After our weekly staff meeting at work today, I sent the following email to a co-worker, entitled “a favor”:

i really hate to bring it up, but i need to ask for a personal favor. i know we’re hardly PC around here, but still, i’m wondering if you could please refrain from using the word “retard” around me — for obvious reasons. for a long time i’ve hoped someone else would ask you to stop saying it, but it appears as though no one will, so i’ll bite the bullet and ask myself.

chalk it up to me being a loser — that’s fine.

this email doesn’t require a response.

thanks.

amy

Here’s how it went down Wednesday night. You’ll have to forgive me, some details may be a bit askew, but this is basically what happened.

“Hey girls, come into the living room and sit down for a minute,” I said.

Annabelle looked at me suspiciously.

“Is this about Rosy?”

“It is, sweetie.”

She squeezed out a few tears before I could say anything. I explained that Rosy was very, very old, and didn’t feel well anymore. The next day, I was going to take Rosy to the vet and the doctor would give her a shot. The shot wouldn’t hurt, but it would put Rosy to sleep. And she wouldn’t wake up.

More tears from Annabelle. And from me.

Sophie, who hadn’t seemed to be paying attention, stood up and said, “Rosy go to sleep! Cock a doodle doo! The rooster! She wake up! She be all better now!”

I took her on my lap. “No, Sophie,” I said, trying to be a little firm. “Rosy is not going to wake up.”

But she didn’t get it. I decided that was okay. I explained to both girls that Ray and I wanted them to know what was going to happen so they could say their extra-special good byes to Rosy. I tried to explain to Annabelle that dogs can’t make their own decisions — that we have to do what we think is best for them. That it’s our responsibility. And that we didn’t want Rosy to have one bad day.

We pretty much went about the business of the evening after that. I put out some frozen hamburger to thaw for a Last Supper the next morning.

Just before bed, Annabelle approached me in the kitchen and told me she was going to make Rosy a paper flower (see above). And then she told me something else.

“You know what, Mommy? I’m not going to be sad about Rosy dying because she’s had a good long life.”

I smiled and hugged Annabelle, feeling melancholy. I worry that Annabelle has been through too much already, at 8 — a sister with a disability and a heart condition; a beloved grandmother dying far too young. A couple months ago, Annabelle was the one who found Izzy, the ancient Cornish Rex cat, curled up asleep — dead. Even that she handled with grace I find hard to muster at 42.

Annabelle’s got an old soul. Has  her life aged it prematurely? Or would she always have been this way?

Sophie I don’t worry about, not like that. Her soul is so young. She woke up this morning and asked where Rosy was, and while I think she knew what I’d say, I don’t think she had any idea what that meant. Sophie is barreling through life and at times my greatest wish for her, as I’ve written so many times, is that she doesn’t grasp the situation at hand.

Like the other day before school. She spied two girls from her kindergarten class, literally walking arm in arm. One I don’t honestly expect much from. She’s an okay kid, but never has paid much attention to Sophie. The other has been a dear friend to Sophie, seeking her out and taking her hand when it’s time to walk to class, helping her with classroom tasks.

But this particular morning she was with her pal, and when Sophie approached and got right in their faces, singing a song they didn’t recognize, the sweet girl looked exasperated.

“Sophie, why are you doing that?” she asked, then the two turned and walked off, with all the panache of Lindsay Lohan. I winced. I couldn’t blame them — they’re 6, and Sophie was being annoying.

Still, it smarted. (Funny, that word — smarted. Don’tcha think?) Sophie lacks the wherewithall (at this point, anyway) to recognize such a slight. And she lacks the social graces to approach friends the right way. Somewhere in the middle of the two, though, I fear as always that she knows exactly what’s going on, but doesn’t know how to fix it.

I don’t know how to fix it, either. That day, I distracted her til she spotted another friend who was willing to hang with her.

I worry that even if she doesn’t quite grasp them, situations like that will leave an indelible mark on Sophie’s young, impressionable soul.

And I worry that Annabelle’s soul is already starting to harden — just a little.

Mostly, I just worry. They are both my sweet, sweet girls. And unlike my sweet girl Rosy, sometimes there will be nothing I can do to keep them from having a bad day.

This morning I held Rosy the Dog while the vet gave her the euthanasia shot.

Afterward, my mom and I wiped away the tears and did the math. At 14 and a half , Rosy was just about 100 years old in dog years. (I think.) She was not a small dog, though she was a lot smaller this morning than she had been in her prime. So by any standard, it was a long life. And a good one, I think.

Was it really time? Who knows. Ray thought it should have happened a year ago. The vet refused to offer an opinion. Yesterday the groomer came to the house and when she was done trimming Rosy, she sat at the kitchen table and sighed.

“You know….” she began.

“I know,” I said. “Do you think it’s time?”

She didn’t say no. It was a gift. I know it was, but still, a hard one to accept.

After the groomer left, I called and made the appointment. Then I tried to take Rosy’s picture. As an all-black dog (a little white in her later years) she was always difficult to photograph, but this time Rosy made it impossible — she wouldn’t look at the camera. Maybe she knew why I was taking her picture. Maybe she didn’t want anyone to see her looking old.

And so in tribute, instead here’s the painting my mom did of her for Annabelle’s nursery, when the baby was born and the dog went from being a baby to just being a dog.

But still, what a dog.

The past few weeks, I’ve been doing some organizing. I know I always say that, but this time I’ve been digging a little deeper, opening Rubbermaids I’d ignored for a while. Ditto for the scary piles that migrate to corners of my house.

It hasn’t been all bad. In fact, I’ve coined a new expression — “shopping in my house.”

I have found some great stuff, and since my memory keeps getting shorter, much of it has come as a surprise. Like the never-opened package of smelly markers (you know the ones – the pink smells like strawberry, the black like licorice; I think I hid it because I was worried it wasn’t safe when the kids were super-young, despite the non-toxic label) or the bags of sequins, individual containers of finger paint, kid scissors still in the package (several of those) — I could outfit a classroom. (And have, Sophie’s Miss Y was the beneficiary of a large bag of art supplies, with more on the way.)

But I was a little bummed to discover two tee shirts, ordered from etsy.com about a year ago — now obsolete, and more than a little crumpled – with rainbow rhinestones spelling “Kindergarten Rocks!” and “Second Grade Rocks!”. I think I put them in a safe place, waiting for just the right day to send the girls to school wearing them. Whoops.

True, the latter will be good for Sophie when she matriculates. But kindergarten’s over for good in our house — a fact that still makes me sad, a month into first grade. First grade rocks, too, don’t get me wrong. Still, I’m nostalgic.

And annoyed with myself. I fear TLC is going to come knocking for an episode of “It’s True, I’m a Hoarder” or whatever they call it. So I’m doing my best to clear stuff out, or at least put it in a Rubbermaid with a label.

That won’t work for those shirts, I’m not that crazy. In fact, I have just the right kindergartener in mind for the tee shirt, but he’s a boy, and way too big for a 4T. Leo starts kindergarten this week, which you already know if you follow his mom Maya’s blog. Maya’s got all the same fears that I had a year ago, when Sophie started kindergarten — I feel for her. There’s no way to get past the fear without plowing right through it. Cute accessories can help, though. Which is why I’m sending you the sentiment in spirit, Maya. I can’t wait to follow Leo — and you — this year.

What I really wish is that they made rainbow-rhinestoned “Kindergarten Rocks!” tee shirts in adult sizes.  We’re the ones who can use the reminder.

In any case, if you know a teeny tiny kindergarten girl who would look good in never-worn rhinestones, let me know. I’m sure we could shake out the crumples.

Sophie has been trying out a new word. And no, it’s not scatalogical in nature.

It’s “precious”.

If  you want to see really good pictures and full details about the latest irresistible retail arrival in town, read my friend and colleague Robrt Pela’s piece about Beatrice Moore and her new store, Kooky Krafts, in the latest New Times.

I’ve lusted after Moore’s work ever since I paid a visit to her studio many years ago, while working on a story about the Phoenix arts scene. Moore has a tendency to paint everything she owns (and she owns a good chunk of the historic properties on Phoenix’s funky Grand Avenue) in shades of pastel. She has a serious thing for vintage bump chenille and old plastic baby heads, but as Robrt writes, she doesn’t like to part with any of it. It’s always been hard to get into her studio, let alone buy her creations.

Until now. Be still, my beating heart.

I didn’t actually weep when I walked into her store for tonight’s grand opening, like I did when I first saw the new candy store Smeeks, but I did sweat quite a bit — since it’s 108 degrees (at least) and there’s no A/C (at least none that was on) at Kooky Krafts.

That’s okay. The merch makes up for it. Dozens of wreaths made of the aforementioned chenille (like a more sophisticated pipe cleaner), some glittered items, hand-made pinatas and flowers. The wreaths were close to $100 each, so I made due with a few flowers (pictured above), though I do have my eye on a pink and blue wreath with a poodle in the middle.

As you have no doubt already guessed, you have to see this place for yourself.

There’s more coming, Moore says. Bob Adams, another local artist (he’s got a case of wonderful stuff at Frances, Smeeks’ neighbor) is working on a line of dolls. But he’s been slowed down, Moore says, because he can’t find the right shade of pubic hair.

And they say Austin and Portland are weird.

This just in, from a friend who put “holy mary mother of god” in the subject line of her email about Levi Johnston’s tell-all coming out in the October Vanity Fair.

It is pretty juicy, according to an LA Times blog.

I have my own thoughts about Sarah Palin, which I expressed last year (was it only a year ago?) in Phoenix New Times. My feelings haven’t changed. I don’t know if Levi Johnston’s telling the truth, but since all’s game in love and politics, the Vanity Fair piece will at least be worth a read. (Interesting that he was reportedly paid for writing it. I wonder how much is really in his own words?)

I still blame John McCain for the whole Palin thing, but that’s me.

Whether Johnston’s telling the truth or not (and my guess is that it’s shades of gray, as is much of life) I can say one thing definitively: Sarah Palin is no poster mom of a kid with Down syndrome. Not on my wall, anyway.

“Mommy, I clean up Rosy poo!”

I opened an eye and observed my younger daughter, standing about an inch from my face, as excited as Christmas morning.

“Let me see your hands,” I said, sitting up in bed. Instantly awake.

“All clean! I use a baggy! I put it in the recycling!”

I wanted to be mad, but instead, my heart grew three sizes. Sophie just wants to help. She likes to pat down the coffee grounds when Ray’s making espresso, and put the wet laundry in the dryer (all supervised closely).

But lately she’s been branching out in scary ways.

It’s hard to blame her for the poo thing. Rosy, our 14-year-old springer spaniel/retriever mix, is now pooping regularly on the kitchen floor. Peeing, too. She also falls constantly. She’s old and lumpy and arthritic and rickety, but damnit, she’s still happy. She’s not in pain (thanks to painkillers) and we haven’t had any bouts of the runs (thanks to the $3 a can vet-approved food I feed her twice a day) but with the weather still well above 100 degrees, I don’t have any place to put her that makes an appropriate toilet.

My friend Robrt dressed his old cat in diapers for years. (True story — when Annabelle was born, he pulled out the leftovers and generously offered them up.) But that isn’t going to work with Rosy.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but Sophie might have pushed me a step closer toward a decision.

I keep waiting for fate to intervene, but that might not happen. Earlier this week I read that the world’s oldest dog just died — at age 21.

I love Rosy, but I don’t think I can clean poo and pee off the kitchen floor for another 7 years. Even Sophie won’t want to do that.

One of the first pieces of advice I can recall getting as a journalist was this: When you’re profiling someone, don’t go around asking people for illustrative stories about your profile subject. The surest way to make someone’s mind to go blank is to say, “You have any good anecdotes about Amy?”

I find the same holds true for my children, and their school day. When you are in fact gathering mode, you can’t approach them dead on. They go silent.

“What did you do today at school?” I’ll ask in the car, driving home.

“It was good,” Annabelle will answer, not listening one bit.

So I keep quiet, and wait for information to emerge. Funny, this year Annabelle’s suddenly much chattier. Not every day, but sometimes, I get to hear about who she ate lunch with, or what craft she and her friends are going to try next, or what silly thing her teacher did.

Sophie doesn’t volunteer much, either, if asked. But sometimes information emerges, and this I had to share, after my whiny post earlier today.

We were almost ready for bed. Sophie was peeing (sorry, between the kidney stones — and yes, Ray had his procedure and is doing well — and the “nina” discussion, there’s too much potty talk going on here) tonight when out of the blue she said, “We moved spots today.”

I immediately knew what she meant. Miss Y had mentioned that every month, she’d be switching up the seating arrangement in class.

“Who are you sitting next to?” I asked.

“My buddy Louis!” Sophie announced. Louis is a great kid, a classmate from kindergarten. I was pleased. So was Sophie, obviously, because she started cracking up — sitting there on the toilet, still peeing — and couldn’t stop. I started laughing, too, and it was one of those (much-needed) moments where you get carried away in that awesome way that happens far too rarely.

It was a nice way to end the day.

Yesterday was the first birthday party of first grade.

I hope it’s the first of many.

Actually, at the moment, I really don’t. I need some time to recover.

Even at their best, other kids’ birthday parties can be stressful, if it’s not your crowd. And this wasn’t. I’m just not a walk-right-up-and-introduce-myself kinda gal, so I hung back, mostly, checking my iPhone, which I know is obnoxious and probably what kept others from approaching me.

No one approached Sophie much, either, despite her attempts to engage the other kids. She looked a little bewildered a couple times, but then she latched onto one of the young women working at Pump It Up — the party was at one of those warehouses packed with bouncey castles — and played with her the entire time. (I bet that girl slept well last night.)

I don’t want to sound whiny, but I swore to be honest in this blog, so I’ll say it: Sometimes it’s hard to watch Sophie with the other kids. She does have friends, real friends, I know she does. A few. OK, a couple. But those kids didn’t happen to be at this party. And so yesterday the other partygoers cruised past her — faster in every way. The only time the birthday girl approached  (politely, I have to admit) was to ask Sophie to relinquish her turn at the air hockey game, which she’d just started playing. Sophie agreed, and walked away. I wanted to cry.

It was a marked difference from the few birthday parties we attended last year. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit that that’s the way it is/was. I still don’t.

And if you ask Sophie, the party was super and she had a great time. I suppose that’s what counts.