It’s official. Sophie is a victim.

At our meeting this morning, the principal informed me that per the school’s anti-bully policy, Sophie now has a file that includes information about last week’s bullying incident.

Sophie’s got a victim file, the principal added unnecessarily.

That’s the only time during the meeting I teared up.

The principal confirmed that after her “investigation” (which involved questioning the two girls who bullied Sophie but, curiously, not the girl who initially reported the incident and mentioned far more than the bullies copped to) this was determined to be a very serious case of bullying.

Apparently, two older girls were leaving the cafeteria at lunch one day early last week and grabbed Sophie’s lunch box on the way out. Sophie got  upset and the incident of “keep away” continued on the playground. A teacher was told that Sophie “was sad,” and the teacher did talk to the girls involved. 

But she apparently didn’t tell anyone else about it.

And that, the principal admitted, is where the school’s anti-bully policy failed. With an adult, not with a kid.

Thank goodness that kid went home and talked about it, or no one — not the principal, Sophie’s teacher, or I would ever have known.

And it’s important that we all know, because one of the girls involved has a long history of inappropriate behavior. Very inappropriate. I won’t go beyond that, for confidentiality purposes, but if your mind wanders to the worst places, you’re in the neighborhood.

Annabelle has had to learn to fend for herself against this girl. Sophie simply can’t. When I heard that girl came near Sophie, my blood began to boil. And it hasn’t stopped.

All the right things were said at this morning’s meeting. But that, as I told the principal, is not enough.

It reminds me of the Bully Free Pledge that is read over the loudspeaker at school every Monday morning.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m anti-pledge in general. The Pledge of Allegiance creeps me out. I don’t like any rote behavior that lulls people (particularly children) into a false sense of security and, well, for lack of a better word, allegiance.

The little girl who ratted out the girls bullying Sophie stuck to the pledge. The adult didn’t. So what good is it? You read the pledge and tell me.

We will not bully others. We will help others who are being bullied. We will include others who are left out. If we know someone is being bullied we will tell an adult at school. The adult will listen, and will take appropriate action.

The other day, one of my closest friends — a woman in many ways far more demure than I — suggested gently that perhaps I shouldn’t blog about certain things.

She was worried because word was out that I’d criticized my girls’ school for allowing the third graders to share recorders during a flu epidemic.

I do see my friend’s point, and when I thanked her for her concern, I really meant it. I know I likely have some readers who perhaps do not have my best interests at heart (you know who you are) or maybe are just a bit overzealous in their grown-up game of “telephone,” but as I told my friend, I stick by my decision to “live blog” Sophie’s experience in public school — at least, some parts of it. (And hey, I’ll throw in a handful of homemade candy corn for good measure.)

The truth is that this blog, like all forms of journalism, is edited. That doesn’t mean it’s not true; it’s just not all-inclusive. I gave my friend a list of examples of things I haven’t mentioned on the blog. She nodded, but I know she’s still worried.

And so I’ll be extra careful, I promise, dear friend, when I blog about the latest turn of events.

This weekend, I heard that Sophie was bullied one day last week during lunch. I know the names of the kids involved (and I know both of those kids well, they are third graders Annabelle’s grown up with) and some other bare bone facts, but not enough to write about yet.

On Sunday night, I did put up a Facebook status update that said: Amy Silverman is trying to figure out what to do with the news that Sophie was bullied at school.

The responses were filled with good advice, commiseration, humor and love. My favorite came from my friend Kathleen:

You know that Bare Naked Ladies song “If I Had a Million Dollars?”

Well, if I had a million dollars, I’d spend it the way Maxine and Jonathan Marshall did. Their Marshall Fund brings smart book authors and well-versed poets to town on a regular basis. And twice a year, the butterflies come, too.

The butterfly pavilion at Phoenix’s Desert Botanical Garden is among my favorite places in town. Yesterday the girls and I met our dear friend Trish there — and while we didn’t have nearly enough time to enjoy everything the garden has to offer, since I screwed up and had to whisk Annabelle away to dance rehearsal — we did spend a hunk of time with some enormous monarch butterflies.

I looked at the sign in the butterfly pavilion as I always do, and silently thanked the Marshalls. And I thought about Jonathan, who died earlier this year. He was one of my earliest heroes, the owner and editor of the Scottsdale Daily Progress, my hometown newspaper. He was a liberal among conservatives, an opinionated guy. Wicked smart.

By the time I finished grad school and applied for my first newspaper job, the Marshalls had sold the Progress — after that, it was never the paper it once was, suffering multiple big owners and eventually shutting its doors, gobbled by its parent company – but I was still proud to work there. And even prouder when I was invited to join a “multi-generational” book club that included Maxine among its members. We often met at the Marshalls’ home.

Yesterday was Day of the Dead, and the garden had a big party. Fitting.

And too fitting for my taste is the news just this morning of another death. The East Valley Tribune, Phoenix’s “second” daily newspaper (the Arizona Republic is the first), is closing.

Jonathan Marshall wouldn’t be pleased about that at all.

Finally, success with a classroom craft.

There isn’t time to go down the list of turds I’ve dropped in the artistic punchbowl over the years (the time my mom and I tried to get first graders to emulate Picasso and Matisse comes to mind) but I must say that I’m feeling quite proud of the sugar skull decorating that went on in both girls’ classrooms, the past two days.

(Sugar skull?! you ask. Check out some dia de los muertos/day of the dead history here.)

The key was keeping it simple — we ditched the royal icing and authentic but hard-to-maneuver colored tin for glue, pipe cleaners, tissue paper and googly eyes, then let it rip.

The kids were so creative, and borrowed ideas from one another. It was wonderful to watch. (And easy to do yourself, as long as you don’t mind the time-consuming task of molding sugar skulls. Some tips: Skip the backs, just do the face of the skull; don’t do it rainy weather, or the stuff won’t stick together; be sure to include the meringue powder everyone says you’ll need; order molds at www.mexicansugarskull.com.)

Funny, I thought the first graders would have a hard time, but in the end I decided they were more successful than the third graders. The little ones have more joie de vivre — they don’t self-edit as much yet, at 6. The 8-year-olds were much more careful about where they placed the sequins and tissue paper, and as a result, their skulls were more precise but not as much fun.

I’m going to try to remember that when I decorate my own skulls this weekend.

Of course, my own children’s skulls were the most beautiful:

Not only is she a wonderful nanny — brimming with knowledge from special ed classes and a terrific spirit — she’s super creative. So it was hard to figure out how to celebrate Courtney, who celebrates her 22nd birthday today.

An afternoon with Sophie isn’t a bad start (though for the record I did offer her the day off!) but since I was furiously making sugar skulls last night for the girls’ classes to decorate (more on that later — it went well in Sophie’s classroom this morning, beyond expectations for sure) I figured I’d do one up to look like Courtney, who, as my mother puts it, is so beautiful it’s hard to stop looking at her. (The sugar skull hardly does her justice, as you might have guessed.)

But as Sophie — who has come up with her own version of the cookie song, “C Is For Courtney!” — can ascribe, Courtney’s just as beautiful on the inside.

Happy Birthday to a very special member of our extended family. I’m crying at my desk, thinking about what we’ll do when you graduate next year.

As you might recall, the first time I tried to make candy corn, Annabelle remarked that it looked like I was making Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

Not this time. I nailed it, if I do say so myself. And it wasn’t the salted butter — the recipe I tried this time actually called for it. It’s easy! No candy thermometer, no mixer. Just don’t stir vigorously when it tells you to stir occasionally; I think that was the first batch’s downfall.

In fact, I think I’ll try another batch for this weekend’s festivities. (I’m cocky now, which can’t be a good thing….)

One problem with that homemade candy corn is that it’s got to have a day’s allotment of calories per piece — I’d call each piece a serving; mine turned out rather large, about the equivalent of four or 5 pieces of store bought candy corn. And these have butter in them.

So I recommend balancing the homemade candy corn with my mom’s creative recipe for candy corn parfaits, which she made for my birthday. She took vanilla sugar free/fat free pudding and made it according to the recipe on the box — but added a little rum extract to cut the taste of the artificial sweetener. Then she added food coloring to make half the pudding orange and half yellow (pale versions). Swirl that in the bottom of the cup and top with lite Cool Whip.

I’d say that recipe kicks Hungry Girls’ little butt.

My mom topped her parfaits with a Reeses piece, but I suspect that’s only because she’s afraid to keep real candy corn in the house (which would have looked cute as a topper) for fear she’d eat the entire bag in the middle of the night. I know I would.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The way we honor birthdays in this culture is all wrong.

The celebration should center on the mom, not the kid.

If she has her way, this afternoon at lunch my own mother will regale a tableful of my friends with the tale of what a dick that Dr. Jones was — that he let her suffer through labor while he finished a round of golf, only to have to later perform a C-section because, after all, she does have a heart-shaped pelvis and that asshole should have known from the start that there was no way a baby was coming out of it.

I’ll let her tell that story, and I’ll even try not to roll my eyes. Because today should be a celebration of her — something I realized only after two C-sections of my own.

Check out one of my gifts, above. Sometime in the last year, my mom whipped it out (as in, painted it herself and damn her again for not passing the talent to Moi) to celebrate someone else’s birthday — maybe my dad’s — and as soon as I saw it I begged her for it. She promised to make me another, but first born, high-maintenance kid that I am, I demanded that one.

And so there it was, in my pile of presents, because yes, at 43, I still get a pile of presents.

The other day, my sister called while the girls and I were shopping for materials for Halloween costumes. She told me that Ben, 8, is going to be a germ. Kate, 6, will be a cat. And Sam, at 2, isn’t sure if he wants to be a pumpkin or a snowman.

“We already have the pumpkin costume,” Jenny said. “But I’m struggling with the snowman.”

“Then have him be a pumpkin,” I said.

“Oh no,” she replied. “In our house, you can be whatever you want to be for Halloween, even if it’s more than one thing.”

I totally got it. The apples haven’t fallen far from the tree.

I love you, Mom. Thank you. And hey, Happy Birthday!

Yesterday, Annabelle and her friend Bhavini carved pumpkins. (These are their pumpkins, above.)

Yeah, kids all over America carved pumpkins yesterday (I know this from Facebook) but this was special because it’s the third year in a row Bhavini has come over to carve pumpkins with us. She and her mom might return to India within the next year, so it might be the last time, too.

Annabelle and Bhavini have a really wonderful relationship. Bhavini is wicked smart (she even skipped a grade this year) and I get the impression she doesn’t play with a lot of kids at school. But for some reason these two have always clicked and I smiled yesterday, listening to their banter and nicknames for one another.

Sophie joined in on much of the fun (she carved a pumpkin, too, all the girls had help from Ray while I was on clean-up and pumpkin seed roasting — rather, burning — detail) but this was clearly Annabelle’s play date.

We dropped Bhavini off at her apartment, then headed to my mom and dad’s for a birthday dinner for me (since in this family, birthdays are a month-long string of celebrations — hey, I’m not complaining) and I remarked that one day soon, Annabelle would have a play date at Bhavini’s house.

Then I remembered Sophie was in the back seat.

“Annabelle go to Bhavini’s house?” Sophie asked. I knew what was coming next.

“You’re going to have a play date soon, too, Sophie, with Sarah!” I said quickly and extra cheerfully.

She was happy about that. Phew. I relaxed in my seat, crisis averted.

And then something odd happened. Annabelle said, rather matter-of-factly, “You know, I don’t think Sarah really likes Sophie.”

My first response to was to shush Annabelle.

“Hey, that’s not nice! Sophie’s sitting right next to you!” I said, probably a little too harshly.

But she caught me off guard. Other kids? Yeah, I can see it. But not Sarah. I sat through a three hour play date a couple weeks ago and witnessed how much fun the two have together. It is true that Sarah’s not a super smiley person (one of the things I love about her) and I thought maybe that prompted Annabelle’s comment.

I cornered her (nicely, I promise) when we got out of the car, after Sophie had run ahead to my parents’ back door. Even Ray — normally not that into social dynamics – stuck around to listen.

“Why did you say that about Sarah and Sophie?” I asked Annabelle. “There must be a reason. Did someone say something? Did you see something?”

Annabelle just shrugged. “No,” she said.

And that was all she would say, even after further prodding.

I may not ever have the answer, but as I tried to shake my sudden bad mood and get into the birthday spirit, it occurred to me yet again that at 8, Annabelle is wiser than I am on the brink of 43.

Unlike her mother, the kid knows when to keep her mouth shut.

Things have gone a little John Hughes around here this week.

The other day I had lunch with two dear girlfriends I don’t get to see very often, women I met once I moved back to Phoenix. We talked about recent purchases at Last Chance, recent travels, and recent blog posts.

“Wow, you’re so brave!” one remarked over the post about Sophie’s experience at birthday parties and mine in high school that I’d put up earlier in the week.

Nah, I told her. Writing that piece wasn’t brave. But posting it on my Facebook page was.

Or maybe it was just dumb. Or even a little mean.

The truth is usually a little more complicated than a blog post. And when I started getting emails from classmates apologizing for being mean (if they were — they didn’t recall any incidents but wanted to say sorry just in case) and also some from others recalling good times we did have together in high school, I realized that although I did toss in a parenthetical about how I did in fact have some friends in high school, I probably shouldn’t have gone so far in general, in comparing my situation to Sophie’s.

Not that the comparison is wholly inaccurate.

The emails were fascinating. One classmate who would have been considered part of the “popular” crowd in high school admitted she hadn’t used the word geek in years, but thought it when she saw some of our nerdier classmates at the reunion, and was a little horrified at herself.

Another wrote something really lovely that he gave me permission to repost here. (He also told me I could rewrite it if I thought it needed it, which it most certainly does not.)

This is a guy who always struck me, looking back, as comfortable in his own skin — the thing I never was. Friendly to others (including to me, he reminded me we were on the school newspaper together, something I’d frankly forgotten) and an all around nice guy; Class Clown meets Guy Next Door. Certainly not someone I had the luck of hanging around with. 

I read your post, this guy wrote me on Facebook.

I too, was going to blow off the reunion as I didn’t feel like sharing the past 34 months of divorce, foreclosure, failure and insanity with my classmates. I went anyway, and it turned out to be fun in some ways, predictable in others, but in the end, another party. The difference this time was: At our 10 year reunion, we were still climbing, at our 20, it was more of a parade of things we had accomplished, at this one, it was an admission of “who the fuck cares” …. and if you remember my personality at all, this reunion was the most fitting for my C+ student, but socially functional brain to handle. If it wasn’t for football and dating [a cute cheerleader] as a sophomore, I don’t think I would have been a memory for many. It’s funny how all have our isolated defining moments, and really, it’s all front page news in our own brains, nothing more. Here today, gone tomorrow as something else takes it’s place and the water subsides, ripples come to an end. Narcissism continues and people fade into the soap operas of their lives that only exist between their own two ears.

Now that was a brave email to write. So was the one from the popular girl with the geek story.

The complicated truth — or part of it, anyway — is that I still have a lot to learn from Sophie. No, I wasn’t popular in high school. But even so, I had classmates I, too, deemed too geeky to befriend. I thought of that as I looked at pictures of the reunion someone posted on Facebook. I guess high school really is just one big hierarchy, a la The Breakfast Club.

It’s not that Sophie will befriend just anyone (I see her give the heave ho to people all the time, particularly doting adults) but she’d never turn someone down for being a geek. And, unlike her mother, she doesn’t hold a grudge.

This morning, Annabelle was balancing her cake for the cake walk carefully as we walked from the car to school, slower than the other groups. (OK, here’s a digression — how could anyone not know what a cake walk is?! Ms. X graciously provided a super explanation.)

As we headed toward school, I saw the future “bitchy student body president” and her dad, ahead of us on the sidewalk. I noticed the girl turn around, look at Sophie, sneer a bit, toss her head in the air and literally skip away. I wanted to catch up with that little girl and trip her. Sophie didn’t even notice.

 We got to school and Annabelle showed off her cake, and I forgot all about it. Sort of. I better not see that girl at the school carnival tonight. And no, I can already tell you that I’m not going to my 30th high school reunion.

 Not brave enough.

Who doesn’t love a cake walk?

One of my fondest elementary school memories (it’s already been established that I was a pissy child, but I do have a few fond memories) is of the cake walk at the Hopi Hullabaloo, the school carnival held each spring, always eagerly anticipated.

Annabelle and Sophie’s school carnvial takes place in the fall, and this year Ms. X had exciting news: We are allowed to bake our own cakes for the cake walk. The Draconian requirements that all school snacks be store bought and individually wrapped (say goodbye to the classic Bake Sale) seem to be loosening.

Yes, it’s right in time for Swine Flu season, I thought of that, too. (And on that note, I pitched a fit when I realized that Annabelle is supposed to share a recorder with other third graders. Um, GROSS. I already talked to the principal; we’ll buy our own $10 recorder, thank you, and how about a note home ahead next time, offering such an option, before the first spit swap?! Anti-bacterial sanitizer, my ass.) 

Back to the cakes. I’m not so worried about germs. Really, who actually eats a cake they win at a cake walk? It’s meant to be thrown at your friends or snatched by your mom and tossed in the garbage when you’re not looking. Plus, we’ve been over this: Fondant is really not edible. Not in a good way.

So Ms. X came over for dinner and the evening routine last night (I love watching her do homework with Sophie — it’s amazing to see what she draws out of her) and then we decorated cakes. By the end, Ms. X was filled with ideas of other cakes she can’t wait to make.

“A & A Cakes has a new decorator!” Annabelle announced.

Watch out, Duff.