I had to admit to myself this weekend that I have come to loathe birthday parties. That is quite an admission for someone who named her blog Girl in a Party Hat.

OK, maybe I found myself curled up in the fetal position on the couch late Saturday afternoon because I skipped lunch and it was over 100 degrees out (in mid-October, damn it!) and I had slept for just four hours the previous night.

But I swear it was because of that birthday party.

Sophie and I had looked forward to it for weeks — one more in a long parade of birthday parties already this year; apparently most of her class was born in September and October. This particular celebration was held at a kiddie beauty salon called Snip-Its, and promised a theme of Glamour. It delivered.

By the end of two hours, the girls had put on fancy dresses; had their hair done; put on makeup, which they were then allowed to keep in the makeup bag they picked out; finished a craft (a door hanger made of fun foam — “the princess is in”); donned feather boas for a red carpet fashion show; and eaten chocolate cupcakes with three inches of pink and purple frosting.

Heaven, right?

For me, it was hell. And for Sophie? Hard to say.

She seems to be more and more in touch with her social surroundings, which worries me. Just that morning in ballet, I had watched her approach a couple little girls she was in line with, waiting to do leaps. I couldn’t hear through the glass, but what I saw was obvious: They blew her off, turning their backs and giggling together.

I always tell myself Sophie doesn’t notice such slights (and she does invite them by acting odd, I’ll admit that — it’s never really the other kids’ fault, and sometimes I know they can’t understand what she’s saying) but this time I couldn’t deny it. Sophie turned around and walked to the corner, sinking to the ground and sulking.

A few minutes later she was up again, but by then I had to turn my own back. I couldn’t bear to watch. It was the same at the birthday party. I so want Sophie to be included, to be invited to these parties, but I’m beginning to wonder if we’d both be better off if I declined the invitations.

Maybe the truth is that she’ll never be included, not the way we both want her to be.

Now Annabelle, she’s another story. The other day she told my mom that the kids actually fight over who gets to sit next to her at lunch. She’s got that magic something that makes people like her.

I never had that as a child or teenager. Not til the last few months, when high school classmates started friending me on Facebook, asking if I was going to our 25th reunion. Um, no. As in, no fucking way. I am mature enough at this point to realize it was more my fault than anyone else’s, but let’s just say that I did not enjoy my years at Arcadia High School and no, I don’t wish to relive them.

I was happy and I’ll admit a little flattered to hear from some friendly classmates. I guess we’ve grown up. But still, I declined the invite to the reunion.

(And here I must interject and admit that perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. I did have friends in high school, but I was an odd duck without a good reason like, say, a chromosomal abnormality. It’s not a time I like to think about — though having kids, particularly Sophie, somehow makes me think about it a lot.)

Standing in the doorway of the party room at Snip-Its, staring at the four little girls sitting around the table with (but not really with — no one spoke to her the entire time, except when she got in their way) Sophie, I suddenly saw each of those four girls in 10 years: cheerleader, cheerleader, cheerleader, bitchy student body president. And my kid, the one who doesn’t fit in.  

Sophie deserves a lot of credit. She tries. She kept calling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” across the table to the birthday girl, who I swear didn’t crack a smile the entire time — at Sophie, or anyone else for that matter. Driving home, I asked Sophie if she had fun with the other girls. Her response: “Where was Sarah?”

Sarah is Sophie’s BFF, she of the very successful playdate. I don’t know where Sarah was, but I’m guessing Sarah’s mom (who has several older children) is smart enough to not hit every birthday party.

“I’m sorry Sarah wasn’t there,” I told Sophie. “I know she’s your good friend.”

Funny, just the night before, my dear friend Kathy and I had a long talk about how that’s all you really need — one good friend.

“If you’ve got two, you’re way ahead of a lot of people,” Kathy said.

She’s right. And in the end, even if you walk down that red carpet alone, more power to you if you hold your head high and smile.

For a while, I only heard it directed at me, and I’ll admit, I felt kind of special.

Long before any human should be asked to rouse, I’d roll over in bed — hair matted, face marked with pillow creases and perhaps a bit of drool, and Sophie would be staring at me. “Mommy, you’re beautiful!” she’d say.

Not a bad way to start the day, even at 5 am.

Soon it switched to “You’re pretty”, and hey, I’ll take that, too. Then I realized she’d obviously figured she had so much success with me (who’s not going to bolt out of bed and do  your bidding when you hand out that kind of compliment?) that she was going for broke.

And Sophie’s been met with similar good results as she’s taken her show on the road, even putting the plan into action during phone conversations with people (sorry to break the news to certain someones) I’m quite sure she doesn’t really remember.

But there’s one person whose bullshit meter just won’t abide such antics. Her big sister.

On our way to the drive-in the other night, Sophie was teasing Annabelle. I don’t quite recall what was going on — but it was bugging Annabelle, who started whining, which bugs me.

“Hey, Sophie, remember how you promised to be nice to Annabelle during Fall Break?” I reminded her from the front seat.

(There has been some discussion of late as to the fact that Sophie will tease her sister without mercy — til we arrive at school, where she turns into a hug-filled angel. This is not lost on Annabelle.)

I wish I had audio of this part, because I’m not sure I can do it justice in writing. I’ll try:

Without skipping a beat, Sophie turned to Annabelle and said, “You’re pretty!”

Just as quickly, Annabelle replied — in her best eye-rolling, hand-slapping-the-forehead voice, “Ay yay yay!”

And then we all cracked up.

After two hours at the pediatric ophthamologist yesterday morning, it was determined that Sophie is a little farsighted but does not need glasses. She looked cute in the old lady paper-plastic sunglasses they gave her to shade her dilated eyes, though she didn’t keep them on much past this photo.

She was too excited for her play date. I often pinch myself, but after yesterday afternoon I have to believe that Sophie really and truly has a BFF. Sarah and her mom came over for what I expected would be an hour-long playdate, and stayed for three hours — and at that, Sophie sobbed for 15 minutes when they left.

It was supposed to be a Mommy-Sophie day — I’d envisioned shopping, lunch, the playground, frozen yogurt. But between the eye doctor and the playdate, there wasn’t room for much more than a cuddle. Sophie and I did get to have dinner out (Thai — her choice, I swear I didn’t suggest it!) the night before, while Annabelle spent the night at my parents’, and that was a lot of fun; she requested that I sit on the same side of the booth with her.

We topped yesterday off (after Sophie finally stopped crying for Sarah) by picking Annabelle up and heading to the drive-in to meet our friend KathyMonkman (all one word, to my girls), where we saw a double-feature of “Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs” and “Bandslam”. Both were really good, and I hadn’t heard a word about the former, so that was a nice surprise.

Kathy surprised us with cupcakes from Sprinkles (the Beverly Hills cupcake boutique!) and early birthday presents. Sophie slept through that part. She’d had a long day.

Fall Break. Two words that will ice just about any working parent’s heart.

After our myriad summer travels, I can’t take a week off work. Yet I’m not willing to not spend time with the girls. And so I’m cobbling together a schedule that will leave everyone lacking and me up all night, trying to catch up on work.

That said, I am determined to steal some good time with my girls. Friday, I took off and Annabelle and I had a “special day” — we met one of our favorite mother/daughter duos for pedicures and Pei Wei, then went shopping for fall clothes at Target, and when Annabelle whined that she didn’t want to try them on I said OK and got her the DS game she wanted. (I think a little retail therapy is just fine for the kid — within reason.)

Tonight I’ll sneak her off to my parents’ house for an overnight, and Sophie and I will have some alone time tomorrow — all day.

It was going to be all-play all-day, ’til Sophie failed her vision test. Now we’ll start the day with a trip to the eye doctor, but even that will likely be fun, given Sophie’s love of all things medical. We’ll try to squeeze in a play date with another mother/daugther duo we love and beyond that I think I’ll let her choose whatever else we do.

This is very exciting to Sophie. Only recently has she started asking for one-on-ones with Ray and me.

“Just me and you, Mommy?” she asks, poking herself in the chest, then me. Her eyes light up when she gets the answer; she practically makes a buzzing noise.

We’ll both miss Annabelle tomorrow, I’m sure, but we’ll have her back in the fold by late afternoon — and we’ll do something special tomorrow night, because the following day, Ray’s the one on Fall Break Duty, and I, sadly, will be back at work.

I am a believer in “third time’s a charm,” which is why I am not calling it quits on homemade candy corn. Yet.

Last Friday I took a second pass at challah (braided egg bread). It looked better than the first attempt, which I burned, but was painfully dry> Hhow could I manage to make bread that tasted stale the very same day I baked it? I must have a special gift.

Then came the candy corn.

Since first deciding to attempt it (How cute! I can give it to all the teachers and therapists for Halloween! And just think of the possibilities for Christmas/Chanukah!) I actually discovered a book called “The Field Guide to Candy” – which includes the history of just about every kind of candy you can think of, along with recipes to make it.

I don’t have permission to give you the candy corn recipe, but I found it on the site of the sadly soon-to-be defunct magazine Cookie, so here you go.

But be warned. The first time was a disaster.

I didn’t think that using salted butter instead of unsalted would be such a big deal. (I simply omitted the quarter teaspoon of salt called for in the recipe.) But I do suspect that stirring continually for five minutes when I was supposed to stir occasionally might have the problem.

In any case, Annabelle came into the kitchen as I was trying to make the orange dough and remarked (not unkindly), “Hey, that looks like Flamin’ Hot Cheetoh dough, Mommy!”

I cracked up. She was right, of course; that observation made the whole endeavor worthwhile. The stuff didn’t taste bad, it just looked awful. And when you see recipe, which includes the photo of what it’s supposed to look like, then you’ll really crack up.

I’ll keep you posted on the second (and, I’m guessing, third) attempt. For now, here’s the bowl containing the first (which I threw in the garbage this morning):

This week, New Times published my first cover story in a year — the beginning of a series called “Lost Kids”. It’s the kind of story I used to write a dozen times a year. And yet, it’s not.

I hate to admit that motherhood (particularly, mothering Sophie) has changed how I approach telling other people’s stories, but it has. I don’t know that it made this story any better from the reader’s perspective, but it cut me to the quick, telling this one.

Niki Varlotta is quite a mom. As much as I asked her about her son Alex, in the two-plus years I followed her family, she wanted to know all about Sophie, too. She didn’t have to ask — she’s just that kind of person. She wanted to know. She really cares. We talked about other stuff, too. Books, music. About our “typical” kids and how having “special” siblings — so different and yet unified by their differentness — affects them, for both good and bad.

I’ll miss her. And yet, I’m terrified she’ll call — to share the next scary chapter of her family’s story. I hope I don’t hear from Niki, save a Christmas card or a book recommendation.

That family deserves a happy ending.

This morning was my first chance this school year to volunteer in Sophie’s classroom. I scurried around, dropping the girls at school then grabbing Starbucks for Miss Y (and Ms X, of course), and I’d just skidded to a stop at the school office and grabbed the volunteer book to sign in when I saw the school nurse.

She had something to tell me.

Sophie failed both her vision and hearing tests. Super. I had a feeling it was coming (even though, to be honest, I don’t see issues with either Sophie’s hearing or sight, and I look for signs constantly) and made a note on my hand to schedule more tests.

That was on my mind when I entered Miss Y’s classroom to begin my morning job overseeing the creation of pumpkin paintings for the hallway bulletin board — but I was quickly distracted by the goings-ons in the classroom.

I can’t offer much in detail because I don’t want to violate any privacy rules, but let’s just say that it’s not fair to ask any one person — even the amazing Miss Y — to run that classroom. As others have murmured already this year, Sophie is the least of her concerns — at least, she was this morning, particularly since the special ed teacher has begun her inclusion work in the classroom, meaning she wound up helping not just Sophie but a few other kids as well.

There are several Tough Kids with a capital T in that room, and a few others I’d stick a lowercase t on. At least one of those kids (not counting Sophie) should have a full time aide — no doubt about it.

Miss Y kept a smile on her face, ringing her yoga chimes to get the kids’ attention and never losing her cool. I smiled, but inside I was seathing. No wonder no one lasts long as a teacher. If I was this woman, I’d run screaming from the classroom.

At least it was a distraction from thinking about the appointments I’ll need to make this afternoon. And I got, oh, about a dozen hugs from Sophie — who was very happy to have me in her room.

I was glad to be there, too. And even happier when it was time to leave.

This is Sophie, posing yesterday morning just before school. A happy first grader, to say the least.

What could be more important than that? Yes, at this morning’s parent/teacher conference, I was happy (though skeptical) to hear that Sophie is reading at grade level — not at grade level for a kid with Down syndrome, Miss Y reiterated under questioning, but at grade level for a typical kid.

Super. The rest of her report card was equally positive. But academics are not as important as happiness (something I’ve come to realize rather late in life — in fact, I think they might be mutually exclusive) and happiness can’t be protected without safety.

I am reminded of Maslow’s hierarchy and high school debate — but I won’t go there today; lucky you, reader. I’ll just say that the other topic of discussion during the parent/teacher conference this morning was the fact that Sophie went AWOL (again) during lunch recess yesterday.

That is not surprising. There is one person (count ‘em, one) supervising (to use the term loosely) the entire first grade (close to 100 kids I’m guessing, I’m afraid to ask) on the playground at lunch recess. Sophie takes her time eating, so she leaves the cafeteria after the duty has walked the kids out. That means she leaves by herself.

Look at her picture. Does that look like a kid who’s going to go where she pleases? You bet your ass it is. And you can also bet that I want it that way — well, in theory. I want my kid to be friendly and loving and to have a ball in her world. But I want her to be safe. I don’t want her to be one of those “trained” people/kids with Down syndrome who refuses to make eye contact, who does exactly what she’s told as though she’s been whipped into submission.

Or do I? At least those people are physically safe, if not mentally so.

What Sophie needs is an aide at school and her mother is too big a wimp to fight for one. That’s the truth. Or one of the truths, anyway.

On some levels, I exaggerate. The new school (built over the summer) is much safer, enclosed. Everyone knows Sophie. So far, she’s only gone to safe places she’s not supposed to be. Yesterday, during lunch recess, she turned up in Miss Y’s classroom and the two of them spent the last 7 minutes of recess playing teacher (Sophie’s favorite game).

Part of me wishes Miss Y had reprimanded Sophie and sent her back to recess. But that is only part of the truth. I love that Sophie is loved, and that she gets to be independent.

But I want her happy. And that means safe.

(And she’s reading at grade level — can you flipping believe it?! Yes, I’m proud.)

I’ve developed a bad habit, displaying negative parenting skills and possibly scarring my child for life.

For the last month or so, almost every night, I’ve been letting Sophie fall asleep in my arms.

I know I shouldn’t do it. I’ve always taken pride in the fact that my children can fall asleep on their own, in their own beds (except for a few months when Annabelle was about 2). Sophie’s usually a problem on the other end of the sleep schedule — rising before dawn and shuffling into our bedroom to crawl between Ray and me — but she’s always been good at falling alseep on her own.

And she still is. That’s the naughty part — there’s no good reason for letting her put on PJs, brush teeth, use the potty, grab a blanket and Piglet, and crawl onto my lap.

Except that I love it. The other night, Ray walked by the couch and stage whispered, “Now, that’s a good idea,” shaking his head.

If you’ve never had a little human being sleep on you, try it. You’ll be hooked, too. Soft snoring, burrowing limbs, sweet-smelling hair — it’s better than Tylenol PM.

Except for the part where you have to make the couch-to-bed transfer. If you’re over 40, beware, because undoubtedly, at least one of your limbs will have fallen asleep along with your child.

On Friday night, a lovely mix of artists, friends, family and total strangers crowded the small space where we had our show, Wonderland: Art from the Best of Phoenix 2009. (You’re cordially invited to the Third Friday party, where psych 101, the Phoenix Chorale and others will be performing.)

Even Cake Lady showed up.

I have to admit that I really did think the writer who pitched the idea had made her up, but I liked the entry he wrote so much that I made it the very first item in the entire Best of Phoenix issue. We don’t have enough whimsy in Phoenix, or enough eccentric characters. Here’s what the entry said:

Best Urban Legend: Cake Lady

Though nobody knows her real name, “Cake Lady,” as downtowners have affectionately dubbed her, continues to contribute to central Phoenix lore. In short, there’s a woman about town who occasionally shows up at gatherings (a music performance, an art exhibit) looking for free stuff, especially cake. The consensus is that she reads New Times (a smart woman, indeed) and then calls ahead to inquire about the possibility of free goodies. She’s been spotted only a couple of times, including years ago at a birthday party at the now-defunct Paper Heart, where she briefly showed up, then dashed out the door with a bunch of cake to go. Hey, Cake Lady, share some next time!

About halfway through the night, one of the writers (not even the one who wrote the entry) nudged me. “Hey! There’s Cake Lady!”

We got a photo from the back. Although the writer told me Cake Lady’s real name, I don’t want to blow her cover — or the mythology surrounding her, except to say that I did not see her take any cake or other snacks. She did grab a few brochures.

I watched Cake Lady for a while – she circled the gallery quickly, several times, stopping to look at a few pieces – and felt my stomach crowd my lungs. I turned to the writer who seemed to know all.

“She’s developmentally disabled, isn’t she?” I asked. It was hard to pinpoint it, but Cake Lady had a vacant look; she didn’t make contact or speak with anyone. She was an ill-kept figure in pink with tangled gray hair, older than the demo in the gallery. She looked pre-occupied. Or, if I’m going to get all depressing about it (and clearly that’s where I’m headed) she looked sad.

“No, but I think she might be bipolar,” the writer admitted, as we watched the woman grab a pile of literature, look around, and bolt.

 I thought about Cake Lady all weekend.