Allow me to explain, since Karen Bayless-Feldman (a Mothers Who Write repeat customer and one of the funniest people I know) so graciously asked, “NINA?!”

First, you should know that it rhymes with Carolina. Or vagina.

Given that I was raised to call both male and female private parts a “weiner” (and don’t you dare get on here and try to contradict me, Mom! You know it’s the truth!) I was determined that in our house, we’d call it penis and vagina. Nothing fancy. Which worked well with Annabelle (so well, as I believe I’ve written before, my mother once called me laughing hysterically because my daughter had told her “My vagina itches” — you can tell we’re not very mature in our family. Which is fine by me.) but not so well with Sophie, who for a long time could only say, “nina”.

And a nickname was born. Just like in your house, I’m guessing.

I am, I must admit, dying to know what body parts are named in the Bayless-Feldman house.

Poor Ray.

Turns out, yesterday’s kidney stone episode was not to end so quickly. He needs two operations; the first will be Monday.

I am not at liberty to share details (to the contrary, I was warned, “Don’t you dare laugh about this with your friends”) but let’s just say that I feel very, very sorry for my husband.

And I am on my way this weekend to Whole Foods to purchase any and all products that promise to keep me from ever getting kidney stones. Up til now, Ray’s scoffed at natural remedies for anything and everything, but somehow I have a feeling he’s seen the light. So I’ll be sure to get enough for him, too. (Though nothing will save him from surgery at this point.)

Last night, in an effort to calm a weepy Annabelle (she didn’t like the sound of “kidney stones” and I can’t say I blame her) I Googled “How to tell your kid about kidney stones” and instead learned that kidney stones are now common among children.

SUPER.  I didn’t share that part. Of course, I’d just gotten done swearing to her that this only happens to “old people”.

Then I Googled “graphic” and “kidney stones,” in an effort to find an illustration to show her. Instead, I learned that the treatment for kidney stones in the 1800s was not a pleasant one. Also that it’s suspected that global warming is responsible for an increase in kidney stones today. (Even that one got Ray to smile.)

Finally, I sat down next to Annabelle and tried to simply explain what a kidney stone is. After several failed attempts, I finally said, “OK, imagine you were really constipated and you pooped and it came out of your ‘nina’.”

Her eyes got big and she immediately went to work on a get well card for Daddy.

All I can say is ouch.

Yesterday began with a bang (the rear bumper of my brand-new car against the trailer hitch of a truck parked behind it) and a whimper (my poor husband appearing in my office door in the worst pain I’ve ever seen) and while everything ended okay (minimal damage; kidney stones) I was pretty much a wreck by the time I stumbled into Sophie’s classroom at 5:30 to take my place at her seat for Curriculum Night.

So I suppose it’s not a surprise that I cried. Not the kind of crying that anyone could see (though I do think a small noise escaped at one point) but still, I got a little weepy.

I don’t typically cry at Curriculum Night. Now, I am a person who has cried at every single curtain call for every live performance I’ve ever seen (and that includes the ones my children are not in; it started long before I even had them) and yeah, I tend to cry at kid-related events: the First Day of School, the Last Day of School, Meet the Teacher Night, every parent/teacher conference. (“What? You like my kid?” Blubber, blubber blubber….)

But not Curriculum Night. Frankly, it tends to be a little boring. I usually spend much of it eyeing the other parents, and there was a good share of that last night, but mostly I stared at Miss Y.

I’ve known this woman for a full year and had many conversations with her, both one on one and in groups, but last night was different. She was clearly a little nervous, standing up before a group of grown ups, so that might have had something to do with it. It also might have been — and I’m not exaggerating here — that every word that came out of this woman’s mouth was perfect.

I looked around the room at the other moms and dads and wanted to say, “Can you freaking believe our luck?!” Miss Y believes in using music in teaching. She teaches the kids yoga poses and rings chimes to peacefully get their attention. She is huge into reading and writing and said all the right things about math. She’s teaching our kids to honor one another and to spell. It sounds a little corny as I type it, but believe me, not when delivered by Miss Y.

But there was something else, too, and I finally realized it about halfway through the hour-long presentation. Miss Y is my friend Heather.

Have you ever had that happen? I don’t mean someone looks like someone else. I mean, they sort of are someone else. Most recently, this has been  happening to me in little flashes with one of my most treasured colleagues, our food critic Michele — and one of my oldest and dearest friends, Monica. You might not be able to tell by looking at the two of them, but there’s something about the way both women speak, something about their attitude, their essence (I know I can’t be making sense — for one thing, it’s not even 5 am) that is the same. Same for a relatively new friend, Mrs. M., and an old one, Susan, whom I haven’t seen in years — she lives in Dallas. There’s something about both the set of their jaws and the empathy they show the world; in a weird little way that maybe only I can see, they are the same person.

With Miss Y and Heather it’s even more pronounced.

Funny, I don’t think I’d ever written about Heather in GIAPH before last week, in a post about the American Girl store. But here she is again — and standing at the front of my kid’s class! I think it’s because I’d never seen Miss Y with her hair down. Heather’s is curly and Miss Y wears hers straight, but there’s something about the way it grows out of both of their heads that is the same. They both stand in first position, leaning forward a bit. Same body type. Same fingers. And the best part — same spirit.

I don’t believe in meeting people from past lives, none of that spirit stuff, but I can’t think of a better word. There’s something about each of these women’s spirits that is so similar. I can’t tell you how good that is. I think it must be why I was instantly at ease in Miss Y’s presence the first time I met her. And it must be why I snuffled through her presentation last night.

Annabelle’s teacher is equally fantastic. (She deserves her own blog post, which is coming.) I left the school pinching myself.

I ran to Safeway for milk then home to relieve the always-fabulous Courtney, who had managed to convince Annabelle to do her homework and had both girls bathed. Ray was passed out on Percocet and I hadn’t gotten a lick of work done all day.

And the dog had chewed one of Sophie’s orthotics.

But we all ended the day in one piece (even the car) and I’ll drop the girls at school today feeling even better than I did yesterday about where they’ll be this year.

This evening at dinner, I asked Sophie how her day at school was. I’ve asked the question many times before, but have never gotten this response:

“BOOOORRRING!” she bellowed, with all the panache of any saucy 6-year-old. I know very well that it wasn’t any such thing, but I was tickled with the answer. Sophie’s anything but bored these days — she’s exhausted.

Tonight I found her passed out on the couch at 7:30. Monday night Ray found her that way at 6:30. It’s partly the heat and partly the full days — tomorrow will begin at 7:30 am with physical therapy; yesterday ended at 5:15 when music therapy was over. There’s a lot in between.

And so much that won’t fit.

I sit with Sophie and we do her bit of homework — reading a book with a few words on each page — and across the dining room table, Annabelle is slaving. Third grade comes with an explosion of homework (the teacher calls it “home learning,” but I refuse!) and expectations. Suddenly my little girl has an “agenda” with assignments written in it; algebra problems; spelling words like tortoise and wrench. Tonight she had to find an ad in a magazine and write about whether it’s designed to persuade, inform or entertain.

The other day, Annabelle looked up from her work and read my mind. “How will Sophie do in third grade?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her, trying to keep my tone light. Even now, I can feel Sophie slipping away from her class. Maybe. After she read her book aloud tonight (I’ll admit she did darn well with “The Hat”), I handed Sophie an envelope I found in her backpack. Inside were little pieces of paper with a letter on each, and instructions to form words from a list. We laid out the half-dozen pieces and I looked at Sophie.

“OK, spell the word TAP,” I said, with no expectation that she would. She did, immediately, looking — well, looking bored.

Of course, if this was fiction, that’s where this little tale would have ended — a gift of an anecdote, wrapped with a lovely bow. But the truth is that after she spelled TAP, I suggested she spell AT. She spelled TA instead, at first looking confused, then cracking up and saying, “Ta ta!” From then on she was either unable or unwilling to do any more spelling.

To be fair to Sophie, it was about 15 minutes later that I found her passed out on the couch. There. That’s not a bad bow, huh?

Note: The photo above was taken several days earlier, but in a similar scenario to that described.

In the end, we didn’t make a cake today, because I realized too late that I had no icing in the house. If you watched “Cake Boss” on TLC (or “Ace of Cakes” on the Food Network — cakes are apparently “in”), you would know that you need to “dirty ice” your cake with buttercream before laying the fondant over it. Annabelle didn’t want to go back to Safeway, so instead she practiced cutting shapes with some leftover fondant from the other night.

The other night, she and I whipped up our first (but clearly not last) fondant cake, in honor of my father in law’s 70th birthday.

I approached this endeavor the way I approach most things I haven’t done before: with great fear.

But the fondant was so easy (I highly recommend buying the top-of-the-line fondant — it’ll be a dollar more per container, well worth it according to the woman at the baking supply store — ours is ABC Cake Supplies in Phoenix) I tackled another never-attempted project this weekend: assembling a small cardboard storage box from IKEA.

OK, you’ve got to start somewhere. And for me, it was with a large amount of bright green fondant. Don’t forget the cornstarch and a good rolling pin. Annabelle was absolutely thrilled; we have firm plans for the next cake, which will happen when we are no longer sick. Even Ray — who has been known at times to scoff at my craft projects — admitted it was pretty cool, and requested a New York coffee cake. Sans the fondant.

The best part: My father in law actually liked it! At least he said so, and both girls beamed. (Sophie actually fell asleep before the cake cooled enough to decorate, but she was in on the planning.) Now, I’m not sure I saw my father in law take a bite of cake, but to be honest, neither did I. Under the fondant, Betty Crocker was just a little too involved for my taste. Have you ever smelled her “buttercream” icing? Gross.

But hey, this is art. As for me, I’m going to keep working on my “Never Done Before, To Do” list.

Note: I had every intention of successfully posting a photo of the girls and their grandpa and the cake — but let’s just say my trip to the Genius Bar at the Apple store didn’t leave me a genius. Tomorrow, I promise. And on my “Never Done Before, To Do” list: master computer.

Annabelle is home sick.

She, Sophie and I all caught colds (a record — school’s barely been back two weeks) and while Sophie and I are fully functional though snuffly, as often happens, Annabelle’s went straight to her chest and she was up at 3:30 this morning, coughing that terrifying croup-y cough. I don’t think it’s technically croup, but close enough. She and I stayed home.

I dragged her to Safeway for milk, then put her in front of the TV and made her favorite egg and rice dish; there are artichokes steaming right now, another favorite. I was really proud that I remembered to cancel my lunch appointment, only to remember that I forgot I’d double booked when the phone rang at 11:45. Damnit.

The edges of my facade are peeling up — more than usual. I’m off to the Genius Bar at the Apple store when Ray gets home tonight (that’s why I haven’t posted any photos lately; my IT problems have snowballed) and I’m schizo in that way I always am when I work at home: I have plenty of real work to do, but the house is a sty and I know I’ll be so much more productive on the computer as soon as I reorganize the VHS tapes. (I actually just did that; it only made me want to tackle the DVDs.)

As is so often the case, Annabelle’s the one who cut through the cobwebs, reminding me of what I should really be doing.

Pretending to eat her rice, she mentioned — out of nowhere — that when she’s on Project Runway (not if but when) she’ll be sure to do it before she has kids, since otherwise they’ll miss her while she’s gone.

And then a few minutes later, she asked if we could please please please bake. And use the fondant. I paused to consider it. If we do that, there goes any hope of any more cleaning or working — and it’ll make a giant mess. We’ll waste the last of the fondant I made her promise we’d save for a special occasion.

It was a no brainer.

“Yes,” I said. “We can.”

You know those friends — friends you can go years without seeing, but when you do see them, it’s like no time has passed?

That’s my friend Heather. Love her. Loveherloveherloveher. We met as undergrads and somehow 20-plus years passed and here we are. After college she went to law school and met a cute boy and and suddenly we’re all old married people with kids. We wedged in a visit for a couple hours when Ray and the girls and I made our way through Los Angeles at the end of our epic road trip earlier this month.

As Heather put it, the hurried lunch at the old farmer’s market near the CBS studios (oh my gosh, I love going to that farmer’s market — it’s pretty much as it has been for decades, I imagine, even with Donna Parker visited in “Donna Parker Goes to Hollywood,” one of my all-time favorite books; Donna was a Nancy Drew wanna be and a reporter for her high school newspaper — major nerd alert) was a tease — it only made us both want a proper visit — but “dessert” was very satisfying: a trip to the American Girl store.

I’m so old, I missed the first round of American Girl action. (That, or they just weren’t big in Phoenix in the 70s.) Our babysitters all had them. My first introduction to the concept actually came at Heather’s house, years ago. Her daughter Ava, who’s about a year and a half older than Annabelle (funny, at the time Annabelle was born it felt like Heather had a teenager, that’s how skewed your perspective of time gets as a new parent) has more than one doll, and a trunk of clothing and accessories. Heather highly recommended AG as a nice alternative to Barbies and the big-lipped Bratz dolls that freak me out. (Actually, I don’t know anyone who’s not freaked out by them.)

Some of the toy options for little kids are downright scary. I recall vividly that on her second birthday, Annabelle received Rio de Janeiro Barbie as a gift, and since the gift came from one of our sitters, I couldn’t do what I normally do with a gift I don’t approve of and stick it straight into the giveaway bag. The sitter would have noticed. So I gave Annabelle the Barbie, which she promptly stripped to her birthday suit and turquoise blue pumps.

Barbie is always standing on her tip toes, ready for heels. I don’t believe they make anything but flats for the American Girl. Not that I’m worried my kid will become a slut because she likes to play with naked dolls in f***-me pumps, but still, it just seems a little unsavory once you’ve been introduced to the world of the American Girl.

And what a world it is. Last holiday season, we finally brought Mia (Girl of the Year, an ice skater with beautiful blonde hair) into the family. She was followed this summer by Chrissa for Sophie (another Girl of the Year, she’s a swimmer who gets bullied at school) and Rebecca (I wasn’t going to get Annabelle another doll, but then they introduced a Jewish American Girl  — so what was I supposed to do when she asked for it?!)

The dolls aren’t cheap, and the clothes are downright outrageous. I devoted a Rubbermaid to them in a recent fit of organizing, and plan to hold onto the loot and oversee all play sessions involving American Girl accessories, in order to protect my investment from drifting to the bottom of various toy baskets, never to be seen whole — or clean — again.

Catalogue and online shopping don’t compare, I realized, as I passed through the doors of the Los Angeles American Girl store that Saturday afternoon. I’d been to the store in New York this summer, but alone, and only for five minutes to grab the latest dolls. This time we went all the way to the back — to the hair salon.

Yes, the hair salon. You can see it in the photo at the top of this post — a row of teeny tiny chairs, with full-sized women busily combing out the mess your kid has made of her doll’s hair. I got out of the hair part cheap, for $15, since Annabelle didn’t desire an updo for Rebecca. I’d already heard about the cafe where your AG doll sits next to you in a chair made just for her (I don’t know if they serve the dolls fake food, we didn’t eat there) but I hadn’t heard about the doll holders in the ladies room.

Yes, the doll holders. You can use the toilet without worrying about where to put your doll.

At least they didn’t have doll-sized toilets. In fact, despite the fact that the shopping trip cost me a small fortune, nothing about the American Girl experience was really so outrageous.

Or maybe it’s just that I bowed to oh-so-gentle peer pressure from Heather and Ava. That’s okay. I’ll take all the influence I can, from that family. I only wish we lived closer. But with that American Girl store just minutes from Heather’s house, I’m sure we’ll be back soon. I’ll start saving now.

I skidded to a stop in front of the sign-out book at aftercare yesterday, threw my arms in the air and yelled, “5:59 and 24 seconds! Yes!” I scrawled my name and the time, then quickly dug into wallet for my ID.

The girl behind the table just looked me, not comprehending my joy at arriving before the official Late Time of 6 pm. “You’re here to get Annabelle, right?”

I was surprised. They require you to show ID in exchange for the kid, at the afterschool program Annabelle attends. That’s fine with me — I don’t want someone else walking off with her. And I didn’t know this staffer.

“Oh, you look just like her,” she said, smiling at my frown. “Or, I mean, she looks just like you.”

Best compliment ever is when anyone says either of the kids looks like me, considering I could stare at them both for hours on end, marveling at their beauty. (And yet, I look at myself in the mirror and increasingly see my grandfather’s face — not a good look. Go figure.)

That exchange got me thinking. I’ve been computer shopping this week. Well, okay, the truth is that after years of agonizing over the thought of switching from a PC to a Mac, the actual shopping consisted of 18 minutes at the Apple store — where, upon learning that one laptop’s battery will last 7 hours at a time  while the other’s will last just 4, I announced, “Ring it up and give me all the technical support I can buy.”

For the other 17 and a half minutes, I let the hipster in the turquoise tee shirt drone on about operating systems and RAM and memory and “the next generation”. Which is what got me thinking yesterday afternoon, as I watched Annabelle demonstrate her hula hooping skills before agreeing to grab her backpack and head home, that she’s definitely a step above the old system. Like the Mac I’m picking up later today, she’s the new and improved generation.

And yet, there are some system quirks deep in our shared DNA that even Steve Jobs couldn’t upgrade.

I know I’m her mom, but Annabelle’s one cool kid — and in dozens of ways I never was. She’s incredibly kind to her sister, something I didn’t master til my mid-thirties, at least, if ever (that’s up to my sister to determine, of course). Thanks to Ray (with a nod to his mom) Annabelle will eat all sorts of vegetables, and she shows some talent at piano. Shee can draw and dance (thanks to my mom — the talent skipped me, damnit) and she has an ability to make friends that surpasses that of anyone on either side of the family. I watched her on her first day of kindergarten and thought, “She’s not me, thank god.”  

And yet, as the end of that piece I did for the local NPR station reveals, sometimes she totally is me. I had a feeling it would all start to emerge in earnest in third grade — and I was right.

Third grade, as I recall, is when things started getting tough for me. Not impossible, just not impossibly easy. I’ve watched Annabelle sail these last three years of elementary school and wondered when she’d hit the wall. She hasn’t — not yet, and not by a long shot — but I can tell, a week and a half in, that this year won’t going to be easy, either.

Already, Annabelle’s managed to come home without her reading log and to lose her assignment “agenda”. Her teacher is absolutely wonderful — clearly a sweetheart who’s made it clear she likes my kid. But she’s also made it clear that she won’t stand for any shenanigans. Third grade is a big deal.

Annabelle knows it, and she’s flustered. Just like I was — and have been, ever since. The other day before school, as the kids were lining up to head into the building, Annabelle ran up to me in a panic. “I can’t find my Me bag!” she bellowed, the tears starting in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s at the bottom of your backpack.”

“NO IT’S NOT!”

I took the backpack, opened it, and dug out the Me bag — a collection of things from around the house that she was to share with the class.

“OK,” she said, but she didn’t move. The tears started to flow as she looked back toward where her class had been. Luckily her teacher had noticed her leave the line, and was kindly waiting for her. I gave her a tight hug and off she ran.

“She’s so sweet!” the teacher told me the next day, when I stopped to thank her. “It’s so cute, she always comes up to me to make sure she’s doing things right.”

Oh no, I thought. I know exactly how Annabelle feels. To this day, I can remember that panicked feeling (to tell you the truth, I still get it when I have to do something like, oh, learn how to use a new computer) in school, that urge to double check.

I’m glad she double checks, but there’s one habit I’ve got to break Annabelle of, and soon. The other day, again it was at aftercare, I was chatting with a mom, watching the girls run around for a few final minutes. Annabelle decided she wanted another carton of milk, and from the across the room, I noticed her approach one of the aftercare staffers. He was talking to a parent.

Annabelle stood next to him, and when he didn’t immediately notice her, she began gently tapping him on the arm with one finger, hoping he’d look down. I dragged her away, promising milk as soon as we got home, and later at dinner, explained.

“You can’t do that!” I told her. “And here’s why. When I was in fourth grade, I used to do that to my teacher, Mrs. Bigler, and one day she yelled at me to stop. Then I realized I was really bugging her when I did that. She didn’t want to be interrupted.”

I remember her really letting me have it, but the truth is that Mrs. Bigler probably asked me to stop in the gentlest of ways — I can still remember her wrinkly, freckled skin and short sleeved polyester pantsuits and the fact that she was very, very kind. But the admonishment was a hot poker in the psyche — I was that sensitive.

And so is Annabelle. I don’t know how to change that, short of getting her an extra 21st chromosome, because Sophie certainly doesn’t share that quirk with us. The other day she yawned, and looked exactly like Ray. But for the most part, she’s her own person. Not much of her neurotic mom in there.

Which will serve her very well, when she gets to third grade. Or has to learn how to use a new computer.

Yesterday Miss Y shared the good news that Sophie wrote her first sentence in first grade!

And here it is:

My mom goes poo.

Along with all sorts of other childish delights, Smeeks — the cool new candy store in central Phoenix — features a photo booth. The girls and I took advantage Saturday. (We’ll have to go back and figure out where the camera lens is. Whoops.)

We also shopped for fondant (turns out you can buy it pre-made — phew!) and later this week we’ll be searching for our inner “Cake Boss”. (If you haven’t seen it on TLC, it’s a must-view — in our house, anyway. Comes on just after “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” which I swear I’m going to stop watching.)

And I spent a great deal of time shoving stuff in Rubbermaid containers and finding places to shove them. We swam, Annabelle had a playdate, Ray took the girls to Chuck E. Cheese while I saw “Julie and Julia”.  Busy, busy.

It won’t surprise you, then, to learn that at, oh, I’d say approximately 8:10 this morning (about 20 minutes before we absolutely-positively-otherwise-we’ll-get-late-slips have to get out the door) Annabelle announced, in a panic, that she had not done her homework.

She praticed piano while I showered then challenged Sophie to put her shoes and socks on before I could get dressed (she won!), then remarkably, Annabelle made it through all 9 letters of her name, decorating each on a page provided by the teacher. Phew.

We didn’t get the 20 minutes of reading homework in, but tomorrow’s another day.