I am on my way to teach tonight, and have no business blogging or surfing or facebooking or emailing or even working, but as I was wrapping things up to get the hell out of the office, I noticed that I hadn’t checked out a link suggested by the fabulous Robert Polk.

I haven’t had time to investigate this blog/zine guy, The Sneeze — I don’t know any more about him and his family than I learned in this particular post.

But this particular post made cry, I laughed so hard. If I’d been drinking a Diet Coke, it would have shot out my nose.

So here. Happy Thursday. Thank you Robert!

http://www.thesneeze.com/2009/the-mystery-of-the-face-on-the-butt.php

Dorcas the Physical Therapist looked a little concerned this morning.

“Do you notice,” she asked, “that Sophie complains a lot about being tired?”

I rolled my eyes. Yes, I told her. That’s Sophie’s latest “thing” — she loves to have an easy, go-to topic of conversation. Recent comments/questions (made/asked several times in the span of a few minutes, sometimes) include: “You’re mean!” “Who’s picking me up from school today?”
“Where is Daddy?” “Where is Mommy?” “Where is Annabelle?”

And “I’m tired.”

Dorcas is concerned that Sophie complains of being tired first thing in the morning. Is she going to bed early enough? she asked. A legitimate question. No. She never goes to bed early enough. I worry that an 8 pm bedtime is too late as it is; last night it was more like 8:30, I have to admit. (Sadly, that’s not unusual.)

And she never sleeps late enough; I know that for certain now that she shows up in my room before the crack of dawn.

So is something wrong? I hadn’t thought so, not til Dorcas said something. Maybe. Maybe Sophie’s a bad sleeper. Maybe her bedtime should be earlier. Maybe we have her overprogrammed. (Full time kindergarten plus 5 hour-long therapy sessions a week, plus a busy life.)

Maybe. I worried all the way to school, and when I saw Ms. X, I immediately asked her – ignoring the fact that she has twentysomething other kindergarteners to attend to in the morning.

Ms. X smiled gently. Yes, she said, Sophie complains of being tired — a lot. But never when she actually is tired. Ms. X can tell: droopy eyes, open mouth. She agrees: Sophie is making conversation! Or she’s trying to avoid something she doesn’t want to do — like recess on a warm day. 

Don’t worry about it, she said.

Easier said than done. I bet Ms. X will think about it more than once today. I know I will.

And here I was going to write about something light today — spring fashions. I’ll save that.

The Grandma Shrine came down last night. It felt like it was time.

I kept all the photos out on the mantle, but the cards and other random Grandma-ish stuff (a page from Annabelle’s journal, a bracelet she’d given Annabelle, the empty hair cream container she also gave her and a bunch of condolence cards) are headed for the Grandma Rubbermaid.

I mean that in the nicest possible way. Having a personal Rubbermaid, in my world, is about as good as it gets. My MIL is the first person I can think of to get her own; it seemed like a good, safe way to store the stuff that keeps landing on the kitchen table, via my father in law — costume jewelry, books, clothes. I don’t want anything to get ruined or lost. I did have to give Grandma’s sewing machine its own separate Rubbermaid, til we can find a place for it.

Speaking of plastic storage, the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid came out last night, now that the winter-to-summer clothing exchange has been completed. And with the Grandma shrine gone, we needed some cheer. Easter is less than two weeks away, after all. Passover, too.

Passover’s a tough holiday. A little too down-to-business to be much fun, afikomen aside. So we focused on Easter last night. Technically, Easter’s about as tough as a holiday gets, but the trimmings are the best.

As usual, I’d completely forgotten what was in the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid, so it was like Christmas: a collection of vintage (allegedly) bunny, birdie and flower cupcake toppers; cute napkins and paper plates from Target; lots of bunny ears; pink paper “grass” still in the bag; and several baskets, along with the requisite holiday DVDs and videos.

I’ve never seen this before, but the “Peter Cottontail” DVD actually broke IN HALF, while in the Rubbermaid.  (This could be because, um, I didn’t actually put it back inside the case when I tossed it in. Lesson learned.) Annabelle was very interested in this (as she was in the Rubbermaid, asking, “Mama, what is a Rubber Maid?”) and announced on the spot that she’s now collecting broken DVDs and CDs.

So hey, if you have any, send them our way.

I also found a Ziploc filled with paper butterflies in various pastels, which I placed around the framed photos on the mantle. I added one picture that had been part of the shrine: a beautiful snapshot of Grandma and Annabelle, which my mother in law had enlarged and framed, shortly after she learned of her diagnosis last summer. Til she died, it was on Annabelle’s dresser. Now it’s in the living room, in an appropriate place of honor.

“You know why Grandma isn’t really gone?” Annabelle asked last night. “Because I have this! This is very special to me!” She hugged the frame tightly, then gazed at the picture.

She paused. “Grandma didn’t spend a lot of time with Sophie,” she said matter-of-factly.

It’s true that there is no corresponding photograph of Sophie and Grandma.

I do have a similarly lovely, similarly enlarged and framed photo of myself and Sophie, which my mother in law took at Sophie’s pre-school graduation and presented to me as a gift.

But there isn’t one of Sophie and Grandma. That doesn’t tell the truth, though. The truth is that my mother in law spent a tremendous amount of time with both girls — she babysat regularly early on in their lives (more than my own parents — by a longshot) and even in the last few months, made sure to arrange for special, separate play dates for just Sophie and Grandma.

I will say that both Grandma and Gaga forged particularly special relationships with Annabelle. I don’t know if that’s because she’s the first born granddaughter (I am for my generation, and I know I got special treatment) or for other reasons. I guess time will tell — with my own mother, anyway.

I think even Annabelle could sense that it was an awkward topic, and we both struggled to change the subject. I let her stay up to watch “It’s the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown.”

I’ve always been a big fan of “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” The only part I really remembered about the Easter special is that wonderful bit where the Christmas display is already out at the local department store at Easter time.

But if you haven’t watched this one lately, make sure you do. It’s pretty special. My favorite part, I think, is where Woodstock decorates his new birdhouse all groovy.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Peanuts, particularly Linus, since we both have blankets. I do recognize that Charles M. Schulz’s work is pretty retro and slow in a way that doesn’t appeal so much to kids today, so I try not to get bummed out when the girls stop watching halfway through the Thanksgiving or Christmas specials. (Remember how exciting it was, when they came on just once a year?!)

But last night Annabelle was right there with me. It was fabulous.

The Peanuts just don’t come up much in conversation around our house, which is why the following story strikes me as so odd. I have to tell it.

I’m sure it’s a byproduct of middle age (am I really middle aged? how can I be middle aged? I’m 8 years old, wearing my turquoise Snoopy outfit to third grade!) but people are dying right and left. A while back, a dear friend’s favorite cousin passed away. He traveled to the Bay Area for a service, and afterward, I asked how it went.

It was okay, he said, but Charles M. Schulz’s widow insisted on having the memorial service at the museum.

HUH? I didn’t realize that my friend’s cousin was a curator at Schulz’s museum. (I didn’t know there was a museum honoring Schulz, for that matter.)

Yeah, my friend said. His cousin did things like travel to Denver to oversee the removal of a wall from a house Schulz lived in before his characters were famous — he’d painted the characters on a wall, and his cousin made sure the wall got safely to Calfornia then made sure 10 layers of paint were carefully removed to reveal the characters.

COOL.

Be careful what you think about, people, that’s all I’m saying, because a few hours after that conversation I was in the car with the girls and out of the blue — I swear, I hadn’t mentioned the topic, the conversation had taken place at work, not home –  Annabelle piped up from the back seat and asked, “Hey, mama, where do the Peanuts characters live?”

Any other day, I would have been stumped. But this day, I was able to tell her: Santa Rosa, California, in a museum we can go to someday.

My friend says there’s even an ice skating rink on the property. Schulz liked to ice skate, just like his characters.

I love this photo. I was flipping through the pictures on my phone last night and noticed it. Then I realized it’s from the Last Outing with Grandma, when we went to the Ritz for afternoon tea.

That was February 7. She died two weeks later. Now it’s almost April. It hasn’t been long, not at all. I check the mail, and dread giving Ray the condolence card or two that are still coming almost every day. Sometimes he’ll rip a card open right away, but usually it sits around for days.

The other night my father in law came over for dinner. He stayed for hours. Her name never came up.

There was no service, memorial, no obituary. We’re still talking about planting a tree, just the four of us. I want to do some research, to make sure it won’t die. But we need to do it soon, before it gets too hot.

I don’t know how the girls will react to the tree planting. I haven’t heard Annabelle mention Grandma in weeks, though I know my mom got her to talk about her a while ago. I’ve tried. Nothing.

Sophie, on the other hand, loves to talk about Grandma. Which, in this climate, makes things awkward, and beyond our house, a little embarrassing.

The other night we we were at a dinner party with a few families we knew and a few we didn’t. I introduced Sophie to a younger, kidless guy I know only vaguely. He’d never met Sophie. 

Amy: “Sophie, this is Aaron.”

Aaron: “Hi Sophie!”

Sophie: “My grandma died.”

Ms. X reports that Sophie’s talking more and more about Grandma. I know some of it is for shock value, and some of it is simply because it’s a conversation topic and Sophie’s always looking for conversation topics — ways in on the game or the joke or even just the chat.

Last week she stopped Annabelle in the hallway and practically yelled, out of the blue, “Grandma died!” She didn’t get what she was looking for. Annabelle gave her sister a dirty look and walked away.

I do think that maybe it’s starting to sink in — for Sophie, at least. (The rest of us, the less healthy members of the household, not so much.) The other night Sophie woke up sobbing and I picked her and asked if she’d had a bad dream. Yes, she told me. About Grandma.

“Grandma died,” Sophie said a couple days ago, as I helped her get dressed. “I miss her.”

The second part was new. I know, I told her, I miss Grandma too, and I gave her a hug. We talked about the things we loved about Grandma — that she always had chocolate at her house, that she loved to play. Sophie pointed to herself. “Yes,” I told her. “She loved Sophie so much!”

Pretty soon — way too soon, by our society’s standards — Sophie was giggling like mad.

I was a little jealous.

Last night, I got out the two huge Rubbermaids with the girls’ summer clothes, and almost got through the official seasonal exchange before I passed out — with just one load of laundry and another basketful left to put away. (In our world, the seasonal exchange means swapping a few light jackets for dozens of tee shirts and shorts.)

We are overwhelmed with clothes — mainly because we have so many hand-me-downs (I’m not complaining!) but also because these kids simply don’t grow much.

Sophie’s almost 6, and she can easily squeeze her little but into a pair of 2T shorts. Even Annabelle, who has no chromosomal excuse, just a short family, complains that the 5T shorts literally fall off her almost 8-year-old hips.

We should all have such problems.

To misquote  “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” (now available on DVD), “They’re tiny but they’re mighty.”

One thing I have noticed is that Sophie’s definitely getting taller. She and Jack the puppy can now both easily reach items left on the kitchen counter. Not good.

I’m mad at the PTA. So it’s probably a good thing I can’t make it to the school’s silent auction fundraiser tomorrow night.

To be fair, it’s not the entire PTA I’m mad at. Some of my best friends are members.

But I’m not.

Long before Annabelle started kindergarten, I swore I would never join the PTA. I know better. The main reason: I don’t do well in groups. I get in enough fights, just living day to day; I don’t need to invite more.

Plus, I work. I feel guilty constantly — if I’m at work, I’m feeling guilty for not being home. If I’m home, vice versa. So I’ll miss work to volunteer in my kids’ class, but no way am I going to miss dinner with my kids to sit in the smelly cafeteria and listen to moms yell at each other over whether we need to have a school directory. (That fight went on for most of the last school year, no kidding.)

Hey, I’ll donate to the cause — just about any cause. I’ll make 65 teacher appreciation gifts, I’ll battle the copy machine to make double-sided, stapled copies for second grade math, I’ll help dozens of kindergarteners glue bats and pumpkins to Halloween banners – just don’t make me join the PTA.

(There’s a thoroughly entertaining back story to our particular school’s PTA that will be written about someday — but you won’t believe it.)

Anyhow, for all my brash talk, I’m sensitive about my lack of participation. That guilt thing again. So when I got an email from a PTA member last fall, asking for ideas about where the PTA’s money could go, I almost didn’t respond. Who am I to make such a request? I thought.

But it was too important not to speak up. I wrote a very nice (I thought) email about the fact that at lunchtime recess, there is one adult overseeing 90 kindergarteners.

No, you didn’t read that wrong. One to 90. At the other recesses, the teachers are present. But the union insists they get a half hour for lunch (well deserved!), so they’re not on the playground then. Some random person — the school counselor or speech therapist or library aide — is called on to serve as the one and only duty.

I’ve written about this before. When I confronted the principal, she insisted that there’s never been a problem, that the one duty is trained to use a walkie talkie. Whoops! That particular day there happened to be a duty at the table with the principal and me who had never been given a walkie talkie. Yeah, it got ugly.

Walkie talkie or not, 1 to 90? Really?

The PTA mom emailed right back, sounding horrified. She didn’t know! I don’t blame her for that. I didn’t realize it when Annabelle was in kindergarten. It was only when Sophie, with her extra need for supervision, started kindergarten that it became an issue. (And a whole other story.)

That PTA mom is one of the organizers of the auction. So when the auction packet came home (yes, an entire packet — these women set up a myspace page for the auction, an email account for the auction, and a FAQ page about the auction) with a list of places the money might go, I expected to see “lunchtime recess duty” on there.

(And trust me, it would be possible to do it. I know parents from several other schools where the PTA funds lunchtime recess aides. Turns out there’s no state law — not here, anyway — and no federal law, mandating playground ratios at schools. Crazy!)

No. Instead, the list of a dozen or so ideas for where the money raised at the auction might go include: interactive zoo encounter/demonstration; “myth buster” science guy program; outdoor adventures; guest artists and performances; and Family Astronomy Night.

You know, I’d love to have a family astronomy night. It sounds lovely. But call me crazy — I think keeping the freaking kindergarteners alive at lunch time is a little more important.

We are in the middle of an absolute economic meltdown in this country, one that’s definitely putting a fire under our little school, and the PTA is raising money for an interactive zoo encounter?

Idiots! I still gathered some donations for the auction, but I have to admit that seeing that list kept me from trying too hard. And it’s just as well that we have a conflict tomorrow night, because I might not have behaved myself.

See why it would be a bad idea for me to join the PTA?

I couldn’t wait to hear how Ms. X’s classroom observation went.

“How’d it go?” I texted toward the end of the day. “Was Sophie swinging from the chandeliers?”

No no, Sophie did really well, Ms. X insisted, and her classroom observation with the principal was great. So great she wanted to celebrate, so we met for frozen yogurt.

Sophie pretty much followed directions all morning, Ms. X reported; she only got distracted when her chair was too far from the table. Ms. X spotted that, cruised over, pushed her in and kept right on with her lesson — didn’t miss a beat.

This observation was about Ms. X, not Sophie, but I had worried Sophie would disrupt the whole thing and keep Ms. X from tending to her 20-plus students. She assured me that didn’t happen. She told me Sophie completed her assignment without help, which I thought was pretty cool. It’s part of the rodeo theme this week — the kids had to cut out pictures of a cookout and put those pictures in sequence:

Ms. X had been stuck in the classroom all day, so I filled her in on the other big news: The Arizona Supreme Court struck down the state’s voucher program for disabled kids.

I have real mixed feelings about that. (A caveat: You — or I, at least — can only scratch the surface in a quick blog post.) Kindergarten in the public school setting is going amazingly well for Sophie — and it appears we are in a good shape for first grade (knock wood). But beyond that? I reserve the right to explore other options.

I didn’t always feel that way. By conservative Arizona’s standards, I’m practically a socialist, and that includes my feelings toward the public school system.

As long as I’ve been paying attention (probably longer), the right wing in this state has been pecking away at public education — not just starving it, but also trying to legislate it out of existence. Or darn close.

In the mid-1990s, there was a wholesale push for vouchers, which would basically take the money spent on public school and give it to parents to use at private schools, including private religious schools.

Even in Arizona, that one didn’t end up flying. Some will tell you that’s simply due to the power of the teachers’ unions. But I like to think there are folks out there who agree with me that public education is sacrosanct (or should be) in our country.

I get it, I get it. Some private schools are much better. But a voucher program, in my opinion, is simply a way of giving up on public schools. Not acceptable.

I was happy to see vouchers go down and upset when a bill allowing for charter schools passed. Another way to starve the public schools!

“Just wait til you have kids!” my conservative friends said.

It’s understood that most of us start out pretty liberal and get more conservative as we get older. I get that, I guess, although I’m not so sure that’s because wisdom comes with age.

More like the world beats you down.

I’ve never thought there was anything wrong with having high standards — or at least high hopes. I come by my blueness (naive or not) honestly. My mother was a McGovern delegate. Her people were actually socialists. (Really!) And I came of age in the 1980s — with a strong desire to go against the Reagan-inspired flow.

Now it’s true that over the years my mom’s gone from volunteering for Common Cause to serving as secretary of the homeowner’s association (if you ask, she’ll insist that those speed bumps leading into my parents’ gated community are NOT necessary and in fact a safety hazaard!) but her heart still bleeds. Mine, too.

Maybe we both just like going against the flow.

But now the river’s risen up to meet us, or whatever the appropriate saying is. Because suddenly, all my friends (even my super crunchy, Obama loving, tree hugging friends) with fifth graders are desperate to get their kids into the arsty charter school downtown, instead of the public junior high.

Even my mom called to tell me the artsy charter school’s going to start accepting fifth graders. “Wouldn’t that be perfect for Annabelle?” she sighed.

It would. I have to agree that it would. There are a lot of lousy charter schools out there, but there are some damn good ones, too. I’ll admit it.

And this disabled kid voucher thing? Even stickier. Let’s face it: Our public schools are not equipped to deal with no-problem kids, let alone the likes of Sophie (particularly on a bad day). There will come a time when Sophie has a teacher I can’t text, who won’t invite me out for frozen yogurt, who might be a decent person trying hard, but not willing — maybe not even able — to work her ass off to accomodate my child.

I might want to send Sophie to (I can’t believe I’m about to write this) to private school.

And now one option’s gone. Although I can’t imagine these voucher folks won’t appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Who knows. Maybe they’ll win. That will piss me off, too, because whether she would have gained from the voucher program or not, I can’t help feeling resentful of the right wing for finding a wedge — in the form of my disabled kid — to use to get in as far as they’ve gotten in on this voucher thing.

I still think there’s got to be a way to get our public schools to work, so that all the Annabelles and the Sophies of the world can be well served there and we won’t all be desperate for other options.

Go ahead, laugh. But I’m going to hang onto my hope, even as I’m filling out those private school applications….

This morning the girls and I were cuddling in bed, and I was stalling, waiting a few more moments before starting our suddenly upside down day.

Annabelle is home sick; she woke up in the middle of the night with a fever that wound up being yet another bug that’s going around. That meant: cancelling school; making an appointment with the pediatrician; cancelling Sophie’s eye doctor appointment and letting Ms. X know she was coming  to school earlier than expected– and Ms. X had her observation with the principal this morning and was probably looking forward to one less kid in the room, though she didn’t say it; calling the speech therapist to warn her that Annabelle is sick and she might want to stay away from the house this afternoon; calling my mom and sister to tell them we can’t play with the cousins tonight, very sad, since the cousins are only in town for a week; calling, emailing and texting my boss and assorted co-workers to say I won’t be at work; and cancelling a vet appointment — except both Ray and I forgot to do that, crap. 

We were still in bed, none of that had happened yet, when Annabelle suddenly remarked, “I think Sophie will be a very good mom, even though she has Down syndrome.”

(A lot of conversations these days involve the phrase “even though she has Down syndrome.” I don’t know how much Sophie’s digging that; at first I thought Ray was crazy for saying it bugged her, but now I’m beginning to think maybe it is. Not today, this exchange was too quick.)

I thought about explaining to Annabelle (again — I could swear we’ve had that talk, or that Ray’s had it with her) that it’s highly unlikely, for assorted reasons, that Sophie will have kids. But I didn’t say anything. I just agreed that Sophie would make a really good mom.

“How many kids will you have?” Annabelle asked her.

Sophie thought for a moment and announced her decision with the triumph she reserves for — well, for almost everything.

“Forty!”

I love kindergarten.

I spent a couple hours in Sophie’s classroom this morning, and yesterday’s sour mood washed away in a sea of Tempera paint. I cracked up when I overheard one kid say, “I love how that paint smells!”

Me, too.

Now, that’s not to say that I could ever teach kindergarten, or spend more than a couple hours at a stretch every once in a while. I don’t envy Ms. X. She’s got the toughest job in show business; I am in awe. At one point this morning she told the kids they were too loud, and that there would be “No Talking”. Fat chance, I thought. But it happened. Silence. For a while, at least.

I was there today to help prepare for one of the biggest events of the year, the Kindergarten Rodeo. This is a big deal. And because I SUCK, I actually missed Annabelle’s rodeo, two years ago. Ray and I were on a Vacation. (I won’t name drop cities but it was big enough that there was no way to cancel, once I realized there was a conflict.)

On top of that, it’s looking like this will be Sophie’s only Kindergarten Rodeo. Before now, I haven’t worried about such things. The Halloween carnival, the Christmas show, Valentine’s Day — all special times in kindergarten, but I didn’t let myself get too sentimental, figuring we’d be doing it all again next year.

Now it looks like that won’t happen. I saw Ms. Y — the special ed teacher turned first grade teacher, the one I hope Sophie gets — for the first time this morning, since the big announcement that she’d be teaching first grade, and we both got a little teary, we were so excited at how well things are working out. (Of course teacher assignments are up to the principal, not me, but I’m hopeful.)

I could only chat with Ms. Y for a few minutes, since I was on paint detail.

The kids painted their hats two at a time, and it was interesting to note that almost every one tackled the brown paper bags the same, by painting different blocks of color on each side, and another color on the brim. The best artist in the class went crazy; I envied her confidence as she swirled colors all over and made big polka dots on the top. Her hat looked fabulous.

The kid who tends to have the toughest time in class also strayed from the norm, mixing colors, but as Ms. X had cautioned might happen, he used too much paint and his hat got saggy and gross.

Sophie was so good. Not just at painting (she took her time and she, too, strayed from the color blocks — I knew she would — her hat is second from the left, on the bottom, above) but at having me in the classroom. Months ago, it would have been impossible. She would have interrupted Ms. X during calendar time to point out I was there, left the carpet for hugs, and otherwise been inappropriate.

Today she was a little lady, even allowing me to put her hair up in a rubber band to keep it out of her face after I pointed out that I had mine up in a rubber band. She did leave the classroom for a good hunk of the morning, which made me sad — and a little worried. I’m not sure she gets more out of 20 minutes each of occupational therapy and speech therapy than she would out of completing independent tasks in the classroom, which is what happens while Ms. X runs reading groups.

(Ms. X says we’ll discuss that later, that Sophie still has plenty of time to get her work done. I have a feeling she’ll tell me that if we take the therapy away, Sophie won’t get it back. I do wish the therapists could work with Sophie in the classroom setting instead of yanking her out, especially with first grade looming….)

I snapped some photos of the barrel-ful of stick horses the kindergarteners had made at home. Rather, that the kindergarteners’ moms had made. (Maybe some dads; who knows?)

I admit that I went a little nuts with Sophie’s horse. (Can you guess which is hers?) I made a special trip to Michael’s for a wig, hat, plastic flowers, false eyelashes, googly eyes and hot pink Duct tape. For someone whose personal fashion mantra is “get dressed then look in the mirror and remove one accessory” I really went overboard the other way.

“I overaccessorized Sophie’s horse,” I texted my sister, the night before the horses were due.

“Oh, you’re one of THOSE moms,” she replied.

Yeah, I guess. I am in good company — several of Sophie’s horse’s companions were also pretty gussied up.

But none of them looked like Dolly Parton sans boobs.

“Name her Dolly!” Ms. X said. Annabelle was really rooting for “Gaga.” But Sophie had her own ideas.  After considering and rejecting “Mommy-O” and “Grandpa,” she settled on a name I think is just perfect:

“Sophie Belle.”

I woke up this morning feeling out of sorts.

Rather, I finally gave up and rolled out of bed to start the day — feeling out of sorts.

I wonder why I’m tired all the time. Duh. A recap of last night: I fell asleep on the couch at 10. Crawled to bed at 11. Sophie came in at midnight (I sent her back to bed). I got up at 2 to pee. Ray got up at 2:30 to let the dog out. Sophie came in again at 5:30 (I sent her back to bed — again). Ray got up to take a shower at 6. Sophie came in at 6:01.

“It’s morning time!” she announced, and I wondered how she can be so perky with so little uninterrupted sleep. I coaxed her into bed and we rolled around for a while, as I tried to convince her it was still really early. When she popped up and ran out of the room, I finally swung my legs over the side of the bed, knowing this was it.

“I might be a little depressed,” I thought to myself, as I stared at the laundry baskets filled with toys and other girly accoutrement (notebooks, costume jewelry, sewing materials, purses) waiting to be organized neatly and put away in Annabelle’s room.

Ha. Like that will happen any time soon. I sit in my office surrounded by piles and swear that when I’m done with this blog post, I’ll close my door, light my pinot noir scented candle (the closest I’ll get to getting drunk any time soon, I’ll think grumpily), crank Pandora and do a little organizing.

Or I’ll continue to idly wander around Facebook, my several email accounts and other random sites, looking for news. Actually, I found some today: The Arizona Republic, the daily paper here, is having a second round of furloughs.

Whether I get to help break it or not, I think I need a break from bad news.

At the very least, I need to stop listening to NPR.

Or maybe, as the song goes, I need some of that old time religion.

I wish. Truly, I’d love to hand my cares (about my family’s health, Sophie’s services, first grade, Annabelle’s happiness with a special needs sister, the state of the journalism industry, let alone the economy) over to a higher authority. But it just ain’t happening — once you’ve embraced agnosticism (is that a word?) it’s pretty impossible to turn back.

What about the girls, though? Religious education: Something else to get depressed about — that I still haven’t done it, that when I do try to instigate it Ray will argue (rightfully) that we’re too busy to add another activity to the girls’ schedules.

Maybe we’re not.

On Friday night, Ray went to play guitar with a friend. The girls and I had an impromptu dinner party – Thai food and a trip to Yogurtini, our new fave — with Ms. X. It was a lovely night.

We got home, and out of nowhere, Sophie reached up and turned out the light in the dining room and held her hands over her eyes, like our friend Anna does when she’s lighting the Sabbath candles.

I’ve never seen Sophie do that so randomly. Yes, if someone lights a candle, she might put her hands up and pretend to say the prayer.

But this was completely out of the blue. Or was it?

It was a  total coincidence that it happened to be Friday, not long after sunset, the beginning of the Jewish sabbath. Or was it?

I left the light out and grabbed a candle (forgive me if you’re up there, Lord, it was a kumquat-scented travel candle — at least it wasn’t the pinot noir one!) and lit it and the girls put their hands over their eyes and I said the prayer, stumbling when I got to the end and made it the prayer for Hanukkah, not Shabbat, only showing myself how long it had been.

Maybe we need some religion in our house. Or maybe I just need to get off my butt and clean up. Either, I think, would be a miracle.

How depressing.