I have a blog to recommend. And not just because Joyce, the mother of Sarah and sometime co-author of http://sarahely8989.blogspot.com/, was kind enough to link to Girl in a Party Hat the other day.

Joyce writes eloquently about being a mom of a grown daughter with Down syndrome. And Sarah writes eloquently herself.

For a while now, Ms. X has made this blog her own required reading. She often tells me, “This will be Sophie someday!”

I can only hope.

I kicked myself after posting the other day about the ghosts of the future I see often. Robert Polk’s Ryan and Joyce’s Sarah — those are the role models I’m going to focus on from now on.

And now presenting….. my YouTube debut.

Oh yeah, and the girls’ dance recitals.

Sadly, I screwed up when trying to tape Sophie’s “official,” costumed performance, but here she is — second from the right — in her rehearsal. Truth in advertising: The other kids are 3 and 4. Sophie did do really well, but I want to be honest — she’s much older than her classmates (though not any bigger!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=be4kIWIh3NY

Annabelle performed twice. This is part of  her ballet piece. She’s on the left, in front. I’m trying to track down tape of her jazz performance, which was, frankly, priceless. She’s not so shabby here, either!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXvSxXQjXt8

Saturday morning, Sophie gave Annabelle a tittie twister. It left a mark.

Sunday  morning, she drew (with something appearing to be just short of permanent marker) on a chair, my bed and the couch.

Sunday night, Sophie, Annabelle and Ray emerged from a convenience store — they’d run in to buy milk — and I noticed Sophie was carrying a bottle of Diet Coke.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” she said (rather, “Happy Smother’s Day!”).

“How cute! You bought me a Diet Coke,” I said to Ray.

He looked at me, then at Sophie, then grabbed the Diet Coke and headed back into the store. First shoplifting offense.

Let’s hope the full moon is gone today.

The other day Ray grabbed a plastic tumbler from the cupboard and silently handed it to me. I looked inside. It was dirty. Very dirty. Really gross, actually. I’m not sure what dried in there but whatever it was, the dishwasher didn’t make a dent. And I hadn’t noticed when I put it away.

“You know,” Ray smirked, “you have a little bit of your mom in you.”

I hope so.

True, my mother keeps an, um, casual house. Her mascara’s often smudged, her glasses a bit askew. Sometimes part of a shoulder pad (circa 1986) can be seen peeking from under her blouse. Tonight at dinner, she opened her purse and exclaimed (loudly) that her wallet was missing — as crumpled Kleenex tumbled to the ground and errant receipts practically exploded out of her small red leather Coach bag. I looked over at my dad. He looked back at me, completely unaffected. Sure enough, within 10 seconds she’d opened another compartment and screamed, “Got it!”

I inherited all of these traits from her. My car looks like a toy bomb exploded in it. I decide several times a day that I’ve lost my car keys. And that dirty tumbler’s only the beginning of my housekeeping woes.

I just wish I got the good stuff. Because there’s plenty of it. As I mentioned yesterday (and probably many times before that), my mother is a ballerina. She runs a big studio and you only need to go with her to the local mall to see how popular she is in this town. (“Susie! Susie! Susie! the teenage girls cry, chasing her down in the food court for big hugs.) She’s a damn good ballet teacher, too.

She’s an artist. A really good one. Like, you can even tell who she’s trying to draw. My house is filled with portraits of the family and our animals, and she only needs a half day’s notice to whip up a birthday invitation.

And my mother has a great personality. She’s goofy and charming and real. This has served my father well in his career. Not long ago, a friend who’s known him for years on a professional basis called to say, “Oh my god, I just heard your father tell a joke! He DOES have a sense of humor!” My dad’s not humorless so much as silent, so my mother’s spent almost 45 years of marriage filling in the gaps.

She is selfless and loyal and only wants to please everyone. (Sorry, Mom, I made you sound like a dog, there, but it’s true.) She is nice to even the most curmudgeonly members of my father’s family (sadly, her parents both died quite a while ago, and her one brother lives out of town) and she will drop anything to help my sister and me.

She adores her grandchildren and she’s the best Scrabble player I know. What’s not to like?

My mom shines on a regular basis — like the time she rented a Mickey Mouse costume so she could properly present the kids a Hanukkah gift of a trip to Disneyland or all the times she comes to the girls’ classes and teaches the kids the “dancer’s alphabet” or every single birthday my sister and I have ever had (we swear she ruined us for our husbands) — but once a year, she really sparkles.

Once a year, she mounts a full ballet production with the kids from her studio — the kids 8 and up, a group Annabelle will soon join. Yesterday my girls danced with the little kids at 2:30. At 4, my mother presented Coppelia.

I can’t remember the last ballet of hers I missed. Maybe when I was living back east, so it’s been almost 20 years. It broke my heart, but yesterday I had to race away from the recital to another performing arts venue. It was a big day. Sophie’s ballet debut, and my 7th Annual Mothers Who Write reading.

I’ve been co-teaching a writing workshop for moms since Annabelle was three months old. I wasn’t so sure about the idea of excluding non-moms, at first, and some days I’m still not. But what happens in the class — a simple writing workshop, mostly memoir with a bit of poetry — is downright magical. And once a year, our current and former students gather to put on a reading of their work.

This year, there were some scheduling conflicts — my mom’s ballet and my reading were within two hours of each other. I couldn’t stay for the ballet. And my mom couldn’t come to the reading. (I can’t recall the last one she missed, if any.)

This morning, we compared notes on the phone. She was thrilled with her students’ ballet and I was darn happy with my students’ reading. Truth be told, for both of us, yesterday was as important a day as today — even though today we actually got to see each other (we took the girls for mani/pedis and then my dad and Ray joined us at the Desert Botanical Garden to see the Chihuly show).

Driving home last night, thinking about Mother’s Day and my mom’s ballet and my reading, it occured to me that maybe I am a tiny bit like her — in a good way, this time – rushing around making programs and booking auditoriums, collaborating with co-teachers (in my case, my good and talented friend Deborah Sussman Susser), nurturing students and celebrating creativity.  

And on my best days as a mom, maybe I’m a little bit like her then, too.

I hope so.

I am haunted by the ghosts of the future.

Yesterday was Sophie’s first ballet recital, her stage debut. It was a long time coming.

When I got pregnant with Annabelle, as soon as we learned we were having a girl, I knew how I’d be spending my Saturday mornings: at the ballet studio.

My mother is a ballerina. No, really, she is. Well, not exactly, not anymore. She long ago hung up her own toe shoes, but on any given afternoon, you might find her down at the local Capezio store, helping young girls get fitted for their own. She runs one of the largest ballet schools in town.

Annabelle began ballet at 3. Yesterday was her fourth recital. She acted like the old pro she is, even performed in two different numbers. She wasn’t nervous. Sophie wasn’t, either. She doesn’t have it in her. I, on the other hand, was a wreck.

When Sophie was born, and we found out she had Down syndrome, one of the first things I remember saying to my mother was, “Well, she’ll just have to do modern dance instead of ballet!”

Of course I didn’t really want to limit her like that. And most important, when Sophie was old enough to express a desire — and, naturally, demanded she take ballet, just like her big sister — I wanted her to have the opportunity.

But it was awkward. My mom owns the studio; she doesn’t teach the younger kids, and she didn’t want to ask the other teachers for special favors. So we waited til Sophie was good and ready. She started ballet last fall at the ripe age of 5 — still an inch or two shorter than her 3 and 4 year old classmates.

It wasn’t the same as when Annabelle began ballet. Sophie needed an aide in class, and even then, would sometimes pop out of the classroom at inopportune moments. But as fall turned to winter and then spring, she was following along, doing the steps, loving ballet. Which is all any parent wants for her kid, that she loves what she’s doing, right?

If only it were just that simple.

By yesterday, the costumes had been chosen, the number (“Teddy Bear Picnic”) choreographed, the dancers asked to arrive hours before the show began, for final rehearsals. Roses were wrapped with baby’s breath for the parents to purchase. Ray bought a rose for each girl, and I chased Sophie around the high school auditorium as we waited for her class to take the stage. 

I cried through the dress rehearsal — Sophie knew every step, she smiled and had a blast. I don’t expect that she’ll ever be a candidate for toe shoes (hey, I never was) but there she was, my little girl, up there with the other tiny dancers. For me, it was a symbol that we’ve come so far, that Sophie can do so much. See? I tell myself on days like that. Everything will be okay.

And then it happened. We were waiting for the show to begin. The auditorium was filling up, our friends and family had begun to arrive. I was chatting with my dear friend Trish, not really paying attention to Sophie, who was playing with Trish’s teenage daughter Abbie.

I looked over and noticed that Sophie was talking to a woman in a wheelchair. From behind I could tell that the woman was older, with rough skin and short gray hair, and when she turned to smile at me I saw she was missing a front tooth. She had Down syndrome. It was clear that the woman pushing the wheelchair was her mother, although afterward we agreed it was hard to tell which woman was older.

Both mother and daughter were very interested in Sophie. The daughter was sweet; it was clear she’s what we refer to in our house as “low functioning.” Nothing like Sophie, I assured myself, exchanging quick pleasantries.

As the mother rolled the daughter away, she turned to me and smiled. “Myra took dance class when she was that age, too!” she said. And then she was gone.

I turned and looked at Trish. I didn’t have to say a word; Trish has known me for 20 years.

“Amy, that is not your future,” she said.

“You know that keeps happening,” I said. “I know,” she replied.

I see the ghosts of the future. Usually on a great day — a day just like yesterday — a day when I least expect it. A day when I’ve tricked myself into thinking that Sophie’s just like any other kid, that I’m just like any other mom.

It’s cognitive dissonance. I know that. It’s not like I’d never seen another person with Down syndrome, before Sophie was born. It’s just that I’d never noticed. Now I do. And I don’t tend to run into high functioning, healthy adults with Down syndrome, even though I know they’re out there.

“Amy, that’s not your future. It’s not your future. It’s not your future.” Trish repeated it like a mantra. I blinked a few times, snapping myself out of it. It was time to get ready for the performance.

Sophie danced beautifully, screwing up no more and no less than her classmates. I caught most of it on video, which I’ll try to post later. For now, it’s time to start the day, since a little figure just appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” Sophie asked. “I’m writing stories,” I told her. “I like to write stories about you.”

“Read me your story!” Sophie demanded.

I’m embarrassed to, I wanted to say. Instead I changed the subject. “Hey, it’s my special day! It’s Mother’s Day!”

Huge grin. Sophie announced that she got me earrings. (Whoops, there went Ray’s suprise, I’m guessing.) “Come! Come and see them!”

So here I go, gladly. Frankly, I’d rather hang around in the present.

Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

It’s Sophie’s first ballet recital. Annabelle’s a veteran of the stage — she’ll be performing twice, ballet and jazz (my mother the ballet purist was slightly horrified by the latter, til she saw Annabelle rehearsing) — but for Sophie, this is only the beginning.

Or perhaps the end, depending on how well she behaves. (Not how well she performs; this dance studio isn’t about perfection. But if she takes a dive off the stage or tries to remove  her leotard, we might not be invited back next year.)

No matter the outcome, I have promised to try to figure out my Flip camera (I got it for Mother’s Day last year – you’d think I’d have mastered it by now) to capture some of this on film.

I have been teary for months, ever since Sophie’s ballet teacher hit play on the CD player and “Teddy Bear Picnic” filled the room. I only danced with (for?) my mother for a very brief time, but I have great memories of the music she used in the 70s — “Free to be You and Me,” the cast recording of “Zoom,” “Peter and the Wolf.” And “Teddy Bear Picnic.”

There are only a few hours to bathe, comb, curl, dress and lip gloss them, so I better get cracking. As they say in ballet (in lieu of break a leg), “Merde!”

I’m not ready for kindergarten to end.

Sophie is. Technically, at least. She’s learned as much as she’s going to learn. She knows her letters and numbers and she holds her own in the classroom. Usually.

Ms. X gave me a rueful look when I arrived this morning for the fourth Junior Achievement lesson. “She’s having a rough morning,” she said, shaking her head, then smiling. “I guess it’s our fault.”

I guess so. Last night Ms. X, Annabelle and Sophie and I threw  ourselves a completely impromptu party. On a whim, I called Ms. X as I pulled up to school to rescue Annabelle from after care. She was debating whether to go to the gym, but decided to skip and have dinner with us at the mall.

“I could use some Sophie time,” she said, explaining it had been a hard day. (Everyone at school is in a bad mood, it seems — end of the year stress.) “I need some unconditional love.”

Now, here I have to stop and admit to you that I divide the world into two groups: the people who adore Sophie, and the people who don’t. That’s so unfair, considering I never looked twice at a kid with Down syndrome til I had her. True, I really never ran across one; the closest I ever came to a person with DS was the check out line at Safeway. But still, I don’t want to imagine what I would have done. Looked away out of fear, I’m guessing.

Anyhow, I already knew Ms. X adored my kid, but I had to marvel at the fact that after spending a full day with Sophie (along with 19 other rambunctious kindergarteners), Ms. X chose to spend her evening with us.

It was a charmed night. I ordered us way too much sushi and noodles, the girls ran around Barnes and Noble , then we we settled into overstuffed chairs in front of a roaring fire (an odd concept for an outdoor mall in Phoenix — strangely, it works, even when the temperature’s edging toward 100 degrees. Misters are an amazing invention) and ate frozen yogurt.

Nothing special, really, just a Wednesday night at the mall. But somehow it was more than that. We all felt it. When it was time to say good bye, Sophie kept running back to Ms. X for another hug and another and another. As you might imagine, bedtime had come and gone by then.

Tonight we stayed in. I walked out to the car to grab a CD for the birthday mix I’m working on for Sophie, and noticed that the moon’s plumping up. I checked; the next full moon is May 9. Sophie’s last kindergarten full moon.

I’ll never look up at a full moon again without thinking of Ms. X. All year, she’s predicted the coming of the full moon by Sophie’s mood, and we’ve laughed about it. Maybe that’s what was going on this morning, rather than last night’s late bedtime.

In honor of Ms. X, I think I’ll end Sophie’s mix with a song called “Can You Catch the Moon?” by Lisa Loeb and Elizabeth Mitchell. Here’s the video. (YouTube is an amazing invention.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epRWUbgw9V4

I really need to swap out the party hat for the work hat and get something done today, but first, I have to tell you about what just happened.

A colleague sent me the link to a piece in the Washington Post about a new memoir called “Bad Mother,” by a woman named Ayelet Waldman. (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/05/04/AR2009050403451.html)

I figured my friend sent it because for a while, a few years ago, I wrote a column called “Bad Mom” for the now sadly hibernating site www.austinmama.com.

(Here’s a link to my first “Bad Mom” column: http://austinmama.com/badmomone.htm)

That wasn’t the only reason.

Worlds aren’t exactly colliding, but definitely nudging each other.

Not that I would dare to compare myself to Waldman, a well-known writer and Harvard-educated lawyer married to a famous novelist, Michael Chabon.

But we both write about being bad moms.

Turns out, we have something else in common, too. At the end of the Washington Post piece, it’s revealed (as it is in the book) that Waldman — who has four other children — made the decision to abort a baby diagnosed with Down syndrome.  

Ha! I thought to myself. Figures. Not only is Ayelet Waldman a better writer with better connections, a better education and a better name, she even wins on that one. She really is a bad mother.

I don’t like admitting that I thought that, but I did. For a moment.

Then I forced myself to consider how tough that admission must have been for Waldman (let alone the choice to abort)  and how my own choice to keep Sophie was really made more out of ignorance and avoidance — and my husband’s wisdom — than anything else.

I think Waldman’s brave for writing her book. 

Is Ayelet Waldman really a Bad Mother? Am I such a Bad Mom? 

If we really were, would we admit it?

I need a Chocolate Dance Party in my kitchen. Time to get going on Sophie’s birthday music mix.

This morning, Annabelle rode her bike to school for the first time. She and Ray rode; Sophie and I drove. At first Sophie was bummed, then she got excited. (Ray has told her that when she’s 7, she can ride her bike to school, too. We’ll see.)

We pulled up beside them on the street and I rolled down Sophie’s window. She screamed, “You’re so cool, Annabelle!”

It was one of those moments of pure joy. I’m addicted to them. It always makes me think of the essay by David Sedaris, it’s in one of his earlier books, about all the tics he had as a child and how (before he discovered cigarettes and pot) the best treatment was pain — smacking his head hard on the dashboard of his father’s car, he experienced an exquisite pain that made all the other stuff disipate.

I know what he means. (C’mon, so do you — ever hit your funny bone, or stub your toe?) And in a way, this is the same, these living-in-the-moment moments, like Sunday, when we took Sophie to see Elmo Live for her birthday. (Thanks Gaga!)

Hard to believe it’s been a year since the last Elmo show, in honor of Sophie’s 5th birthday. That day she was so excited to see Elmo and friends on stage, she couldn’t contain herself — kept hitting me on the shoulder, asking, “Did you see? Did you see? Mommy! It’s Elmo!”

This year she upped the ante. For weeks she asked, “Elmo come to my row and hug me?”

Crap. That wasn’t part of the show last year. This is not Disneyland, after all. I’m sure the furries have a union. (I noticed Big Bird was never onstage for more than a few minutes at a time.)

I told Sophie it wouldn’t happen. But we had really good seats this year and from the beginning of the show, I noticed some brazen parents were edging their kids to the front, to touch the characters when they came down from the stage as part of the act.

I made a total ass of myself, but by the end of the show, Sophie had either hugged or touched Telly, Abby Cadabby, at least one Happy Honker and — the biggie — Cookie Monster. We missed Zoe by an inch and damn Elmo, he never came close (too big a star, I guess).

Sophie left happy and I left even happier, high on monsters.

A year ago, I wrote about that first show, at the end of a piece I did for This American Life (you can still hear it: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1249) and I can’t believe that a year later, we’re seeing Elmo again and again, I’m dealing with all the issues that radio piece addressed. (Namely: my kid with Down syndrome doesn’t currently qualify as mentally retarded.)

This morning, Dorcas the Physical Therapist talked me off the ledge, reminding me that I mentioned Dr. Death to her a few weeks ago. Dorcas is okay with her; she agrees her reputation is mixed, but says it’s not all bad.

I felt better, as Sophie and I took off for school, and better still when we saw Annabelle — who was clearly having her own Chocolate Dance Party moment, she was so proud. And rightly so.

I was up til 1:30 this morning, stuffing 60 mugs with candy for teacher appreciation week. I left a full kitchen sink and I can’t find the surface of my desk now that I’m at work. I’m distracted by a thousand tiny tasks — blog posts to edit, ideas to nix, more doctor appointments to make. I want to smack my head into the dashboard and see past the stars to some bigger, clearer truth.

But first, I have to go to a meeting.