they felt sorry for her (or because they read this blog post, ok?!).

Ugh. There’s no winning, not for me. And I might not be mature, but I’m not dumb. I know what this is about. I’ve noted it before and it’s true: It’s a lot easier to worry about a birthday party your kid wasn’t invited to than the other concerns on the list.

Really, though, I just need to grow up.

Watch this video.

Oh please, watch this video! I know you are busy. Me, too. But my dear friend Claire sent the link over — she’s also the one who showed me how to embed video! — and I was dumbstruck.

So lovely.

I’m a sucker for a title, and “Autumn Story” fits today perfectly. Yesterday summer cracked in half and drenched this city with rain and hail and it might not last but today is pitch-perfect and I broke out the black tights in celebration.

I considered dusting off the cowboy boots, but decided the message was a little too strong for the parent/teacher conferences I have this afternoon. So I’ll be conferencing in patent leather clogs (a bit rebellious, still, I suppose) — apologizing to Annabelle’s teacher for daring to ask which math group she’s in, and having a heart-to-heart with Sophie’s teacher
about
just
what
to
do.

Lately, I can almost feel Sophie’s downward slide in a physical way. Her red folder of Important Papers has been making it home only in her backpack only a couple days a week. Last night, it was in there but her math homework wasn’t. I sighed, then flipped through a large pile of work returned by the teacher — most of the worksheets are blank. Sometimes Sophie’s drawn hearts and love messages to her friend Sarah on the back. Sometimes her name’s on the top, sometimes not. She’s lost.

The other day, Sophie told me that second grade is distracting. I think she meant that she gets distracted in second grade. Sophie’s solution: She thinks she’d do better in Annabelle’s fourth grade class. Probably not the way to solve the problem.

A lot more to discuss than will fit into a 20 minute conference.

That’s my Autumn Story. So I was grateful for someone else’s, particularly one as beautiful as this. Watch it.

The girls had a piano recital Saturday. For Annabelle, it’s old hat — she’s had so many I’ve lost track. But this was Sophie’s first. She performed with a flourish — and, to my horror and the audience’s amusement (I hope) — performed twice. You can see for yourself. (And she’s dressed as Olivia the Pig — of course.)

I signed on to Facebook this morning — and felt my blood boil when I read the following status update from my “friend” Clint Bolick, which begins:

 ‎”Waiting for Superman” is insightful and inspiring. Please go see it and, especially, convince your apathetic and liberal friends to see it….

On the off chance you haven’t heard, “Waiting for Superman” is the “Inconvenient Truth” of education. Literally. It’s an already-acclaimed documentary just out, made by the guy who made the Gore-y “An Inconvenient Truth.”

I can’t wait to see it.

From what I know about it, this movie is the kind of thing that could make a real difference — that could finally convince people from both sides of the aisle that we’re really all on the same side, that we all want our kids to get the best education.

At least, I thought that til I saw Clint Bolick’s status update.

The truth is that Clint Bolick and I aren’t really friends. We know each other professionally — years ago, when he opened the Arizona Chapter of the libertarian legal advocacy organization Institute for Justice, I profiled Clint for Phoenix New Times. I found him to be an incredibly smart, well-meaning guy. We have very different politics, but I was impressed with his class. And I continued to be, when he left IJ for the Goldwater Institute.

Don’t be too surprised. I’m probably more socialist than liberal, but some of my best friends are conservatives. It would be awfully lonely here in Arizona, otherwise, and living here has taught me the hard way not to judge a person by his or her political affiliation.

But I will judge you by your status update, and right now I’m considering defriending Clint Bolick.  “Apathetic and liberal?” I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that for this guy, the two go hand-in-hand, and really, it wouldn’t matter — if the future of our children wasn’t at stake.

I’ve thought about this all morning, and I’m hard-pressed to think of someone who’s apathetic about their kids’ education, liberal or not. Misguided, overwrought, confused, disgusted? Yes, absolutely. But not apathetic. And for Clint to lump all the liberals into that category — well, shame on you Clint.

The thing is, Clint Bolick is a national leader in the movement to reform education, mainly vis a vis the charter school process. He’s outspoken, passionate and effective. The guy’s literally argued his cases before the U.S. Supreme Court.

And this is how he comports himself before his 1,828 friends.

Clint Bolick for sure — but even the rest of us – has a responsibility to take the high road at a time none of us can afford to stray from the path. For once, the entire country is listening to the arguments about education reform –and this is what one of our leaders has to say? That your fellow conservatives should drag their apathetic and liberal friends to see a movie that they are too dumb and close-minded to find on their own?

Sorry if I’m overly-sensitive and preachy, but I’m tired today. I got up at 5:30 this morning to clean the kitchen, pack my kids’ lunches, check that their homework and school picture slips were in their school folders, and slip Sophie her thyroid medicine before driving across town to observe a kindergarten class in an inner city public school that begins at the painfully early hour of 7:30.

The class is part of an innovative project I’m writing about long-term (apologies for being circumspect, I don’t want to spoil the story) and I sat watching this amazing teacher lead her students with grace and intelligence and fumed at Clint Bolick for his dumb words. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years of watching our education system and then trying to guide my own kids through it, it’s that there are no easy answers — and you’ve got to be very careful about labels.

Today I observed a wonderful public school class. Next month I’m touring a charter school — one I hope desperately will choose Annabelle’s name in its lottery next spring. And by next year, I’ll probably be out of options entirely for Sophie — so far I can’t find a public, private or charter school that seems like the right fit for a high functioning kid with Down syndrome, longterm.

That’s my status update. It’s not liberal or conservative; at least, I haven’t had time to think about whether it is. It’s not pithy. Inconvenient truths abound. No Superman around here.

We’ve all got a lot to learn.

“When I’m on Project Runway, I’ll be able to tell them that my first fashion show was when I was 9,” Annabelle announced the other day.

Ah, youth. Although I’m not sure I was that confident at any age. For Annabelle it’s not “if,” it’s “when.” And I hope it always stays that way. If Saturday’s any indication, who knows — it could happen.

We piled in the car on a wickedly hot fall afternoon and headed for Grand Avenue — a sketchy stretch of Phoenix appropriated by some artsy types who were throwing a festival, which included a “trash fashion show.” Kids were encouraged to attend, so I told the girls about it.

Sophie wasn’t interested in designing, and Annabelle had no desire to be on the runway (neither did her friend Katie, who happened to be over for a playdate when this all came up) so it was decided that Sophie would model the older girls’ design. I paid the $10 fee and I think we were all a little nervous. (At one point, envisioning a Project Runway-like grilling, Annabelle almost chickened out, til I assured her there would be no judging.)

In the end, it was a magical (if hot) afternoon. The entry fee covered hair and makeup by “professionals,” there were dozens of other “models” (and only a couple other kids) milling around backstage, acting very model-y in their shredded newspaper dresses and some more bizarre get-ups, and everyone was super-nice to the girls. (Special thanks to Courtney, Super Sitter, who helped execute Annabelle’s trash bag design.)

Sophie, who had practiced several different runway walks, was quite the model. Like I said, magical.

The pictures say it better than I can.

This year we blew right past Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with no more than a dip of honey and a toot on a party horn (my mother’s idea of a shofar), so I figured we’d celebrate Sukkot.

Sukkot is a relatively minor Jewish holiday — sort of an Arbor Day, or maybe more like Thanksgiving. It’s meant to celebrate the fruit harvest.

I celebrated by noticing that the kumquat tree in our front yard is dying.

Terrific. I don’t have a lot of memories of my own Jewish education, but I do fondly recall a Sukkot or two. There are several traditions, including symbols (one looks like a lemon, the other a palm frond) called a lulav and an etroth. The big thing is that you are supposed to build a little hut in your backyard — to symbolize being closer to the harvest and all that — and eat your meals in it all week. According to Wikipedia, there’s a special dispensation: You are not required to eat in the Sukkah if it’s raining. That’s official in the scripture (or whatever we Jews call it); it’s not just a Wikipedia thing.

I love that. It reminds me of the time in fourth or fifth grade that I wanted to fast for Yom Kippur and my mother said of course, just be sure you eat a good breakfast first. Or my friend Cindy’s parents’ condo in Florida, which has a “Shabbas Elevator.” On the Sabbath, you are not to exert energy, so you can’t press the buttons of an elevator. These folks solved that problem by making elevators that stop on every floor, up and down. Just in case. Hey, what’s the rush? You’re supposed to be resting.

It all makes sense to me. Hey, 40 days in the desert and all that. We’ve suffered enough. No one wants to eat in a wet Sukkah

Back to Sukkot. You can build a Sukkah (um, yeah, I can’t even find time to clean off the table on the back patio, let alone erect a structure out there) or go to a temple where there’s one (that’s out, too) or, in my case, drive to north Scottsdale to your dear friend’s house. (Schedules didn’t work this year.)

I decided to build a shoebox Sukkah instead.

I was probably Annabelle’s age the last time I did it, and again, I have found memories — probably because building a shoebox Sukkah is a lot like making a doll house and I love miniatures. I unearthed some fruit-shaped beads (see?! it pays to hoard craft supplies!) and got to work, my loving children at my side.

Well, for about five  minutes.

Somehow the mother/daughter craft I envisioned didn’t happen that way. In the end, I wound up stringing fruit beads, cutting construction paper leaves and employing the assistance of Jeanine — our former babysitter, who is not Jewish and had never heard of Sukkot but is more adept than I with scissors and and glue, and happened to be town for a couple days and over for dinner, the evening of the Sukkah-making — to build the table and chairs out of cardboard.

The finished product is not bad, though it appears to be done by a 9-year-old, not an almost 44-year-old, and it’s all-brown, which made it hard to photograph.

Still, you get the picture.