Last week marked the end of another Mothers Who Write workshop. I’ve lost track of how many we’ve taught. This one, like those before it, was the best yet.

We don’t play favorites, of course (wink, wink — what teacher doesn’t?!) but Deborah and I both have very cushy spots in our hearts for our long-time student Estelle Gracer.

As we say in class, “show don’t tell,” and so I’ll show you, with a video Estelle’s son Richard taped in Sedona this weekend. In it, she is reading a wonderful poem she wrote for class. You can also read it on her blog.

I sat next to Estelle at our end-of-the-workshop reading on Saturday, and as always, she had some good advice. When I complimented her outfit, she shook her scarf at me and said, “No matter what you’re wearing, you can always dress it up with a nice scarf!”

Yes, I replied, but I’m already wearing my cowgirl boots. Estelle looked at my completely plain black outfit (save for the bit of trim on the boots) and smiled kindly, eyebrows raised just a bit.

I’m hard-pressed to think of a woman who’s better at accessorizing — not just when it comes to clothing, but to her home and even her life — than Estelle. She’s taught me a lot, and I’m looking forward to the lesson.

This weekend Annabelle began designing her “spring collection” of fashions, and also made some lovely sculptures by gluing plastic beads together.

But my favorite AB creation of late is one I found last week in her “important papers” folder in her backpack. I don’t know if she wrote it for a school assignment or just because.

friendship

friends are good to have.

friends will keep you

company. friends are nice

to friends.

I hesitate to post this link, because I hate to see The Stranger get more web hits — not because it’s not a good paper, but because something like this shouldn’t be a windfall.

But I’m sure it’s already been hitsville for Dan Savage & Co. over at the Seattle alt weekly (no relation to the chain that runs my paper) this week, after they posted a rendition of The Last Supper painting that depicts the characters as having Down syndrome.

That’s the not the part that has readers so upset. It’s the headline Savage slapped on the post: “The Tard Supper.”

Enough said. Unless you aren’t familiar with Dan Savage – a guy who, ironically, makes his living by advocating for another often-disenfranchised group in our society. That part you need to know about.

Thank you to Maya for sharing.

I can’t believe a week’s gone by and I’ve neglected to share how we celebrated the second anniversary of Sophie’s “happy heart”.

Aside from the fact that Ray and Annabelle were gone camping with the Brownies, it was a perfect day. There was time for cuddling in bed, a bath and hair brushing before ballet. We hit a little outdoor festival with some good friends, then settled in for the rest of the day with Ms. X.

We watched Project Runway, made bracelets (Sophie made piles — and a mess) and Ms. X even decorated a cake. After our fruitful labors, the three of us went out for dinner at a nearby Turkish restaurant, where Sophie was quite taken with the belly dancer performing!

After that, a trip to our favorite bookstore, Changing Hands. There, Sophie managed to find a Junie B. Jones book she didn’t already have (the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake) and Ms. X read it to her while she ate chocolate ice cream. Ms. X doesn’t fix the grammar like Mommy does, so that was an extra-special treat.

A good day. We have a lot of good days — so many, I take them for granted. I thought about that this week when a good friend and fellow first grader had hand surgery. And Ray and I talked about it this week when we were remarking that it’s time to call the cardiologist for a routine check-up.

Everything’s fine, Ray said. It’s not like she’s had any problems.

Remember, I warned him. That’s how it was the last time, two years ago – when a routine exam turned up a leak. Sophie wasn’t showing any symptoms then.

Yeah, he said. “I’ll never forget that.” Me, either. 

The cardiologist is on my “to do” list for today. But I think I’ll put the call off til Monday.

A couple weeks before Halloween, I was driving to work and noticed they were putting holiday lights on the trees that line Mill Avenue, the main drag in our college town.

I started to harrumph — and I stopped myself. This year, I vowed, I will not complain about how early the holidays start. I will not spend from Halloween to Thanksgiving bitching, then from Thanksgiving to Christmas killing myself to get everything done.

I’m just going to enjoy myself. (Which may or may include buying the above wreath from Kooky Krafts. Cool, huh?)

Now, that’s an incredibly lofty goal, particularly for me. I tend to get, um, a little obsessive around the holidays.

The other day something came up at work about some task that will need to be performed in December, and one of my colleagues said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, I know that’s a crazy time of year for you.”

Really? I’m that much worse than everyone else?

Not this year. This year I will not complain, I will not stress. I will — well, this will sound corny, but I’m going to treat this holiday season as if it were my last. 

Last year, I thought about this a lot, as I watched my mother in law struggle with lung cancer. I bought her gifts with extra care, made sure I had her favorite sugar cookies on hand. I had nothing on her — she’d been shopping for months. She considered cancelling her Christmas Day dinner, but instead we all split up the cooking duties. Ray made her stuffing perfectly.

Annabelle spent much of that day on the couch, buried in her new Nintendo DS. I desperately wanted to tell her to get off her butt and spend some time with Grandma, but I didn’t. She was too little to understand that one of her favorite people in the world might not be around for another Christmas.  

My mother in law died in February. Last night, as I was tucking her in, Annabelle rolled over and said something I know she’s been thinking, but which I haven’t heard her say, all these months.

“I miss Grandma.”

Me too, I told her, adding silently to myself, particularly this time of year.

I always try to put the Halloween stuff away the day after.

I might have five overflowing laundry baskets in my dining room at the moment, and be perfectly okay with it — but to me, there’s something unacceptably untidy about having holiday detritus around after the holiday in question is over.

Maybe I drove by too many sad Christmas-lit houses in February, growing up. (Phoenix is huge on holiday lights; probably because there aren’t many natural signs of the season around.)

In any case, I was unsuccessful this year. It wasn’t til this past weekend that I finally crammed the black and orange back into the Halloween Rubbermaid and shoved it into the holiday closet, swearing I’ll deal with that mess by Thanksgiving.

Then I opened the dryer the other day to find that Annabelle had put the shirt from her Halloween costume into the hamper without unpinning the felt/pom pommed poodle tail. (Of course this is my fault, as the responsible adult.) We’ll be finding those pom poms around til next Halloween, I suspect.

Oh, and I even forgot to post photos from Halloween. So here you go. Sophie was Foofa from “Yo Gabba Gabba” (not homemade). Annabelle was a black poodle (homemade, as previously mentioned and, I must add, a huge hit — and my relationship with the hot glue gun was officially kindled).

Boo. Hoo. Halloween 2009 is officially over.

This weekend, my dear friend Trish took her 16 year old son Zach to get a tattoo. For the coolest reason ever. So I asked if I could take a picture and show you. (The tattoo runs much of the length of the inside of his forearm.)

Zach’s diabetic. This will serve as his “medic alert” — and as so much more.

It was one of the first times I “got” the whole tattoo thing. I also have a dear friend who had his daughters draw self-portraits when they turned 5; he now wears them as tattoos.

I wish I’d thought of that. Well, sort of. Typically, I’m not a tattoo girl. Um, pain. And I’m not good at commiting to accessories. But I have to say that when I saw Trish’s latest, I was tempted.

Damn you, Trish. You always make everything look so good. If I ever get one, you’re coming with. And as you know, it won’t be a pretty picture  (pardon the pun) with me in the tattoo chair….

Tomorrow is the second anniversary of Sophie’s second open-heart surgery.

This afternoon Ray and Annabelle left on a Brownie camping trip (earning my husband the Dad of the Year award, since he didn’t renege when he learned he was the only father going!) so it will be just the two of us this weekend.

Sophie and I will be busy celebrating tomorrow, so I wanted to share this now. It’s our newest refrigerator art — it came home in her backpack a few days ago, drawn by a friend in her class.

Yeah, I thought, when I looked at the sweet drawing. I’ve been thinking about Sophie’s heart a lot lately, too.

Taking a step back from the week’s tumultuous events, I have to admit that  it’s a nice luxury, being able to worry about hurt feelings and slights from bullies, rather than leaking valves and oxygen deprivation.

Thank you again, Dr. Michael Teodori, for fixing Sophie’s heart. Not so long ago, a kid with that heart defect wouldn’t have been around for first grade.

And now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a dinner date with the cutest six year old around.

The second part of my series “The Lost Kids” is out this week.

The day before the story came out, a Facebook friend across the country posted a really beautiful quote from “A Prayer for Owen Meaney” by John Irving.

I found it an odd coincidence.

The story of Cynthia Clark Harvey’s struggle to get her mentally ill daughter help has haunted me for years. I finally decided this fall that I could disclose the conflict of interest that was keeping me from writing about Erica (Cynthia and I have been in writing classes and groups together) and help her mother get the message out about how dangerous wilderness-therapy camps can be.

Erica died during a hike on her very first day at one of those camps in 2002.  

When we sat down for a formal interview, Cynthia mentioned that in the months preceeding Erica’s death, she had often read to Erica at night when she couldn’t sleep. One of the books she read to her was “A Prayer for Owen Meaney.”

Here’s the quote my FB friend posted. I don’t even know the woman well enough to ask why she posted it. But I’m glad she did.

When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time – the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes – when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever – there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.

Time to strap on the helmets.

That’s what I thought this morning as I watched Sophie learning to ride a scooter with her physical therapist. I should probably put one on, too.

I have a feeling I’m pretty much Public Enemy Number 1 at school today. I’m not thrilled with that, but c’est la vie — what bothers me is that real chance that the friend who tipped me off to last week’s bully episode is Public Enemy Number 2. And the one I really worry about is her daughter, who reported the bullying in the first place.

After several angry emails last night from the mother of one of the bullies (the girl we’ve had problems with for several years), I realized why people stay quiet about incidents like this. But I also saw why it’s important to report them.

Yesterday I wrote that a teacher failed to follow the school’s anti-bully policy by not telling the administration or Sophie’s teacher about what happened to Sophie. I was a little startled to see the responses attacking that teacher and (of more concern) teachers in general.

That’s what makes real life — and writing about it — so hard. Because the truth is that yes, not saying anything was wrong. But that doesn’t make that teacher or her colleagues bad people or bad educators. Far from it.

I am in constant awe of the teachers at Annabelle and Sophie’s school. Given the current climate, I can’t believe anyone would agree to teach public school. The pressures are constant and increasing; the pay is embarrassingly low; the expectations are ridiculously high.

I’ve waxed poetic for days about Ms. X, the girls’ kindergarten teacher. But I probably haven’t written enough about Annbaelle’s current teacher. She is a ball of energy — a sweet, caring, devoted, amazing presence in Annabelle’s life. My daugther will do hours of homework for this woman; she’s adopted some of her favorite sayings. I’m thrilled.

Sophie’s current teacher is a wonder. I cannot believe how much love she pours into those kids. It’s showing in Sophie’s school work. As I told the principal yesterday, Sophie is kicking some academic ass. That’s why she needs to be at this school.

But it needs to be a safe place for her, and for other kids.

The principal followed up our conversation yesterday with a note explaining that she intends to talk about procedures for reporting bullying at an upcoming staff meeting with teachers. I think that’s great. But I also hope she considers having a training session for parents. We could use some guidance, as well. After I wrote about what happened to Sophie, other parents told me their kids have been bullied, too. When I mentioned that the principal wants to hear about it, they seemed a little surprised. Only one said she’d already contacted her.

Like I said, after last night’s emails, I can see why. According to the mother I heard from, I am pretty much the most horrible person who’s ever caught a breath. She can’t imagine how I could have such sweet daughters. Hey, I’m with her on that part (that was some humor, people!) but the rest felt — well, it felt like bullying. I didn’t like it. And this morning I worried about how my girls would be treated at school.

We now have volunteers dedicated to watching out for Sophie at every lunch period. I’d rather the school provide a viable solution, but until that happens, Sophie will be safe. I visited at lunch today. Everything seemed cool, if somewhat chaotic. Sophie was happy; so was Annabelle.

Of course, my presence changed the dynamic. I’m sure of that. And I can’t be there at every lunch period. I can’t go to school with my girls and sit next to them at their desks, walk them to the bathroom, stand under the monkey bars to catch them if they fall.

But I can raise hell once in a while if I need to, even if it doesn’t win me any friends. From across the cafeteria today, I saw the teacher who didn’t report the bullying incident. Normally, I’d expect that she’d come over and say hello. She didn’t. I thought about approaching her — not to fight, just to say hi — but frankly, I was chicken.

When it was obvious she was probably ignoring me, I felt like crying. But I didn’t. Instead I strapped my proverbial helmet on a little tighter, and walked Sophie out to the playground.