I swore I wouldn’t blog til I was done with my day job deadlines. That went about as well as swearing not to let the girls have any junk food this weekend. At least we made it to Sunday night.

Last night, the sleep lineup went like this:

Me, Annabelle, Sophie. I sent Ray to a different bedroom. No room.

About 15 minutes in, there was an enormous clunk. Sophie was fine, but on the floor. So then the sleep lineup changed to:

Annabelle, Sophie, Me. As usual, Sophie kicked me ALL NIGHT. She flailed all over the bed, turning like a spoked wheel, pushing me to the edge and still finding me with her feet and hands. About every five minutes (it seemed) I’d roll her as far from me as possible, tell her, “Don’t kick me, sweetie,” and receive a foot in the chest in exchange.

Finally, at about 5 a.m., I changed the tactic, and grabbed Sophie tightly in my arms, rolling around til we were both comfortable. Within minutes, we were both fast asleep. I woke up thinking about Temple Grandin. And kicking myself for not trying that sooner.

Three days a week, all summer, Sophie’s hanging with Courtney. We love her. (Not sure if I’ve already blogged about her, but she deserves another entry, for sure.) Courtney is a special ed major at Arizona State, so wise beyond her 21 years. She’s slid seamlessly into our household – not bothered if she arrives in the morning and everyone’s in PJs; patiently dealing with both pets and kids, which seem to abound around here right now; not bothered if Sophie gives her the cold shoulder (which doesn’t happen very often, come to think of it).

This afternoon I came home to a very tired kid. That’s not unusual; it’s hot, and Courtney makes sure Sophie’s days are full. Today included tutoring with Ms. X, speech therapy and a long time at a city pool — Annabelle’s summer camp was on a field trip, so Sophie and Courtney joined in, unofficially.

“She got really emotional at the end of the day,” Courtney said. Oh, I asked, was that when she had to say goodbye to Annabelle at the pool?

Courtney looked a little embarrassed.

“No,” she replied. “It was when she was going to the bathroom.”

Weird. Courtney had a good explanation, I thought. Looking even more embarrassed, she explained, “Sometimes I think she has too much time to think when she’s sitting on the toilet.”

See why we love Courtney?

I just couldn’t do it.

Existential crisis: Do I get the minivan?

Ray was suspicious.

“Who’s this party for, anyhow?” he asked, as I dragged in yet another bag of materials for Annabelle’s birthday party, launching them onto the already-overflowing dining room table.

I bristled, but of course he was right — the party wasn’t just for Annabelle.

She had a hell of a time, though. My vindication came about halfway through the event yesterday, when my mother pulled me into a corner to stage whisper that Annabelle had just announced, “This is the best birthday party ever!”

Even Ray had to admit it was pretty cool. Project Annabelle was a success.

True, there were some sad younger siblings. We only included kids Annabelle’s age (plus Sophie), a change from the free-for-all parties I usually favor. And by the end of the day I was calling it Project-What-The-Hell-Was-I-Thinking as I removed sequins from all sorts of places around the house. Still, all in all, a big thumbs up.

The concept was simple: Invite seven girls over, put them around the dining room table (safely protected with oilcloth, naturally) and let them create an outfit. Then, a fashion show for the parents, and cupcakes.

The execution was less simple. It involved multiple trips to SAS Fabrics, Michael’s, various dollar stores and Target, and even at that we had a last minute run to Walgreen’s for more accessories and hair gel. I piled a table with notions — everything from tiny ribbons to oversized rick rack, patches, fabric remnants, beaded trim, fabric markers, fake fur — then added glue, scissors, a Bedazzler and, as it turned out, eight adults.

The idea was to surprise the parents, so my friends (along with my mom and one of Sophie’s babysitters) graciously volunteered to help hot glue, cut, stitch, curl, lipstick and accessorize. (The girls all had their own ideas; but we didn’t want them handling sharp scissors and needles or hot glue and curling irons. Or mascara.) Three hour laters, we had a fabulous runway show, eight delighted girls and eight exhausted adults.

I wish my pictures were better. The assignment was to create a Back to School outfit using a white tee shirt. Sophie was precious in a Bedazzled tee  tied at the shoulders in silver sequins and finished with a purple polka dotted Snoopy “skirt”. One party guest trimmed and tucked her shirt into a two piece tube top and fringed mini. Another covered hers in fake roses. Kathleen (pictured above) manned the hot glue gun for hours.

Annabelle’s outfit was lovely, if I say so myself (and not because I helped her with it — I’m useless in the sewing department; that was all Trish), with a simple design nipped in at the sides, trimmed with beaded fringe, fake yellow fur and a big jeweled applique. She finished it with a sequined hat and purse (the Dollar Tree’s finest) and someone even straightened her hair.

I can’t figure out just what it is that’s so satisfying about the Do It Yourself, arts and crafts movement. I pore over Martha, shop on etsy.com, and when the documentary “Handmade Nation” came to town, it was a near-religious experience. Whatever it is, Annabelle gets it. (And she’s even good at it — far better already than I ever was.)

We’re not alone. Everyone’s favorite gift yesterday was created by 7-year-old Teadora, who embroidered a dog dreaming of a cupcake, painted it, then decorated it with sprinkles. Her mom Gilda framed it for her.

“NO WAY!” Annabelle screamed in delight. We’re looking for just the right place to hang it.

This morning, when I ran back to her room to grab some socks as we headed out the door, I noticed Annabelle had placed her tee shirt dress in a place of honor, draped over the chair where her American Girl dolls sit.

And the season’s not quite over. Since my sister and her family live out of town, they weren’t able to come yesterday. So it’s been decided we’ll have a Project Annabelle sequel on our beach trip later this summer. Luckily I  have plenty of materials left over.

Today was Project Annabelle — the DIY birthday party that would have put me over the edge, or at least under the kitchen table, were it not for my friends.

Handmade Birthday: The Finale is coming to a computer screen near you, soon, complete with a lot of photos. But first, I must devote a post to the Rose Sisters.

The most valuable element of the handmade/arts & crafts movement is not the Bedazzler, despite the opinion of some of today’s 8-year-old party guests. No, it’s time. Particularly when it’s the time of  a 14-year-old girl.

Not long ago, my dear friend Trish stopped mid-conversaton and remarked that, wow, Annabelle is the age Abbie was when Annabelle was born. It gave us both pause. Talk about a shortage of time. Where did it go? Trish is our guardian angel, and her daughter Abbie is GA, Jr. — babysitter extraordinaire, all-around great kid. Later this summer she’ll accompany us to the beach for the third (or is it fourth?) time, to help chase the girls and their cousins.

Trish was there when Annabelle was born. We called the girls the Rose Sisters. (You know my history with the name Rose, so I can’t get away with saying Annabelle Rose is named after Abigail Rose, but it was a sweet coincidence.)

I started to tear up when I spied the “tag” on the gift Trish was carrying when she arrived this morning, a photo of Annabelle at a year, and Abbie somewhere between 8 and 9. Abbie was signed up to help the party guests make outfits for our fashion show, and Trish graciously offered to stay, too, “if you have a job for me.”

Oh, did I.

Trish and Abbie both worked like mad, measuring girls, cutting fringe, sewing nips and tucks and — I know it sounds corny, but it’s true — making the little girls’ dream outfits come true. Trish had chosen an adorable gift, as always, a precious paper doll book called “Rosie Flo,” but you already know what’s coming . The best gift, of course, was getting to hang with Trish and Abbie.

Last night Trish commented very casually that the last time Abbie babysat, she had a really nice time hanging out with Annabelle. To be honest, that doesn’t happen too often. Abbie usually spends time with Sophie, while Annabelle’s off finding adventures, or, to be honest, while I’m hogging a little alone time with my first-born.

I know Abbie loves Sophie; their bond rivals the Sophie/Ms. X love connection. But she loves Annabelle, too. I’ll have to make sure the Rose Sisters get some quality time together at the beach.

The drama camp was optimistically entitled, “The Best Week Ever.”

I don’t know that the week lived up to the name, but Sophie had a good enough time. We gathered this morning for her stage debut. The kids acted out scenes they’d created themselves (as much as 5, 6 and 7 year olds can, I suppose) and only a couple had any substantial lines, which is why I didn’t really mind that Sophie’s one line consisted of two words.

Her scene takes place at the beach. Sophie runs onto the stage, tosses herself onto her back — arms and legs out — and waits for another little girl to say, “What a beautiful starfish!”

And then comes Sophie’s line, which she delivered today with more gusto and volume than just about any other performer:

“THANK YOU!”

We all laughed til we cried. Sophie was pretty happy, too. Afterward, the teacher (not the one I remembered from “Pearls” — she hightailed it out of there as soon as the performance ended, maybe even before, only heightening my concern that she had, in fact, been avoiding me) said Sophie was welcome any time.

This morning, before the performance, Ray and I were wandering around the kitchen, opening Diet Cokes and making espressos and remarking on how much fun Sophie was having with drama.

“Maybe Sophie will be an actress!” Ray said. “She really has some skill for memorizing, and she loves to be around people.”

I made a face. “Yeah, that’s what she’s expected to do. Remember Corky? People with Down syndrome go into acting. I kind of want her to do something different.”

My always-wise husband remarked, “So just because Jews are often writers, does that mean you can’t be one?”

Maybe I’ll sign Sophie up for another week of drama camp.

Basketball camp ended today, and not a moment too soon. I don’t think I could have taken much more. My stomach was in knots all week.

Annabelle tried to smile this morning when I said it was time to get ready, but I could tell she was wishing the day was over. At 2:30 I showed up to see her last game, and she really was all smiles, though I’m not sure the ball ever touched her hands.

(Maybe that’s why. I spent my entire career in P.E. avoiding balls. When Ray and I discovered recently that I wasn’t terrified of the badminton birdie, it was a big breakthrough. No kidding.)

After the game, the kids gathered on the court for an awards ceremony. My heart pounded a little. I so wanted Annabelle to get an award for something — and yet, I didn’t. She wasn’t the best at anything technical, that much was clear, and while she was a good sport I don’t imagine she was the best sport. She was pretty obviously biding her time all week.

(And hey, that’s better than I would have done. As I remarked to my father yesterday, I would have thrown up to get out of going at all. Seriously. I spent much of my childhood as a nervous vomiter. Nice.)

The awards concluded, but the ceremony wasn’t quite over. The coaches were motioning a group of girls — the smallest girls — to the front. Annabelle scampered up, a big smile on her face, and the girls did a cheer. Each kid introduced herself, then did a gymnastic move. Oh no, I thought as they got started. Something else Annabelle’s not so good at.

But her cheer was adorable. It went something like this:

“My name is Annabelle! My defense toots! And you’ll know it, because I’m CUTE!”

And she slid neatly into the splits, to loud cheers.

“Did they do that last year?” I asked Mrs. M. “No,” she replied, looking confused. It did seem a bit out of place. But I didn’t care. Annabelle ended the week beaming, and it wasn’t because of some fake award someone tossed at her. She got to feel good in front of her peers, even if it was for a silly little cheer.

For a silly little sport.

(A small addendum, since I wrote this earlier today. I came home this evening and cheekily announced to Annabelle, “Hey, basketball camp called and said you have to come back again tomorrow!”

I instantly regretted — and recanted — my little joke when I saw the look of horror.  A few hours later, I tucked her in and got ready to sing our nightly “Hey Jude,” but before I started I gave her a hug and told her how proud I was of her.

“And don’t worry,” I said, “you never ever have to go back to basketball camp again!”

“I don’t know,” she said, stretching and grinning, almost sheepishly. “I might go again. They really want me to come back.” She rolled over and got her Special Blankie, running her hands over it til she found the right spot to “soft.”

“I don’t have to decide now,” she concluded. “I have a whooooooooooooooole long time to think about it!”

So thank you again, Mrs. M. And good night.)

A small voice came from the backseat.

“Mommy, why did you sign me up for basketball camp?”

We were on our way to the third day of basketball camp. The first two days of camp, Annabelle insisted she loved it. Til last night, when she admitted that she cried once during warm ups, because she was trying to dribble the ball and it bounced off her foot and rolled away.

“But then I realized it was silly to cry and I stopped!” she announced this morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house. (The conversation had continued on — and on.)

That was awfully stoic. The stoicism faded as we approached the arena, and by the time we got inside, the tears were welling up. It was barely past 9, but warm ups were already well underway, and I realized why she was upset. Shit, that was hard! I watched her grab a ball, take her spot, struggle.

“You know, my mother never made me stay at anything more than the first day if I didn’t like it,” my dear friend Mrs. M. said in my ear. She’s the reason I even knew about the camp; her daughter’s in it, too. Mrs. M. is very wise.

“Yeah, mine never made me do much I didn’t want to do either,” I replied, watching Annabelle chase after her ball. It was so big and her hands were so small; a losing proposition.

She didn’t ask to leave. She’s so brave. I thought about swooping her up and taking her with me — far away from horrible things like running and large balls and coaches with booming voices — but instead I split the difference by summoning a kind looking young woman.

The woman brushed me off at first. “She’ll be fine!” she said. “As soon as you leave, she won’t be upset.”

“No,” I explained, “it’s not that. She really can’t do any of it! She just needs someone to tell her that’s okay.”

The woman and I watched for a few moments. Then she smiled an I-feel-sorry-for-your-uncoordinated-family kind of smile with her lips together and walked over to another young woman, and whispered to her. The woman nodded and walked over by Annabelle.

I felt a little better. I’m not sure about Annabelle.

“What do you mean?” I asked her, when she wondered why I sent her to basketball camp. Did she mean, “Why are you torturing me?” Or, “Do you expect me to actually learn how to play this game?” Or, “What kind of a crappy mother are you?”

Or –what?

She couldn’t really tell me, or wouldn’t. I think I know what she meant, though. In any case, at least tomorrow’s the last day of basketball camp. Next week we’ll be back to arts and crafts and a different kind of drama.

I wonder if someday, Annabelle will make her daughter go to basketball camp.