It finally happened. Sophie has a loose tooth.

Two, actually. Both her top front teeth are loose. She was so excited when I point this out that she did that thing where her whole body vibrates, and all day long, she grabbed people’s hands and tried to shove them in her mouth to wiggle the evidence.

I discovered the top loose teeth yesterday morning when I was investigating the bottom. Nothing loose there, not at all, but clear as day, a permanent tooth is coming in behind one of Sophie’s lower front teeth.

This freaked me out until a friend said, “Oh yeah, shark teeth!” And the other friend at the dinner table confirmed the phenomenon; both her kids had them. The first friend went on to say that her brother in law — a grown man — still has two of his baby teeth. He’s got two sets of eye teeth; a nice party trick.

Fascinating.

Usually, my friends said, they do wind up having to pull the baby teeth. Humans are not sharks. OK, but I can tell you this much: They are going to have to give both Sophie and me a lot of nitrous if she needs a tooth pulled.

I’d rather think about Tooth Fairy preparations. I still haven’t decided — should Tabitha Fairchild serve as both Annabelle and Sophie’s tooth fairy, or will Sophie’s TF have a completely different persona?

Tallulah Fairbanks does have a nice ring to it….

On my to-do list these days, among other things:

1. Amass a pile of summer books (with the goal of actually reading something longer than a blog post by August).

2. Plan Annabelle’s birthday party.

Oddly, the two have intersected.

At the top of my summer reading list is a book I keep seeing mentioned in the magazines. Yesterday I heard the author, Aimee Bender, interviewed on Weekend Edition and before day’s end, I’d dragged the girls (not so unwillingly) to the bookstore.

Now I’m savoring this book — examining the cover, reading the rave reviews on the back and the author’s bio on the inside flap, seeing how long I can hold out before I read it, because like many things in life (including cake) I’m concerned the book itself can’t possibly be as good as the idea of it.

And then there’s the intersection of book and life. I’m a little afraid to see what happens in this story.

The protaganist of “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake” is Rose, who, on the occasion of her 9th birthday, tastes her mother’s homemade lemon cake and suddenly realizes she can taste the emotions of the person who has prepared her food.

This, as I’m getting ready to choose a recipe for Annabelle’s birthday cake. For her 9th birthday. Remember, I would have named this kid Rose if it weren’t for the fact that I’d already used my favorite name on the dog.

See?!

And it’s not like I can just get a Safeway cake, or even splurge on Sprinkles cupcakes. I’ve already been told that I’m to bake. On the morning of Sophie’s birthday party last month, I had just taken the pink bakery boxes out of the refrigerator and balanced them on the table, ready to struggle with the Scotch tape, when Annabelle burst into the kitchen and announced, “You know, you really should have baked cupcakes for Sophie yourself!”

This is not a judgemental kid. Well, not a mouthy one, not usually. I promised I’d bake her 9th birthday cake myself. Now I’ve got this book weighing heavily on my shelf.

Is the universe — or Aimee Bender — trying to tell me something?

I wonder what neurotic tastes like?

At least Annabelle has requested chocolate cake, not lemon. And maybe I’ll read that non-fiction book about charter schools and national education policy first.

We are going through some serious cousin withdrawal in our house.

Our little fam flew to Denver this past weekend to spend a few days with my sister and her crew. Above is a rare species, the youngest cousin, Sam: The only blonde my sister’s had (her other two have their father’s dark hair) and the only one, at the moment, anyway, with blue toes.

The highlight (literally) of the weekend came when the model rocket we bought my older nephew Ben for his ninth birthday was successfully launched in a park. The box said it could go up 650 feet, and I think it did.

The lowpoint: Sex and the City 2, only made worse by the fact that it’s been at least 5 years since Jenny and I managed to sneak out kidless to see anything.

And in between, there was a lot of Cousin Love. It was a good visit, made better by the fact that Jenny, Ben and his younger sister Kate flew back to Phoenix with us.

I don’t have such good recall when it comes to the early days with Ben and Sam, but I remember exactly where I was when I first laid eyes on Kate. I was in a hospital bed in Mesa, Arizona, recovering from a C-section and the news I’d just received about my baby.

“Sophie has Down syndrome,” I said in one chunk as soon as Jenny picked up her cell.

“No fucking way.”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming.”

Never mind that she lives two states over and at the moment had a two year old and her own newborn. Kate is Sophie’s senior by less than 7 weeks. (Ben and Annabelle have about the same age difference; when Jenny announced she was pregnant with Sam, everyone looked at me. But I was done.)

The next day, Jenny walked through the door of my hospital room, carrying Kate in her infant seat in the crook of her arm like an old lady carrying a purse. I was horrified that she’d bring a healthy baby into a hospital, but Jenny’s a social worker. To her, a hospital is just a place, not a creepy, scary germ den where people give you terrible news.   

We still have the toy radio Jenny grabbed at the hospital gift shop on her way up, and I’ll never forget her kindness in coming. (Don’t take a sister’s kindness for granted; we only barely tolerated one another til we both had kids.) When Sophie had heart surgery a few weeks later, she and Kate were back.

The kids all grew, even Sophie, and I suppose you’re not surprised to learn (and have read on this blog) that Annabelle and Kate developed a very close friendship. I adore Kate, and I treasure the bond these cousins have, but I do get melancholy when I see the cousin dynamic at play. The other girls include Sophie, somewhat. But it’s just not the same.

Check it out, here are the three girls, fresh from haircuts in Denver:

Kate and Annabelle are clearly contemporaries; I’m reminded, watching them, that the two-year difference doesn’t really matter. They sew together, tell stories, draw. They are BFF in a way I’m not sure Annabelle and Sophie will ever be, even with their own close relationship.

And Kate and Sophie don’t interact much, despite the fact that really, these are the two destined by age to be close.

Monday night, we all flew in and Kate spent the night at my house, while Jenny and Ben bedded down at my mom’s. Things went so well that I didn’t hesitate when the girls asked for a second overnight.

Here’s where I forget that Kate is only 7. Late in the evening she got teary, and asked for her mom. Jenny and I conferred by phone and decided Kate was overtired, and just needed a good night’s sleep. Jenny got on the phone with her. “You have my sister there!” she told Kate. “It doesn’t get any better than that!”

Kate bucked up, listening to a story and our good night song, and falling asleep in Annabelle’s room. (Sophie had konked out hours earlier, otherwise there would have been tears over where Kate was to sleep.)

At 5:30 the next morning, I heard a funny sound coming from Annabelle’s room. Kate was sobbing. I put her on the couch and turned on the television (the cure-all for everything in our family, Jenny’s included) and told her she’d see her mom soon.

I looked around for more distractions. Soon, one appeared in the doorway. Sophie, our early riser.  

“Kate is sad, Sophie,” I told her. “She misses her Mommy. Why don’t you cuddle with her?”

Sophie climbed on the couch, but Kate wasn’t having much of it. Oh well, I thought. We’ll just have to wait for Annabelle to get up. I left the room to make breakfast (food — another family distraction) and when I returned, I realized that Sophie and Kate were playing. They’d gotten out a pile of games, and were discussing which one they should play.

Just like peers.

For once I butted out and just listened from the next room. Kate wanted to play Hulabaloo. “No, that’s too loud. It will wake my sister up!” Sophie told her. They chose it anyway, and even sang the “Clean Up Song” and put everything away when they were done, completely unprompted. Half an hour later, they were still deep in conversation at the doll house.

Eventually, Annabelle rolled out of bed, and she and Kate resumed their spots at the art table, making intricate fashion designs abandoned the night before. Sophie curled up on the couch to watch TV, and I headed to the shower, basking in all the Cousin Love.

I snapped a quick photo of Sophie this morning at dance camp, thinking, “How cute!”

But then I took a good look at it and changed my mind. I thought, “Oh no, not again.”

I thought I was over this — but apparently not.

If I was fastidious about categorizing blog posts, as I know I should be (but to be honest I don’t really know why — damn blog etiquette, damn Search Engine Optimization) I’d put this post in a category entitled, “Examples of Why I’m Going to Hell.”

OK, OK, I’ll just say it. I don’t think a top hat is the best look for Sophie.

Like I said, I thought I was over this. Several years ago, I opined endlessly about why I don’t think Sophie should wear overalls. In a nutshell, it’s my personal opinion that people with developmental disabilities do not look good in overalls. Probably an “Of Mice and Men” thing. I don’t know.

I feel similarly about bow ties on women with intellectual challenges; this might be related to high-end grocery stores, which tend to put their workers in bow ties. I’m holding out hope for a job for Sophie beyond bagger — though if that’s what she really wants to do, that’s fine. But not in a bow tie.

I’d like to think that as Sophie and I have both matured, this feeling would have faded. But no, come to think of it, I’m still anti-overalls, and not so thrilled about bow ties.

And now I can add “top hat” to the list.

Like I said — straight to hell. Come to think of it, I have perfect timing, since the temperature in Phoenix is expected to reach 110 by Monday.

Like a lot of kids, Sophie doesn’t do so well with transitions. And she had a great time in First Grade. But I’m not worried about summer. Not this one, anyway.

This is the Summer of Courtney.

Of  “Courtney Love,” I’m calling it. Look at the two of them on their first morning together. Sophie is in heaven and I’m betting (with a few exceptions during some trying transition times) that Courtney will be, too. (Oy. Here I’m knocking wood like crazy! This post is way too optimistic for me!)

We’ve found a promising swim teacher, lined up almost all the therapists and Sophie’s even in dance camp at my mom’s studio this week. And best of all, she’s with Courtney, who’s putting a new degree in special education, more than a year of caring for Sophie and a big heart to work this summer.

Now if I only had things worked out for Fall.

I think I’ll celebrate summer — for a few days, anyway. We’re still recovering from the Last Day of School. I have to admit that I sobbed so hard into Ms. Y’s shoulder I couldn’t breath for a while.

But I can’t get too upset. Guess who Sophie’s math tutor is, starting Thursday? The amazing Ms. Y — pictured, true to a Last Day tradition started with Ms. X, here for the first time, below.

Nerd Alert: Not only is this going to be a post where the author finds meaning in the lyrics of a corny song, it’s a Billy Joel song. Forgive me. I am a child of the early 80s. I grew up listening to The Stranger on 8-Track. Anyhow, I’ve already confessed my love for Barry Manilow on public radio. Clearly I have no shame. But you already knew that.

You may already know this about me, too: For obvious reasons, I believe that the mother deserves a gift on the kid’s birthday.

Hallmark hasn’t yet embraced this one, so I have taken it upon myself to choose my own gifts. For example, two years ago I gave myself this blog in honor of Sophie’s birthday. Last year, I had it redesigned and trimmed with rick rack. But this year, I hadn’t landed on just the right gift por moi, til last night.

I was driving home late from the office, exhausted. It wasn’t one of those days where you accomplish Big Things (in my business that means taking a politician down or breaking a piece of unbreakable news or maybe just writing a fabulous paragraph, or okay, even a snappy headline) but instead a soul-sucking, mind-numbing day of Little Things.

That’s what it is in Blog Land, that unchartered territory believed to hold just enough buried treasure to keep journalism in business. Little Things. Loading photos, frontloading headlines with key words to make sure you get hits. HITS is my new least favorite four-letter word. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve vowed to some of my co-workers that one day soon, I intend to announce a “Nag-Free Day,” a day I don’t send a single email reminding anyone to put tags on a blog post or chastizing someone for forgetting to Tweet.

It’s all so absurd. Then I got in the car to go home last night, and there was Billy Joel, telling me Vienna waits. Yeah, right. Something about that song distilled everything for me, and in that moment, what I needed to do was clear.

My gift to myself, in honor of Sophie’s 7th Birthday, will be Time. Time to work on a project I’ve been pushing aside, a project that — if I do it right — will if nothing else make me happy. A project I’m absolutely terrified to tackle.

If I get anywhere with it, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.

VIENNA, The Stranger, 1977

Slow down you crazy child
You’re so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you’re so smart tell me why
You are still so afraid?

Where’s the fire, what’s the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
so many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you an just get old
You’re gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize…Vienna waits for you

Slow down you’re doing fine
You can’t be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it’s so romantic on the borderline tonight
Too bad but it’s the life you lead
You’re so ahead of yourself
That you forfeit what you need
Though you can see when you’re wrong

But you know you can’t always see when you’re right
You got your passion you got your pride
But don’t you know only fools are satisfied?
Dream on but don’t imagine they’ll all come true
When will you realize
Vienna waits for you

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook
And disappeaar for a while
It’s alright you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize…
Vienna waits for you.

The party’s over.

It was a good one. If I was one to nitpick, I’d say that there was not enough candy in the pinata, the music guys flopped (7 and 9 year olds are too old for “Five Little Monkeys”), the coffee was bad, and what was I thinking, skipping the adult beverages?!

Minutes before guests were set to arrive, as I was scurrying around ripping off wrappers and shoving flowers into jars, Annabelle eyed the pile of pink bakery boxes on the table and informed me in no uncertain terms that I should have made the cupcakes myself.

But otherwise, it was good. Sophie was happy. At one point, my friend Mrs. M. looked around and announced she’d never seen so many kids at a birthday party. It’s true. Sophie’s pretty popular. (Plus I invited a crapload of kids.) She was surrounded by friends as she whacked the pinata, got her face painted and ran around (and around and around) the house.

A couple of the girls from her class hugged her when the sparkler on her chocolate cupcake scared her a little as we all sang Happy Birthday.

It was a good day. But not a transcendent one. I didn’t get teary or philosophical. I simply threw a birthday party.

That’s more than okay.

The other day, Ray was talking about how cute and smart Sophie is and he stopped and sighed and announced, “Yeah, these are Sophie’s salad years.”

He’s right. By the time puberty hits — heck, maybe even by the time third grade hits — things will change for our “different” child. You know the drill. But for now, damnit, I’m going to enjoy it.

That said, I think that was the last free-for-all party. None of the real mayhem was captured on film, so you’ll have to take my word for it: There was mayhem. Toward the end, during the opening of an insane amount of presents, Ms. X (pictured below with the birthday girl) caught my eye, nodded wisely and said, “Maybe this should be the last one like this.”

I agree completely. At least, today I do. Remind me in 45 or weeks, or so, when I’m in the thick of party planning.

Here are a few pictures.

Check out my grown up girl!

“Let me take a picture to show everyone what a 7 year old looks like,” I said this morning, as we scurried to the car. I don’t recall ever seeing this expression — not for a photo, anyway. What happened to the 6 year old with the ear-to-ear grin? Clearly she’s been replaced with a mature little lady of 7, posing carefully for the camera.

 Last night, I wandered the aisles of Target looking for some last minute presents for Sophie to open after it was determined that Ray and I aren’t ready to make a choice on a Big Girl Bed (he insists on bunk beds; I’m balking on that, as well as the pet tarantula and snake) and we were left pretty much giftless. I felt the excitement well up in me as I imagined her opening various items and wrote a Facebook status update in my head:

I’m ALMOST as excited about Sophie’s birthday as Sophie is.

It was true. I was giddy, considering  just which water guns to buy (Ray’s idea, and I’ll admit, a good one) and I practically fell over when I found a stuffed Olivia the Pig.

Then I had kind of a weird thought.

I’m addicted to Sophie. It’s an odd thing to say about a person, but it’s true.

I look forward to the moment she bursts into our bedroom way too early each morning, I crave the touch of her soft cheek when she cuddles up against me. I relish the (too rare) days I sneak away from work to pick her up early from school; there’s nothing like the feeling when that unfiltered joy comes charging full-speed, when she sees me waiting. I love hearing her read out loud. 

Yes, she also drives me batshit. Annabelle and I roll our eyes behind Sophie’s back when she gives us a hard time. I have been known to yell. But little by little, I notice, Sophie’s better able to listen to reason. Or at least more willing to accept bribes. Hey, whatever works. Seriously, though, she’s emerging as her own little person. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not just this little ball of kid to cuddle, she’s got a lot more going for her than that. She surprises us every day.

But at the heart of that kid is, well, her heart. Always will be.

And I’m addicted to it. I’m addicted to Sophie. I’m addicted to love. The unplugged, unconditional kind.

It surprises me. That’s not me, that whole unconditional love thing. It’s not my schtick. I’m the one who never wants the one who wants me — I want the unattainable.

Scratch that. All I want is a hug from Sophie.

From Annabelle, too, OF COURSE from Annabelle, too, but my relationship with my older, “typical” daughter is both more and less and complicated. From the moment she was born, there were no “of courses” with Sophie. I never, ever would have expected to have fallen in love with a child with Down syndrome. Until Sophie, I didn’t even know what Down syndrome was.

Suddenly, it’s 7 years later, and even though my little “Down syndrome Box” of TV shows and books and other items has grown to fill two big Rubbermaid containers, the contents of which remain almost entirely untouched, today I know what Down syndrome is.

And I don’t know about the future, but I know what 7 looks like. It looks pretty darn good.

Happy Birthday, Dear Sophie.

And happy birthday to Girl in a Party Hat. I can’t believe it’s been two years. This blog — and you, dear readers — mean more to me than you can imagine.

Vision therapy.

Now, that’s something I think all new parents — particularly parents of kids with Down syndrome — could use. A little coaching through the process of envisioning the future, jumping ahead, fretting over something that might (or might not) happen years or decades from now.

But that’s not what I’m talking about here.

Last October, Sophie passed her vision test with relatively flying colors. (What are flying colors, anyway?) She’s a little far sighted and has an astigmatism, just like me (well, not exactly like me, I was wearing glasses at 4, she doesn’t have them — yet) but no serious problems, the doctor reported. We do have the clogged tear duct issue, but that’s a separate thing.

Clearly separate from what happened just a couple weeks after Sophie passed that vision test in October. Her physical therapist asked, “Do you notice Sophie cocking her head to one side when she reads, or focuses on something?”

Come to think of it, yes. It started after that appointment, though, so I hadn’t asked the doctor about it. The PT talked about referring Sophie to a developmental eye doctor or therapist. Then Sophie’s occupational therapist brought it up. She was even more concerned — talked about Sophie “lacking vision” in certain places.

Crap. Somehow (and here’s where I need my own form of vision therapy) my mind raced ahead to surgery, which no one had mentioned but still, I figured, was inevitable. So I did what I do best: I put my blinders on.

This went on for months. The PT and the OT were insistent, so I finally made an appointment with the opthamologist. Again. Good timing; the school nurse left a message the day before the appointment, expressing her concern about the cock-eyed thing.

OK, OK, we’ll take care of it. Well, maybe. Why can’t anything be simple? Turns out, the therapists want Sophie to have “vision therapy.” And, it turns out, vision therapy is quite controversial — I know parents who have been through it with their kids, and were disgusted by the expense and lack of results. Yet I have incredible faith in our PT and OT. And Sophie IS cock-eyed. You’ve probably noticed it in recent pictures, the way her eyes wander up and to the side.

The appointment was yesterday. Ray insisted on taking her, which was nice, since I’m having a particularly bad week at work. Before they left yesterday morning, I repeated the concerns several times.

“I’ve never seen her do that,” Ray said.

Seriously? And it’s not like he doesn’t read with her and play with her. In the end, the appointment wound up being two seconds of cock-eyed vision therapy (“We don’t believe in vision therapy,” the doctor told him) and an hour of removing the tubes from Sophie’s eyes — placed there years ago, to try to unblock her blocked tear ducts.

She still doesn’t need glasses, Ray reported. They gave her a thorough vision test. The doctor pooh-poohed the cock-eyed thing entirely. To be fair to the doctor, Ray didn’t push the issue.

“Did you have her read a book for the doctor?” I asked.

No, he said, because he had Sophie read a book for him before the appointment and she didn’t cock her head a bit.

“I think you’re too focused on this,” he said.

Maybe. And the therapists think I’m not focused enough. Why do I constantly find myself in this position – right in the middle, failing on both sides? Tomorrow is Sophie’s birthday. I desperately need to be at work. But how can I not be there to pick her up at 1:30 from school? It’s her BIRTHDAY. Then again, the most insistent therapists will be seeing her at the house tomorrow after school; she’ll be horrified that nothing happened at that appointment. Maybe I should hide at work.  

So now what? Seriously, folks, I’m putting this one out here with the hope that as always, you’ll share your sage advice. Not about whether or not I should go to work tomorrow, of course. What do you think about vision therapy?