Let the Halloween festivities begin….

We made it to the girls’ ballet classes this morning, and they are now — several hours later — in the bath. And that’s it for productivity. The house is a mess, my projects undone or not done. I don’t even have the energy to get the Halloween decorations out.

True, I think I actually slept a total of three hours this week. I wrote a 4500 story yesterday morning (I’m not saying it’s a good 4500 story, but a story nonetheless) and capped the day with the art show my paper sponsored (more on that later, it was super) and when I got home at midnight, I couldn’t sleep.

Today’s a different story. I did grab a cat nap this afternoon, but I could go for another right now, and it’s not even dinner time. With the flu looming, I can rationalize the laziness by saying we all need to rest up and protect ourselves. But the truth is that it’s simply a lazy Saturday.

I think the girls can use one, too. At least, that’s my rationalization and I’m sticking to it.

If you are in the neighborhood tonight, stop by the merz project, 1437. N. 1st Street, for Wonderland: Art from New Times Best of Phoenix 2009.

Milk and cookies will be served.

This morning was greeted before dawn and with great excitement.

It’s October.

The girls and I rolled around in bed and talked about Halloween costumes (Annabelle’s going to be a black poodle; Sophie’s still undecided, maybe Foofa from Yo Gabba Gabba, or maybe a cat, or Cinderella to complement Ms. X’s Fairy Godmother costume — how perfect would that be?!) and the song “I Don’t Like Candy Corn”( which always plays on Noggin in October but now that Noggin has become Nick Jr., Annabelle is concerned they won’t play it).

(For the record, Annabelle and I both love candy corn. Sophie’s on the fence. Ray does not care for it. We have discussed trying to make some from scratch this year.)

And then talk turned to another October event, my birthday. When you are turning 43 you don’t need a reminder, but the girls love to discuss it. Annabelle asked for a countdown of days this morning. (It’s at the end of the month. I’ve got some time left to revel in 42 and get that “refreshing chemical peel” I’ve been planning on.)

I did get an early birthday present already (pictured above), from my dear friend Gilda.

The other day I told Gilda she’s magical, and I think that’s the best way to describe her.  She actually made this for me — I am so touched! — and even better, she’s teaching me how to embroider. I don’t ever expect to achieve her level of expertise and creativity, but I’m honored that she’d give me a shot, considering how uncoordinated I am. (She may not yet have realized that.)

In any case, Happy October.

I’m at home today, in self-imposed exile, allegedly working on a feature story due — oh, well, technically I suppose it was due yesterday. But my editor doesn’t expect it from me yet. He knows.

I am mean-mean-mean when it comes to deadlines with my own young writers, because I feel strongly that I was raised wrong: No one ever really cared if I turned a story in late.

And so the habit stuck. You think you procrastinate? This morning I have already made two batches of sugar cookie dough, done two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher and filled it back up again, found the surface of my dining room table, covered it will the contents of my “story box” and — well, now I’m blogging.

I’m also at home because it’s not even October and it’s still well over 100 degrees outside but people are dropping like flies. Two called in sick at work yesterday; Annabelle’s teacher is home sick; so are several of of our good friends. I

I’m in hiding from germs.

And so when I stumbled on a link last night to a very entertaining New York Times blog post about “the Jewish echinacea,” I considered making a batch. That was til I learned that gogol mogol contains sweetened, beaten egg yolk that I’m not entirely sure is supposed to be entirely cooked. Blech.

I did like the part where you can spike it with rum or brandy. Last week I had a canker sore on my tongue (sorry, too much information!) and found that instead of Orajel and Advil, what really worked was soaking my tongue in a small glass of Bailey’s and ice.

So maybe sometime I’ll whip up a batch of gogol mogol. But today, instead, I swung by Walgreens and bought a big box of Emergen-C. And before I do anything else this morning (what’s left of it) I better stop and drink my big bottle of immunity-laden Smart Water.

Snapshot from a Saturday afternoon.

Sophie had just finished a strawberry Ring Pop (hence, the pink lips) and climbed into the chair of the proprietess of a store called Kooky Krafts.

I have no reason to share this, other than because I’m a sucker for ornate pink chairs – and for Sophie.

Today is Yom Kippur. It is the Day of Atonement — the heaviest hitter of the Jewish holidays. The day you apologize and the day you remember.

Today, my dear and oft-mentioned friend Deborah posted a poem on her Facebook page.

Today, I was going to post the recipe I used for my (burned) Rosh Hashana challah, but instead I think I’ll post this beautiful poem — in honor of the cherished people lost this past year.

Not just the people I knew.

I didn’t agree with a (politcal) word he wrote, but I teared up this morning when Cokie Roberts mentioned that William Safire had planned to host a Yom Kippur break the fast dinner tonight. As she and others put it, he was a man who disagreed without being disagreeable. A man who chose his words. We could use more of that in this world. 

And I was sad to learn that Lucy Vodden died. She was the namesake for John Lennon’s “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” — a poem of a song.

Speaking of poetry, here is “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver, with thanks to Deborah.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I promised a friend I’d post pictures of my best finds at the Rose Bowl Flea Market a couple weeks ago, so here goes.

Above, vintage chenille grasshoppers.

Below is Sneezy, part of my ugly (according to my mother) but lovable (according to me) collection of carnival chalk. Sneezy was marked $45; I got him for $10:

Here is a tole candleholder:

A girl head. No idea what it’s from or what it’s for, but it was $5:

And finally, a pin in my favorite color combo (pink and blue, always  makes me think of the Joe Jackson song “Stepping Out”):

Home Remedy.

That was the assignment for last night’s Mothers Who Write class — the workshop I’ve co-taught for years with my dear friend Deborah Sussman Susser. We wanted our students to write about health care, but frankly, we weren’t interested in 15 essays about health care reform.

So the ever-wise Deborah came up with “home remedy” — and it was just what the doctor ordered. We spent two hours workshopping amazing pieces on topics ranging from the remedy for jalapeno pepper in the eye (salt under the tongue!) to the remedy for a troubled marriage (shining the sink — long story) with incredible tales behind each.

Funny we chose that topic, since I’ve been struggling myself with the notion of home remedies. I haven’t applied any, but have been gathering suggestions. The malady: possible ADHD.

We had the much-awaited (by me, anyway) IEP team meeting this morning at Sophie’s school, and it actually went pretty well.

The mystery of the wandering kid was solved. She sometimes finds her way upstairs at the end of lunch — everyone is now aware of this and looking out for it, and Annabelle’s teacher will be asked to report immediately if it happens again. I got to give my speech about how my two priorities are that Sophie be safe and that she not disrupt others’ learning environment. Everyone looked appropriately uncomfortable, since the subtext is that Sophie deserves to be at this school as much as any other kid — at least, that’s what the law says. I didn’t raise my voice and afterward, no one asked me if I was raised in New York. Progress, I think.

Turning to academics, we rewrote some of Sophie’s goals to incorporate more inclusion in the classroom, talked about  concerns, shared successes –and across the board, every therapist and Sophie’s teacher commented that she has trouble paying attention.

I’ve heard that before. Several times. Including from two psychologists.

But here’s the thing. Even if she does, in fact, have ADHD, I’m not going the heavy-duty medication route with Sophie.

Not that I judge you if you do — far from it. I’m all in favor of better living through chemistry.

But Sophie has a serious heart condition. So no way, even if I could switch cardiologists til I found one who said okay to the meds (as a psychiatrist and psychologist have each suggested I do). No way.

There are home remedies, I’ve been learning. But to me (and maybe it’s just because I’m naive) some seem akin to one student’s tale last night of her mother’s home remedy for any injury: Wrap the afflicted limb in a whiskey-soaked shmatta (rag) and then Saran Wrap til the circulation is practically cut off.

I explained the ADHD medication conundrum to the group at school this morning, and the principal piped up. “Have you heard about Mountain Dew?” she asked.

As a matter of fact, Sophie’s physical therapist mentioned it just yesterday, I told her. 

Apparently I’m the last to know that many parents give their kids a can of Mountain Dew after school. It calms them down so they can do their homework — a sure sign the kid has ADHD (or ADD, I’m using them interchangably in my ignorance).

At this point, I’m not ready to buy a case of Mountain Dew — or Coke Zero, as another therapist suggested. What I really need — and what I keep asking people for — is a referral to a medical doctor who can give me some ideas for supplements. And if a doctor who understands Sophie’s heart condition, and understands Down syndrome — not just the super-popular ADHD thing — suggests Mountain Dew, I’ll be happy to try it.

I don’t know if the caffeine will hurt Sophie’s heart. Even some supplements like Omega 3 fatty acids are not good for a kid with a heart condition. I’m not taking any chances. I’d rather have my flighty kid good and alive.

Last night after class, I tossed the question out there: “Anyone know an expert in ADHD who’d work with a kid with Down syndrome and a heart condition?” One student suggested a doctor in Los Angeles who bases his ADHD diagnoses on brain scans. (“Are you okay with spending a lot?” she asked.) Another promised to ask her son-in-law, an alternative medicine expert in Sedona.

My dear friend Mrs. M. has given me a pile of reading material; I have a feeling the answer’s in there. But my favorite suggestion so far has come from one of Sophie’s more spirited therapists. I adore this woman, and laughed out loud at her very honest list of remedies some use:

“If all else fails, a good shot of a strong spirit or a glass of wine, or a cup of coffee (no sugar),” she wrote in an email this week.

For the record, this therapist does not believe Sophie has ADHD, but has been helpful in offering advice on many things — she’s very smart and dedicated. I adore her. But Sophie doing tequila shots? Swilling lattes? I was leaving the therapist a voice mail the other day, and Annabelle overheard me.

“Mommy, why were you talking about Sophie drinking coffee?” she asked. “Is that part of her therapy?”

“Not right now, it isn’t!” I replied. “But sometimes coffee can help adults pay attention, and some people think Sophie doesn’t pay attention very well. Haven’t you noticed that, when we are all doing homework?”

Annabelle considered that. “Yes,” she said. “But I just always figured that ‘s because Sophie isn’t interested in what you want her to do.”

From the mouths of babes….

In any case, no iced mochas for my youngest baby — not til an M.D. hands me a prescription.

I can’t sleep.

Yesterday morning was pretty typical — we scurried to get ready, scurried out the door, scurried out of the car into backpacks and lunch boxes and over the crosswalk to school.

When Sophie, Annabelle and I arrived, it was the typical rush of teachers opening doors in the carpool lane (it always reminds me so much of a valet service) and kids flowing onto the playground.

We all stopped to say hello to Annabelle’s teacher, who gave us her usual big, happy greeting. Sophie said to her, “I come to your classroom!”

At first I didn’t give that much thought, standing there, because Sophie’s been saying that since the first day of school and we’ve always laughed about it. She doesn’t have easy access to Annabelle’s classroom. It’s on another floor, a gigantic (for Sophie) staircase away.

But something compelled me to look up from Sophie’s face to the teacher’s.

“Um, Sophie hasn’t actually shown up in your classroom, has she?”

“Why, yes!” the teacher responded cheerily. “Just yesterday!”

The craze of arriving kids continued through this discussion, so I couldn’t get much out of her, except that Sophie had shown up and a friend of Annabelle’s had escorted her back down the stairs to class.

When the bell rang, and Miss Y appeared to usher in her line, I broke the Cardinal rule. I brought up a Big Subject in the before-school rush.

“Hey, did you hear that Sophie showed up in Annabelle’s teacher’s room yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Noooooooooo,” she replied, clearly replaying the past day in her head even as she grabbed for hands and secured packs on backs.

She stopped and looked at me.

“Really?”

By day’s end, when we corresponded on email, she had asked for but not received details of the journey. There was speculation that this might have taken place during a therapy session or maybe music, since Miss Y never knew it happened.

I suppose it was a good week for this. In a couple hours, I’ll drive over to school for that one-month meeting of Sophie’s IEP team, which is finally to take place. And I’ll bring this up.

But first I’m going to let them all go around the room and talk about how incredibly well Sophie is doing, how this is the best possible setting for her, how her academics and socialization are through the roof (even if they really aren’t — I notice how eager people are to tell me how well Sophie is doing, and how eager I am to accept that news; events like yesterday’s are a wake-up call from the complacency that sets in) and when they’re done, I’ll pipe up.

And maybe, just maybe, if she’s at this meeting, the principal won’t turn to me, wince, and say what she said last year at this meeting, when I asked if we could write a provision into her IEP to have someone walk Sophie from the cafeteria to the playground at lunch each day.

You  know, if Sophie needs to be treated like someone other than a typical kid, the principal said, you will need to look at options elsewhere in the district.

Maybe there’s a simple explanation for the wandering. It’s true, Sophie was fine — people know and love her at this school, they want to take care of her. I just wish that when I’d asked Miss Y about it, she’d had a ready explanation. I know she does, too. She takes this as seriously as I do.

Honestly, the seriousness of it didn’t really sink in til I called my mom last night, to recount the events of the day, and mentioned it almost as an aside. She was horrified, speechless (rare for her). We hung up and 20 minutes later, I was in Safeway, and the phone rang again. What can we do about this? she asked.

I honestly don’t know. I’m back to thinking Sophie needs a micro chip or a tattoo or at least a tag that says, “If lost, please return to:”

Or maybe I’m just exhausted.