OK, yes, so in the Brave New World of Media as We Know It Today (but blink and it’ll change again), newspaper editors must take up event planning.

At least, I must. And so, if I must, let it be a Super Cool Event. (At least I hope it will — the fantastic Georganne of Frances and Smeeks fame is involved, so you know it’ll be great.)

If you’re in metro Phoenix next Friday, please join us. There’s still time to apply to be an Official Judge; you can get the details here.

Annabelle just received the sad news that she has her first cavity (damn, I hoped the girls had Ray’s teeth) so I suppose it will be an adult evening for me.

Our trip to New York City was full of high points, but I have to say that the best moment came when Sophie met Leo.

I walked into a busy restaurant, looked around, and suddenly, this little boy I’ve been reading about almost every day for months leapt off the computer screen and into real life, before my eyes.

Sophie ran right up to him for a hug. (Contrary to popular misconceptions about people with Down syndrome, she doesn’t do that with everyone.)

I felt the tears well up even before I could take my coat off.

I need to back up. This will sound horrible, but there’s no way of saying it without just saying it (and somehow, reader, I bet you’ll relate).

I’m not a Support Group Kinda Girl. Not that there’s anything wrong with support groups. In fact, there’s a lot of good — and I know I’m missing out by avoiding the two (I might add warring — I do love that part — at least they were warring at one point not long ago) Down syndrome support groups in Phoenix.

I know. I know I know I know I know. But that whole thing’s just not for me. Maybe it’s because I live where I was born. I am incredibly blessed with family and friends and all sorts of resources (like a kindergarten teacher who continues to look out for Sophie even now that she’s in first grade, and plays a mean game of poker in her off time) to help us navigate all sorts of situations.

Even so, I didn’t realize something was missing — til I found it. The thing is, just because you have something in common with someone (say you’re both journalists, or both Jewish, or both obsessed with rick rack and vintage toys and certain kid books/movies/music, or both think way too much about things like where you live, or both have kids with Down syndrome), that doesn’t mean you’ll wind up friends.

Now, if you have all of those things in common and more, yeah, then it might happen.

That’s Maya.

I’ve written about Maya before, including on the occasion of a trip I took to New York last summer, when I got to meet her. (In person, that is — rather than on her blog. We had lunch by her office on a work day, hence no Leo.)

And I’ve said this before, but in honor of meeting Leo (and the fact that his parents schlepped him and his 2 and a half year old sister from New Jersey on a truly horrible day to meet us) I need to say again that starting a blog was a Really Important Thing for me not only because it gave me the ability to go on (and on and on — and on) about Sophie, but because it led me to some pretty terrific people. My (frankly) arm’s length suport group, including Robert Polk (who lives in Texas and has an adult son, Ryan, with DS, and goes by Bobby but will forever be RobertPolk to me) and Joyce and Sarah, and Cate and Starrlife.

And Maya.

Technically, Sophie’s an older woman (she’s got almost a year on Leo) but he towers over her, and we all thought they made a lovely couple. They ate scrambled eggs, french fries and ice cream, colored, and played with Leo’s sister Ellie. Sophie showed off her new life-like “Fur Real” guinea pig, which I think is really gross but Leo and Ellie appreciated. (Ray and Annabelle were at The Met with his aunt; I was concerned about another foot-through-the $180 million-Picasso incident with Sophie, so it was a good time to split up.)

We had a wonderful brunch and hung out at a bookstore and when Sophie and I said goodbye and settled into a cab, the song “Goodbye Girl” was playing and I had another cry — an I Heart New York But I Don’t Live Here cry, thinking about that movie, which is one of the movies that made me fall in love with New York when I was a kid — and I thought, I bet this song makes Maya cry, too.

It’s not easy, being a tourist in a city you once thought you’d call home. I should know. I’ve skulked around Manhattan on various trips over the years, wasting precious time feeling bitter over the fact that I don’t live there and likely never will.

But this time, that didn’t happen. Ray and I took the girls to NYC for a hunk of spring break — two days in the city, two days with his relatives in Queens — and this time, instead of being pissy, I geeked out.

It’s hard not to, with Sophie in tow. This is a kid who insists on not only thanking the pilot for flying the plane, but holding up the line of anxious fliers trying to get to the terminal (and the bathroom!) to give him a long hug. She helped the bellhop with the luggage, told the taxi driver where to go and marched right up to the clerk at Mood (the fabric store of Project Runway fame — Annabelle and I were in heaven there, and even Ray was impressed) to ask, “Where’s Heidi Klum?”

In short, Sophie knows how to enjoy herself. The only downside was bad weather, and when forced to walk in the rain, Sophie took to bleating out sadly, “Taxi! Taxi!” as she avoided puddles that even she found too cold for a good splash.

We ate teeny tiny chocolate mint chip ice cream cones at Sweetie Pie, quizzed the clerk at Mood about each season of our favorite show, fell asleep at the planetarium and gawked at the Empire State building out our hotel room window. All four of us gawked at a snout-to-tail pig meal served up at a nearby table at dinner one night.

My dear friend Amy lives in a building with a key to Gramercy Park, so we found a dry(ish) moment and some daffodils, then I thoroughly embarrassed Amy by insisting we walk into the lobby of the chi-chi Gramercy Park Hotel and snap some photos. And then I made her go to the Coffee Shop in Union Square (of Sex and the City fame, though, since Amy’s a true New Yorker, she didn’t know why we were there).

We did have a small scene in the hotel elevator when I caught Sophie staring at all the numbers and had to hold her hands to keep from repeating that scene in Elf where he presses every button to see them light up.

And really, how could it be that the huge but skanky ToysRUs at Times Square didn’t have a single Yo Gabba Gabba item in stock?

Still, overall, it was a pretty darn magical trip — and for once, I was happy to be there and even sort of happy to go home.

Up next, The Best Part: Meeting Leo.

My poor mother. Today is my father’s birthday. Let’s just say he has not been his most pleasant self of late — or so I hear. Perhaps getting past the day will help.

He’s not a gift kind of guy, so my sister Jenny and I — and our families — continued a tradition Jenny started on my 40th birthday. (That’s still my favorite gift, ever, Jen!)

We came up with a list of things we all love about Papa. Frankly, Sophie saved the day, with some gems like, “Papa is my valentine.” We all had fun, even my nephew, toddler Sam, contributed.

If you don’t know him, some of these might not make sense (they might  make sense even if you do know him) but you’ll get the idea. (Formatting is weird — I did the first half, Jenny the second.) Please steal it for your next birthday gift.

Happy birthday Dad! And don’t worry — no surprise party. Really.

70 Things We Love About Papa

1. Papa found Gaga.

2. Papa is my Valentine.

3. Papa is handsome.

4. Papa is a Wild and Crazy Guy.

5. Papa has a freckle in the middle of his bottom lip.

6. Papa has hair that does not do well in the rain.

7. Papa loves the song La Bamba.

8. Papa gives good hugs.

9. Papa runs our lights.

10. Papa once drove a Porsche.

11. Papa likes James Bond.

12. Papa knows how to hypnotize people.

13. Papa once water skiied on the canal.

14. Papa has big, warm hands.

15. Papa loves Girl Scout cookies.

16. Papa is a Democrat in his heart.

17. Papa is beautiful.

18. Papa likes to gossip. (But don’t tell anyone.)

19. Papa is very modest.

20. Papa likes an aisle seat.

21. Papa comes to the beach with us.

22. Papa is strong.

23. Papa likes me.

24. Papa likes to read the newspaper.

25. Papa hits birdies.

26. Papa likes to talk with Daddy.

27. Papa loves cuddling with Sophie.

28. Papa is the leader.

29. Papa is a good dancer.

30. Papa drives a big (but green) automobile.

31. Papa is very precise.

32. Papa likes disco.

33. Papa has a serious interest in the weather.

34. Papa loves his Flagstaff deck.

35. Papa loooooves Gaga.

36. Papa is a good golfer.
37. Papa is married to Gaga.
38. Papa is Mommy’s dad.
39. Papa loves television.
40. Papa wears a Duke sweatshirt.
41. Papa likes to nap.
42. Papa lives in Phoenix.
43. Papa gives high fives.
44. Papa likes to read.
45. Papa smiles when he sees us.
46. Papa is smart.
47. Papa is a good dancer.
48. Papa works in a big building.
49. Papa takes us to the beach.
50. Papa is not too loud.
51. Papa picks us up at the airport.
52. Papa has a comfy lap.
53. Papa has a hybrid.
54. Papa has brown hair (well — he used to).
55. Papa has blue eyes.
56. Papa has brown skin.
57. When Papa is ready to go – he’s ready to go.
58. Papa can talk in front of an audience.
59. Papa is Annabelle and Sophie’s papa, too!
60. Papa sleeps on the couch.
61. Papa lets us play the wii on his television.
62. Papa is grandpa-saurus’s son.
63. Papa eats chocolate.
64. Papa wears a baseball hat.
65. Papa likes Duke.
66. Papa only laughs if it’s REALLY funny.
67. Papa doesn’t yell.
68. Papa throws a ball.
69. When Papa snores we can hear him a mile away!
70. Papa doesn’t mind when we change the Golf Channel to Sesame Street.

I have started calling Sophie Mrs. Whatsit.

It fits with the stream of questions — I prefer the “whys,” though they’re harder to answer, but it’s mostly “whatsits” — pouring out of her all the time, even in her sleep. (Really! Neither of us has been sleeping well; I can hear her talking in her dreams from down the hall.)

Last night found all four of us in the living room at the same time — rare, the television was off but we were all relaxing — listening to chapter three of A Wrinkle in Time.

So we’re all about the more famous Mrs. Whatsit at the moment, as well.

Annabelle’s into it — at least, I think she is. It was hard to tell last night until, a couple pages into chapter three (“Mrs. Which”), she asked if she could take a turn reading aloud. I happily relinquished the book and Ray and I sat quietly, listening to our big little third grader.

Sophie snuggled under my arm, sighing like a puppy right before it turns in circles and falls asleep, and just as her own eyes started to close, she asked, “Mommy, can I read the next chapter?”

Absolutely, I told her, thinking, maybe not chapter four, but someday….

Oh my. I know I just gushed about Sarah last week, but you must check out this post from her mom, Joyce, on a rather auspicious occasion this past Saturday.

As I commented to Joyce, reading this made my day/week/year! Try to read it without going a little waterworks yourself.

Sophie wasn’t at all disappointed that she didn’t receive a blue ribbon for her school science fair project.

But she was devastated when she saw Annabelle’s purple one.

She didn’t mind that she got second place (maroon), while Annabelle’s project received a first. Sophie wanted purple — her favorite color.

(An aside, regarding the science fair: I credit Ray and blame myself; I forgot to put the all-important “hypothesis” label on Sophie’s project, which cost her points. I rather liked hers this year — she chose the topic herself, “What Do Crystals Smell Like?” and worked really hard putting it together. But as I’ve noted, the Science Fair is really neither “science” nor “fair” — more like a way to see how hard the parent will work. Ray was more successful with Annabelle’s project, which he spearheaded. And it must be noted that Annabelle worked hard, too; she deserved top honors place for her project, about how light is refracted through (by?) a crystal. I suppose Sophie wasn’t helped by the fact that she thought her crystals — formed by one of those Magic Crystal Gardens — smelled alternately like chocolate, Propel, Mommy, mint and Annabelle.)

Anyhow. Back to the waterworks.

It starts slowly, yet happened instantly — the wide-then-scrunched eyes, the red face, the open mouth and finally, the kind of sobs we adults reserve for, oh, something along the lines of the pain you’d endure if someone were to chop off your foot.

I’m sure we’ve already been through a phase of this sort of crying, I just don’t remember it — though as I type this, I’m having deja vu. (Should have made a blog category for “crying” or “emotional outburssts.”)

I recall it with Annabelle, but not with Sophie. It’s sudden, like a tidal wave, and over quickly — luckily leaving no visible destruction. But it’s embarrassing when it happens in public, and impossible to stop. (OK, sometimes a Weight Watchers fudgsicle has been known to help in a pinch, but I hate to use food in these situations, and anyhow, I can hardly carry those in my purse.)

The crying thing is a terrible habit to fall into.

The worst part is my reaction, which tends to be stifled laughter. The crying jags are never over anything serious, and Sophie offers a performance that certainly gives Sandra Bullock a run for her Oscar.  

Maybe if I let her see me laughing, she’d stop. But I don’t want to risk hurting her feelings.

This, too, shall pass. Right?

I still haven’t befriended an adult with Down syndrome.

There is a guy who works at our Safeway — his sister is a former Mothers Who Write student — and I’ve been thinking about having him to dinner. But for now, I’ve been hanging out with Sarah. I’ve never met her, but take a look at her blog and see if you can stop reading.

I haven’t befriend an adult with Down syndrome, but I did meet a pretty cool guy today. He has an adult child with Down syndrome. That doesn’t count. But I’m circling.

I’d want to be friends with this guy even if we didn’t have the DS thing in common. We both work in journalism — though he’s far more distinguished than I can ever hope to be, with my altweekly background. I arrived for our meeting today a few minutes early, and by the time he arrived, I’d spread papers (yeah, my “to do” lists) all over the table at Starbucks, trying to catch up. I shoved them back in the Samoas case I’d brought them in (Girl Scout cookie cases make the perfect briefcase — try it!) and gave him a good laugh.

We spoke for about an hour — both about being journalists in a changing (to say the least) industry and about our kids — and by the end, I felt (hoped) I had met a kindred spirit.

We talked about his son, who is in his 20s and has a good life with lots of friends. But the son’s life is not without sadness. My new friend is bugged (as many of us are) by the notion that people with Down syndrome are happy all the time.

That’s familiar turf to me. I told him I worry that Sophie will be just smart enough to know she’s not smart enough. He nodded.

His particulars took me aback.

When his son turned 16, he told me, the kid woke up on his birthday and was so disappointed to learn –

I filled in the blank in my head, before he could say it:

He was so disappointed to learn that he couldn’t get a driver’s license.

That wasn’t it.

He was so disappointed to learn that he wasn’t better.

Better?! My new friend is soft-spoken, and I’ve got an ear infection. I didn’t hear him at first. Then I got it. Better. He wanted to be all better.

The same thing happened, he continued, when his son turned 21. Again, the young man had figured that on his birthday, he’d wake up and be all better.

I am so happy that I met this young man’s father. But I have to admit that story made me profoundly sad; I couldn’t shake it all day, no matter how long my “to do” list.

It did make me want to meet the son. His father promised to make it happen.

The wind changed yesterday. Mary Poppins blew out of town. And I must admit I’m feeling rather melancholy about it.

For much of February, Mary and Co. took up residence at Gammage Auditorium in Tempe, and in a short time she’s become quite the topic of conversation in our house. We’ve owned the movie (on both DVD and VHS) for years, but it’s never held much interest. Then the stage show came to town, and my mom asked if we wanted to go.

It was magic. As Mary literally flew off the stage at the end of the musical, I wasn’t just teary, as I often am at the end of a good play. I was sobbing. I looked over at my mother. Same.

It might have been because both girls so thoroughly enjoyed the performance. (A first for Sophie — sitting happily through a long production that didn’t feature characters covered in fur.)

Maybe it was because we had been lucky enough to score tickets the previous day for a tea party with several of the cast members, including Caroline Sheen, who plays Mary Poppins. Sophie literally sat on her lap, then made the connection during the performance. (And for days afterward, asking, “Where is Mary Poppins?” and happily receiving the news that she was here in Tempe.) 

Perhaps it was because I have a real affinity for Mary Poppins, with so many wonderful caregivers in our lives — in the form of teachers, therapists and what’s becoming an alarmingly large collection of babysitters. (That’s what happens when you hire college students; they graduate and leave and break your heart.) 

But the truth is that I know why I was so affected, and it has more to do with George Banks than Mary Poppins.

George Banks is the uptight, straight-laced, workaholic father who — in the end — comes around after it’s revealed that he had a horrible childhood at the hands of a mean nanny.

If George Banks were around today, he would go to work very early in the morning, play a lot of golf, and spend the rest of his time on the couch, watching TV.

He would be my father.

I hadn’t paid enough attention to the Mary Poppins story before we saw the play to realize how stunning the similiarities are.

Like Mr. Banks, Mr. Silverman winds up being a terrific guy in the end. No, he doesn’t sing and dance. He still watches a lot of TV. But he also calls me on a regular basis, comes to Annabelle’s piano recitals and plays tic tac toe with Sophie. (I do have to remind him to let her win.) 

I’m guessing I’ll never know much about my father’s childhood. His family moved a lot — there was, I know, a Bar Mitzvah in Cedar Rapids, Iowa (a largely Jewless place) that may have been a low point — and clearly he was not raised by a mother as effervescent as either Mrs. Banks or my own. I bet all that has something to do with his standoffishness.

In any case, no Mary Poppins ever arrived on the scene to forever change Amy and Jenny Silverman and their parents.

But I do think the arrival of grandchildren might have nudged my father in the right direction.

Particularly one little girl who pays no attention to which direction the winds of Papa’s mood might be blowing. She climbs on the couch and onto his lap, sticks her thumb in her mouth, sighs contentedly and snuggles in.

I watch from the doorway as his big hand awkwardly strokes her hair and I don’t sob, but I do get a little teary.