This morning at camp drop-off, it was smiles all around. I think Sophie would prefer basketball to drama (in the abstract, anyway) and maybe Annabelle would still rather have it in reverse, but both girls are happy.

Phew.

As we walked down the steep ramp to the basketball arena yesterday morning, the First Day, I thought Annabelle was going to lose it. As soon as she saw the lowered hoops — and, I think, sensed the lowered expectations — she was okay. Today I got a double thumbs up.

Sophie’s camp experience has been downright uneventful. I have the sitter with her, though I’m guessing we’d be okay without her. (Sophie might but I wouldn’t so the sitter stays.)

But one thing was a little bizarre. It’s what my friend and colleague Robrt (that’s not a typo, it’s how he spells it) calls a Phoenix Moment, given the small world nature of this town. I call it more proof that the theater world is just full of drama.

A few years back, some writing pals and I got together and put on a play. You can do that kind of thing in Phoenix. No, really, you can. And people will even come. We gathered monologues about motherhood from writers we’d worked with in the Mothers Who Write class, found a director and a venue and dates and named it Pearls: Motherhood Unstrung.

I make it sound so easy. It was a gigantic pain in the ass. But it happened, we did it, in large thanks to the co-producer, an amazing actor/writer/mom/person named  Debra Rich Gettleman, and, frankly, her husband’s pediatric practice, our largest benefactor. No, we didn’t make it to Broadway, but we had a respectable run. And we did it all from scratch.

Pearls is but a distant memory at this point. It’s where I learned just how much drama there can be in the world of theater. (Oy! That’s all I’ll say.) I went to as many performances as I could — hey, they were performing my stuff! My stories about Sophie, from pre-motherhood to the notion that the world retarded just isn’t funny anymore. I was a pig in shit, mainly because I had two incredible actors doing my role. (They switched off.)

I had forgotten the casting drama. But something about Pearls tickled the edge of my memory Sunday night, when I read the details about Sophie’s camp. One of the teacher’s names sounded so familiar. I emailed Debra. She emailed me back the next morning to say yeah, it should sound familiar. That’s the actor who originally accepted the role as “Amy” then backed out at the last minute. I never knew exactly why she didn’t take the role, but now I do know why the teacher/actor didn’t quite catch my eye yesterday morning. At least, I think that’s why.

Really, what were the chances of that happening?

Did Sophie’s teacher remember Pearls? Hmmm, I don’t know. Oh, come on. There aren’t many kids with Down syndrome named Sophie in this town, with moms named Amy.

Or maybe her memory’s as bad as mine. True, she and I never met face to face. At least, I don’t think we did.

In any case, AWKWARD. Do I say something? Or do I uncharacteristically leave it be, put on my game face, and let the girls enjoy their week at camp?

Ah, the drama.

Happy Father’s Day to all the fabulous dads out there — including my own, and Ray. I’ve already burned several batches of Toll House cookies this morning, in your honor. (Turns out duct tape works really well for holding the broken oven door shut. And good thing I always make a double batch of dough.)

The other day, Ray said something that’s stuck with me. It went something like this.

“You know,” he said, “the majority of people who are mentally retarded have Down syndrome. So society’s definition of ‘retarded’ is a person with Down syndrome.”

(I didn’t fact check this, but Ray tends — annoyingly — to be right.)

His words kept running through my head today, at the mall. I’ll be honest: I felt like I was with the poster child for the retarded. Annabelle and Ray were bike shopping (early birthday present) so Sophie and I snuck off to to pick up Father’s Day gifts at the paint-your-own pottery store. I hate those stores. I used to love them, a decade or so when they first got big, but really, now they just depress me — mainly because I feel like such a bitch for hating them. I have no right; it’s not like I can draw to save my life. I am not out-of-the-box creative, though I long to be. But I know it when I see it, and that pottery stuff ain’t it. All those cheerful plates and mugs — you can go to any “As You Wish” pottery store (or a counterpart) anywhere in the country and the crap people are making will all look the same. It’s contrived art, like that other hobby I keep swearing I’ll stop badmouthing, scrapbooking.

Still, those pottery places are good in a pinch for personalized kid gifts, I must say. (And yes, it’s occurred to me that this blog is not unlike a virtual scrapbook. No better, that’s for sure.)

Now that was a digression. Anyhow, it’s a long walk from As You Wish to the splash pad at the mall, and we were walking round trip, which gave Sophie plenty of time to show off to greater Phoenix just what retarded looks like. That is so mean. But it’s all I could think. She was in a silly mood — I love those moods, even on display. And yet, as she gets older I’m seeing the dark side of silly start to emerge, particularly as Sophie’s speech improves.

“What’s your name?” is followed by, “What’s your last name?” and today she started adding, “This is my mom.” (And she usually repeats it all several times for good measure — “What’s your name? What’s your name? What’s your name?”) This happened, oh, a dozen times or so on our walk through the mall. Mainly Sophie chose teenage girls or middle-aged women, all of whom were happy to oblige. They stopped and smiled and patiently answered the questions.

You are wondering here, “Why doesn’t her mother stop this behavior?” I’m wondering the same thing. But honestly, I’m stumped. Short of strapping her in a stroller and putting duct tape over her mouth, there’s just no way to stop Friendly Sophie — at least, not a way I’ve found. And it’s impossible to convince the public at large to act aloof, which is the only chance of making it end. We’re doomed.

And yet today, when it did end, it crushed me.

As we left the pottery store, Sophie was feeling great, sassy as can be, dancing to the piped-in teeny bopper music, shaking her hips in her Hawaiian print bathing suit, ready to take it to a new level. She spotted her prey: Two teenage boys, as sullen as Sophie was sweet, completely disinterested in — well, in much of anything at all, particularly the teeny tiny person stopped in their path, grinning, calling, “LOOK!” and pointing to her new suit.

The boys kept going; they didn’t even look in her direction. Now, I barely noticed this, so lost in my own thoughts — wondering how it could be that I, as self-conscious and painfully introspective as I am, could have created a little being so utterly guileless, so unaware of how the world views her. But I did notice, and when Sophie stopped in her tracks, so did I.

I looked down at her crestfallen face. “Sophie, did that make you sad?” I asked.

“No!” she announced, picking up her pace, head down with her hair falling in her face. And she wouldn’t say another word about it. But something changed. She was still silly and had a good time splashing, but she didn’t say hello to another stranger, today at the mall. And when she was quietly eating her yogurt a little later, she looked downright gloomy. I’ve noticed that about people with Down syndrome — they either look giddy or sad. There’s not much of an in between. It reminds me of the older teenagers working at our Safeway, the ones who refuse to look you in the eye or smile. They’ve clearly been trained to not give hugs or shake their butts or ask shoppers for their names, and that’s a good thing — I’m sure it’s done mostly for safety, but also so the shoppers don’t have to see them acting all retarded and stuff, when they’re just trying to get out of the store with the milk and sugar. But those kids look straight out of Stepford; it’s like someone wrung the personality out of them.

Tomorrow, the whole thing  at the mall will have been forgotten. We’ll go out somewhere — Walgreen’s or maybe the zoo — and Friendly Sophie will be back as though nothing ever happened. At least, I hope so.

Don’t I?

Over the rainbow? Try over the moon. Cloud 9, for sure.

“I really didn’t want this week to end,” Annabelle said dreamily, as we stood in line this afternoon to order her a peach smoothie at the coffee shop next to the dance studio. Who can blame her? She was Dorothy in the combo Wiz/Wicked/Wizard of Oz production her ballet teacher whipped up to keep a handful of girls occupied for the past five days.

I wish it would last all summer, too. Next week, things might get ugly. Annabelle’s signed up for basketball camp. She doesn’t want to go.

“I just don’t feel comfortable!” she keeps saying. True, it’s not her milieu, though the second grade girls do like to play a bit of basketball in school. Annabelle’s by far the shortest in her class; I’m not sure she’s ever made a basket. (I have — once in my life.)

My mother asked, “Why are you setting her up for defeat?” Even Ray, Mr. Adventure, who just this evening took Annabelle for a bike ride on the mean streets of Tempe, isn’t crazy about the idea.

I told Annabelle she has to go for the first day. After that, we’ll reevaluate.

Then there’s Sophie. Poor Sophie. She’s been jonesing for her own chance to get on stage all summer. Finally, one of our favorite sitters, Courtney, convinced me to try signing her up for the theater camp Annabelle did. We found a camp next week, for 5 to 7 year olds, cheerily entitled, “The Best Week Ever.”

I got online and filled out the form, put in my debit card information, and hit “submit,” considering the caveat that said, “absolutely no refunds.” I wonder if it works both ways. There’s no question on the form about whether your child is developmentally disabled. These folks just assume the kids will all be typical.

Before I summoned the courage to call the camp, I called my dear friend Deborah.

“i think i just did something i shouldn’t have done,” I said in a tiny voice. She talked me off the ledge, insisting she didn’t think it would be a problem, and she was right — so far, anyway. I called a woman I barely know (like really barely — we’ve emailed once or twice and might be Facebook friends, I can’t recall) who works for the program and told her about Sophie, adding quickly that I’d already paid and I would be sending Sophie with an aide.

She seemed cool with it. So we’ll see. We’re definitely all getting kicked out of our comfort zone next week — all except Sophie, I’m betting. She’s clearly destined for the stage. I expect next Friday I’ll be writing say she stole the show.

That, or I’ll be writing much sooner to say we’re back to looking for something for her to do.

I’m not sure which time it happened — whether it was on the occasion of Sophie’s first open heart surgery, when she was four months old, or the second, when she was four years old. We were ushered into a tiny exam room at Phoenix Childrens Hospital — a pre-surgery check, it’s where they put your baby in a gown and give you some time alone with her before they saw her chest open — and the image above was hanging on the wall. I lost it.

The hospital is filled with bright art, created by local artists and children. It’s lovely, but this image took my breath away – because of the content, obviously, but also the artist. I knew instantly whose work it was.

Rose Johnson was a favorite of mine from the early 1990s, when I arrived home in Phoenix, looking for something bright to focus on. She illustrated stories for the paper and I went to all of her shows. I didn’t know her well but when Ray and I were married, I hired her to do some details for our wedding program. On her own, she drove up to the spot we had the ceremony and sketched details of the Royal Palms hotel. She also did woodcut-esque drawings of both Izzy the cat and Rosy the dog, which we included on the program. And a beautiful image with our names — including cactus for Ray and roses for me. I had that made into a stamp and went crazy with it. I got the stamp out to show you — here’s a not very good example:

Rose moved to Bisbee a long while ago, and for years I’d get occasional postcards when she’d have a show, and I think she still did work for New Times from time to time. She was off the radar, but came back on it suddenly at the end of May, when it was learned she’d passed away in Bali after drinking tainted rice wine. She was just 48.

You can read all about Rose and her art and what happened (or might have happened) in Bali in a terrific cover story we ran this week by Kathleen Vanesian. What amazed me about her passing is the patchwork of people I know who knew and loved Rose that emerged — largely thanks to Facebook — and taught me yet again what a small town Phoenix is.  

I always meant to write to Rose and tell her about finding her image with the nurse and the heart, but I never did. I’d like to say I think that somehow she knew anyhow, but that’s too hokey even for me, so I’ll have to leave this with some strings untied….

Last night was pretty magical. The girls and I were invited to our dear friend Kathy’s house, to make Father’s Day gifts. As she explained to Annabelle and Sophie (and two other little girls who came along), for as long as she can remember, Kathy’s made her own father chocolate chip cookies every Father’s Day. She doesn’t have daughters, she told mine, so she wants to continue the tradition with them.

Kathy’s amazing. You might remember her as the baker of a gazillion cupcakes for Sophie’s birthday party. I met her a few years before I had kids, and I’ve been grateful ever since, not only for her friendship but for her talent in a massage method called myofascial release. (I know it sounds dirty, but it isn’t! If you have a bad back — or a bad anything, really — look into it.)

After dozens of hours on her table, we’ve emerged close friends — she’s a kindred spirit in so many ways, from a love of “Sex and the City” to a desire to hoard craft supplies — and lately we’ve bonded over something quite different: IQ numbers.

The other day I was feeling sorry for myself, thinking about how this battle over Sophie’s IQ and services has dragged on for more than a year, about how much I hate the fact the fact that I have to prove my kid’s dumb to keep her getting the therapies that are making her smart, or at least, allowing her intelligence to come out. Then I had to stop, when I considered Kathy’s situation.

Some background: The reason I met Kathy in the first place is because she and her family were the subject of a 1994 story in Phoenix New Times (my day job) by my colleague Paul Rubin. Kathy’s sister Cindy was murdered by her husband and his brother. They were sentenced to death more than 20 years ago. But they’re both still around. Not long ago, a change in the law gave them a chance at life — by allowing them to claim they are mentally retarded, and didn’t have the wits to know they were doing wrong when they killed my friend’s sister.

I don’t have the space or prowess to explain it all here, but my colleague Sarah Fenske’s recent blog post about the case includes good detail and links to the original pieces about the case. Kathy and I have never really discussed it, but I am no fan of the death penalty. Still, the idea that these men would claim to be retarded in order to escape the ultimate punishment makes me want to wring their necks myself. (Really, read what Sarah and Paul have written about the case. These guys plotted a murder and insurance scam, collected death row wives, the list goes on.)

The decision came down about a month ago. Michael Apelt, Cindy’s husband, is not retarded, said the judge (in what I am told is a groundbreaking decision with international implications). But his brother Rudy is. Now Kathy — who has spent a good chunk of the last 20-plus years in courtrooms, dealing with all this bullshit — has to face the idea that one day, Rudy might go free.

There is no chance for life without parole; that wasn’t an option at the time of conviction. I told you this was screwed up. Dare I say it — it’s really retarded.

I don’t think I need to explain why, in the midst of all of this, Kathy has been drawn to Sophie. Sophie (Annabelle, too) absolutely adores her — calls her KathyMonkman, all one word, always – and last night absolutely refused to leave Kathy’s house.

“I stay here!” Sophie said, her arm around Kathy’s neck. I was tempted to leave her. Kathy doesn’t talk about it much, but the sadness is always there. I know it is. I took Sophie home with me last night (hey, I’m selfish that way) but we planned our next outing, to the drive-in movies, for a picnic in our pajamas.

No more pity parties for me, I vowed silently, as we drove home. If Kathy can keep a good attitude in the midst of what she’s been through — and continues to go through — then damnit, so can I.

As we lounged in the tent, waiting for Ray to return with firewood, I told the girls a little story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Ray and a girl named Amy.

When Ray was a little boy, his family loved to camp, and one of their favorite places to camp was San Diego. They stayed at a place called Campland.

When Amy was a little girl, her family liked to stay in hotels. One of their favorite places to stay in hotels was San Diego. They stayed at a place called Vacation Village.

The story was longer than that — it actually has a plot, Ray and Amy meet (though not at the neighboring Campland and Vacation Village) and fall in love and vacation with their own family — but the beginning pretty much sums it up.

Growing up, I stayed in hotels. Ray camped. And let’s just say we’re both creatures of habit. Not that Ray hasn’t gotten into the groove of staying in hotels over the years. And we have camped. But I have to admit that it’s been a while. A long while.

Recently Ray reminded me we actually haven’t camped since before we got married. And that’s been 11 plus years. Whoops.

This is the summer that will change that. With Sophie so grown-up (speaking in paragraphs, getting herself dressed, drinking iced mochas — or at least begging for them) I had to agree that it’s time. My last good excuse is gone. She’s ready.

But am I? That was the question. With a week-long trip to Yosemite coming up later in the summer, Ray wisely decided a trial run was in order, and booked a night at a campground in Sedona he’d often admired from the road.

From the road. After this past weekend, I now know those are words you don’t want to hear in association with your camp site. I had plenty of time to ponder that Saturday night, as I watched the cars whiz past our tent, just 20 yards away. At least that drowned out the sound of partiers and crying babies.

Ray’s a big fan of backwoods camping. He’s always maintained that in the camping equation, it’s the other people who are the problem. Now I agree. Plus, frankly, I’d rather pee in the woods than in a stinky outhouse. Did you know that “outhouse” is code for super deep hole in the ground? I held onto Sophie tightly, terrified she would fall in and be gone forever. I kept thinking about Baby Jessica, remember her, she fell down a mine shaft or a well or something in the 80s?

Ah, but I digress.

Camping was fun. No, really, I mean it. I had a good time. We have a ginormous tent, Ray cooked on the stove I bought him for Christmas, we had a lovely fire and roasted marshmallows, and now I know that there are some items one should never camp without, namely: paper towels, paper napkins (or at least one of the two), plastic cutlery, and an air mattress. Also Advil PM. 

And I know now that it’s important to research the campground thoroughly, before making a reservation. The setting was lovely — tucked up against Oak Creek (on the side that wasn’t tucked up against the highway), with gorgeous views of red cliffs. We and the dozens of other people we wound up camping with really enjoyed it.

My favorite person was Ben, the clean cut (very clean cut, bald, actually) guy running the campground. He was very excited when we arrived. Ray rolled down his window and here (basically) is what Ben said, pretty much in one breath:

So, this weekend, I gotta tell you, we have the lead singer of the band Linkin Park camping here. If you see him, don’t approach him, he’s a big guy, bald like me with a lot of tattoos, and he’s got an armed bodyguard with him, so don’t make any sudden moves. He’s a real family man, he’s here with his three children from three women, and also his current girlfriend, she’s a Playmate named Talinda. He’s a Christian man, he’s clean now, they won’t be making any noise, nobody will, I’ll make sure of that. You might see us walking around, I’ll introduce you, he’s my good friend, just don’t come near him on your own, okay?

Um, okay.

Great, I thought. Not only has Sophie now taken to approaching strangers and asking, “What’s your name?” she has a new follow up, “What’s your last name?”

In fact, before we’d pulled away, she’d already called out, “You don’t have any hair!” several times to Ben. He was so excited about his friend from Linkin Park he didn’t seem to hear her.

In the end, we didn’t see anyone who looked like he could front a band. And despite his best attempts, Ben wasn’t able to control the noise. Shortly before I heard the birds start tweeting Sunday morning, I heard Ray rustle out of the tent and shout, “Hey! Could you keep it down?” And finally, the partying seemed to stop. The crying babies continued, however.

I must tell you that our girls were downright perfect. They adored the tent and really bonded, playing on the porch (I told you the tent is ginormous) together quietly. They pretended Sophie broke her ankle riding her tricycle and Annabelle made bandages out of wet wipes and a cane out of a stick.

We ate sunnyside-up eggs with our hands and stuck our toes in the creek and watched the stars through the tent’s roof before Ray saved us from freezing by putting the rainflap on. It was nice.

I’ve got to say that I still don’t understand why people camp, simply because of the amount of work involved. Oh, Ray explained, it just seemed like so much work because we only stayed one night. Wait til we camp longer.

Okay, I thought. We came home and Ray unloaded the contents of his Jeep onto the dining room table, where it all still sits, three days later. Hopefully it will get put away before it’s time to pack for Yosemite.

Ray was combing out the fine details of that trip this morning, trying to find a campground that won’t be so crowded, when he suddenly said, almost to himself, “Maybe we should stay in a motel.”

“No!” I said — surprising both of us. “We’re camping!”

Friday was a very Rosy day.

Our home is always pretty rosy — if not in temperament, at least in the names of its residents: Rosie the blanket, Rosy the dog and of course Annabelle Rose. (I would have named her Rosy if I could have gotten away with it.)

And so when Rosy the dog got sick on the same day as Annabelle’s dance camp performance of “Really Rosie,” I worried it was some sort of a sad, bad sign.

Regarding Rosy the dog. I really don’t want to gross you out, but by way of explanation let me just say that I now know the real meaning of the term shitstorm. And when it happens to you when you’re 98 (in dog years) it just can’t be good. I dropped Rosy off at the vet for some blood tests, Cloroxed the back seat of my car, and got teary every time I thought about her.

That was when I wasn’t tearing up behind the Flip camera. I will warn you that you will have to be a big fan of Maurice Sendak, Carole King or Annabelle to enjoy the following video. The quality is not great and the song — “Such Sufferin” — pretty obscure. (Stick with it — she’s got a couple moves that are priceless. This is her mother talking, remember. But still!)

Speaking of obscure, I was suprised that more people aren’t familiar with “Really Rosie,” a half-hour 70s era cartoon and, later, off-Broadway musical. 

When I was a little kid, I was obsessed with teeny tiny books (Annabelle now is, as well, with no prompting; it’s clearly genetic) and when I was about her age and a nerdy bookstore lurker even then, I found a collection called “The Nutshell Library,” which includes several Sendak gems, including “One Was Johnny,” “Pierre,” “Alligators All Around,” and the aformentioned ode to chicken soup.

Those stories were merged with some others — notably one about a “demonstrative” little girl Sendak remembered from his Brooklyn neighborhood — to create “Really Rosie.” The story doesn’t make a great deal of sense, but it’s really about the music, particularly a song called “Chicken Soup with Rice.”

Here’s a snippet of the opening of the cartoon.

In the short (very short, they only had a week to do it) version performed Friday, Annabelle was the assistant director, which you won’t really get from the video I’ve posted of her. But like I said, I think you’ll enjoy her moves. 

My favorite part of the Sufferin’ song (which is a good lesson to any of us with middle class malaise, frankly; I hope you can make out the words) is the mention of Bufferin, which I had to explain to Annabelle.

And my favorite part of the Rosy the dog saga was when the vet called Saturday, admittedly bewildered, to report that Rosy’s blood tests came back and she’s just fine. We will arm ourselves with a new diet and doggie imodium and move along the yellow brick road with this week’s dance camp performance, some sort of merging of The Wizard of Oz, The Wiz and Wicked.

(Breaking news: I just heard that Annabelle will be playing Dorothy. I better get to work on my video skills.)

“Groooooooss!” I called out to my mom, as I got out of the pool at her house the other day. “I think you have mice. Take a look.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” she replied, annoyed, as we gazed at what appeared to be rodent droppings on the terra cotta tile.

“But what’s that tweeting I keep hearing?” I asked.

Turns out, hummingbird poop looks a lot like mouse poop. There’s a nest with two baby hummingbirds in the right ficus outside my parents’  kitchen window.

“Gaga, you’re a regular Snow White!” Ray said, cracking me up. It was pretty amazing.

No credit to Gaga — she didn’t even know they were there.

Actually, I take that back. My parents deserve credit for not having cats. This morning I found the fourth baby bird in four weeks, massacred on the kitchen floor. At least this one was dead. The first two weren’t, which was no fun for Ray. He’s on bird-mouse-rat-lizard patrol. I just scream.

This morning, though, I barely flinched. After 10-plus years, I’m finally getting used to it.

This spring, Lulu the striped mutt cat has preferred a mix of birds and mice. The first bird of the season — a full grown, terrified dove, unscathed except for some lost feathers – greeted us from the shelf over the kitchen sink when we arrived home from Easter brunch.

And the onslaught has continued. It usually ends when the first real heat arrives, and that tends to happen in early May. But it’s been eerily, unseasonably cool here, downright chilly at times (albeit in the middle of the night) and so the birding goes on. I really don’t care for birds any more than I care for cats — but still, it’s disturbing, having my kitchen be the killing fields.

At least I know the hummingbirds are safe with Gaga. Er,  Snow White.

Sophie’s birthday party was diy. If all goes according to plan, Annabelle’s will be DIY.

So far, so good. We made the invitations ourselves (okay, I admit that’s at least partly because I never can figure out any sort of photoshop-esque program on the computer). I was not surprised when Annabelle’s turned out better than mine.

She had a vision involving felt and buttons that didn’t leave much room for any actual party information, so I made separate invitations to go along with them. And even those lack some pertinent details, meaning I’ll be sending out two invitations by mail and at least one emailed explanation.

Still, we had fun. I spent much of last weekend on this endeavor, between the cutting and gluing and stamping, not including the shopping that preceeded the actual creation. (Did you know that Michaels does not carry rickrack? How can that be? I’m still reeling.)

Here are our sequined creations, Annabelle’s and then mine.  She had a great idea for pinwheels, then took the leftover sequins and went crazy making more designs. It was great to see; I only felt slightly ashamed of my boring rows.

More to come on “Project Annabelle.” (Was it obnoxious to let her name it that? I couldn’t resist….)