Yesterday, I volunteered in Annabelle’s classroom. Really, though, I was more of a visitor. An interloper.  Special Agent Amy. (OK, too much “Harriet The Spy”.)

Drama aside, there’s nothing like a little while in your kid’s classroom to tell you what’s what. For example, 20 minutes into my morning in Second Grade, I’d diagnosed every single one of those kids with ADHD. There was not a lot of zen going on, although despite that, somehow, Mrs. Z seemed to have perfect control. She was, however, also having some difficulty with the newish laptops each kid is assigned (I know! We hit the jackpot! Experimental tech program in Annabelle’s room!) which contributed to the kids’ wiliness.

I, meanwhile, couldn’t stop staring at the Smart Board. Holy cow. You should see one of those things, if you haven’t. It’s like a souped-up overhead projector and a Power Point presentation you make as you go along, rolled into one, and that’s not even beginning to describe it. Way cool.

But the kids. Wow. There’s one girl in there, I’ve never seen her though I know all the other young ladies, one of whom sidled up to me, pointed to the girl and whispered, “She’s evil.” I sort of agreed by the end of my visit. Maybe just rambunctuous. The kid looks exactly like Junie B. Jones and stared at me for a while, then asked, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

I loved that.

As always, Annabelle was a little weepy when I had to leave, but happy I’d been there. I’m not sure how long I can justify volunteering, since they’ve just about caught up to my meager math skills and I’m afraid of the laminating machine. But I’ll be back. I’ll figure out something. Because time in the classroom is too important.

Sophie’s classroom is another story. And it’s a sad one, for the moment, at least.

After I left Annabelle’s room, I tried to snoop outside Sophie’s. I felt like there was a quarantine, because it’s been decided all the way around that I shouldn’t volunteer in Sophie’s room. Not yet, anyway. She gets distracted by a lot of things — and I’m Ground Zero. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk into the classroom first thing in the morning to help Sophie with her backpack and lunch box; she absolutely balks at doing anything for herself if I’m there.

So I pressed myself up against the wall by the door outside the classroom and tried to peek in. There wasn’t much to see. They were doing carpet time and Sophie was up at the front, so I couldn’t see her at all. I watched a friend of mine sit with the kids — she’s got girls in both Ms. X and Mrs. Z’s rooms —  and then I left.

We had our own visitor last night: Megan. She’s got her own story about why she’s in town, and I’m sure she’ll tell it herself someday soon, at her own fabulous blog, megyn.wordpress.com, but suffice to say, we were happy to see her.

I woke up this morning and realized I’m still hysterical, so I won’t write about Sarah Palin — not yet, maybe not ever. But I’ll dance around the edges.

Last night I walked past our playroom (once the formal — ha! — dining room in our ramshackled but well-loved house) and realized it looks just like a “before” picture for one of those shows, like Clean Sweep. That’s appropriate, since I spend a lot of time looking over my shoulder, waiting for Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear to pop out and offer me $5000 to quit dressing like such a schlub.

I’ve not seen Sarah Palin’s house, but judging by her look — from her hair down to her heels — it does not resemble mine.

For now, I will say no more. I am going to focus my hysterical energy on cleaning out the playroom and giving the toys the girls have outgrown to the needy families of babies with Down syndrome and teen moms.

Whoops. Did I say that?

Last night, Annabelle got out the “art box” Trish gave her for her birthday. (A brilliant gift idea, damn Trish, she always comes up with the simplest and best ideas — she and Abbie went to the art supply story and filled a “real” art box with “real” artist materials. I shamelessly steal from Trish; just decided the other day to completely lift her holiday gift motif from last year.)

“This is the best pencil sharpener,” Annabelle cooed, twisting the pencil slowly past the shiny metal. “And this, THIS is a real artist’s pencil.”

We talked about whether she’ll be an artist when she grows up. She said she wasn’t sure, they don’t make much money. (Upon questioning, I learned her father had shared that tidbit.) I told her I think she’s already an artist, whether she likes it or not.

She announced she’d drawn her best ballerina to date. I agreed.

“Is that Annaballerina?” I asked, using my mother’s longtime nickname.

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “This is Sopherina!”

(Sophie starts ballet with Annabelle next week, the subject of much discussion and excitement.)

The black stuff from the pencil got all over her hands, so after she finished “sketching” a ballerina, Annabelle raced to the bathroom to wash her hands. Catching up with her, I caught the tail end of Annabelle nose to nose with the mirror, stage whispering, “I AM AN ARTIST!”

Priceless. No matter her future salary.

Sophie’s kicked out a few great drawings too, lately. Here’s one from the second week of school — you can actually make out Mary and her lamb, if you look closely. This is HUGE.

Ray’s last words, as I climbed into the car this morning (after admonishing me to not use swear words on the phone, in the car, in front of the kids):

“You are a word that begins with the letter H.”

Oh, he’s right. I am hysterical. I called this, months ago, as soon as I heard Sarah Palin’s name — along with the fact that a. she had just had her fifth child, a boy with DS and b. that she was interested in being McCain’s running mate.

I knew it, because the world — my world — is that weird.

I’m going to refrain from saying anything yet — I have to sort out my thoughts and I know how tempting blogging can be for those whose thoughts are scrambled — but I will say this: I have written more than anything (by far) about two topics, in my life.

The first is John McCain.

The second is Sophie — and what being a mom (particularly a working mom) of a kid with Down syndrome means.

And never the two should meet, as far as I’m concerned.

Too late.

You figure all this out. Please. And get back to me.

Meanwhile, here’s a link to the way-more-than-anyone-wants-to-read special report my paper posted on him:

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/mccain

OK, this isn’t my typical fare, I’ll admit. Someday I’ll get up the guts to post “Pink Slip”. (Curious? it’s on YouTube.) Tonight, here is something I found on a blog run by a woman named Jessica. Her daughter, Sophia, is a little older than my Sophie, and Jessica had some sage advice (you can see it in the comments on my micro-chip post) she left on Girl in a Party Hat. I checked out her blog, which is lovely, and watched this.

(If you’re looking for a good cry…..)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_0K-gPlyb0

(I watched it a second time with Annabelle. One of the people featured appears to be an adult.

“Oh, you can have Down syndrome when you’re an adult?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“So Sophie will always have problems?”

“Well, yes, some.”

“Oh. I’m glad I don’t have Down syndrome. I speak PERFECTLY.”

Pause.

“But I think Sophie likes Down syndrome.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she has fun.”)

At lunch yesterday, Ray and I mused about whether we should put a micro-chip in Sophie, the way people do with pets. He claims this really goes on in Russia, where kidnapping rates were so high. I brought up safeytat.com again.

It was all idle chatter, til the phone rang a couple hours later. I love Ms. X. She promised she’d let me know any time anything happened, and she has, so far. The phone rings almost every afternoon. This time she sounded serious. Turns out, Sophie actually left the classroom, and headed, in her high-spirited way, right down the hall toward the main door (which isn’t so far from the street). Ms. X caught her and gave her a time out and was very, very stern with her.

Sophie knew. She immediately walked to the bulletin board, where the “green behavior slips” are posted (make it through the day without losing the slip, and a note goes home saying you were “super”) and silently handed it to Ms. X.

“She’s not dumb,” I said.

“Oh no,” Ms. X replied. “She’s not dumb.”

She’s not. Just this morning, Ray and Annabelle and I marveled at a dozen things Sophie did and said.

But her behavior is simply unacceptable. And exactly what I was worried about.

What am I supposed to do? Put Sophie in a contained, dumbed-down classroom she can’t escape from? (I’m not sure such a place even exists; she doesn’t qualify for it cognitively, in any case.) Or hold my breath for the unforseeable future?

Or get a micro-chip?

At the meeting yesterday with Sophie’s kindergarten teacher and the special ed teacher, we talked about strategies for getting Sophie to behave. We didn’t talk about strategies for getting other kids’ parents to behave.

And I’m the first to admit my reaction here is likely super-premature and overly sensitive in an It’s All About Me way, but something happened outside Sophie’s classroom this morning that raised my hackles. (What the heck ARE hackles, anyhow?)

Sophie was being her before-school-ball-buster self — preferring to stand in front of the classroom rather than move to the playground (truth be told, she really wanted to be indoors with the teachers, but that wasn’t going to happen), demanding her water bottle from her backpack. Hey, it’s a new one and it’s got Abby Cadabby on it so I can hardly blame her. But to other eyes, it probably looked like my kid’s just a huge pain in the butt.

I felt a set of eyes headed my way, from on high, and looked up to see a football-jersey’ed dad watching me, carefully.

“Are you her mother?” he asked, pointing to Sophie, who was wriggling in my arms, trying to get her water bottle open.

“Yes.”

“How old is she?”

I dispensed with my usual cutesy, “Sophie, how old are you?” and simply answered, “Five.”

“Oh. That’s my son,” the guy said, pointing. “He’s 4.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “Um, I’m Amy.”

The guy introduced himself and was pleasant enough, I suppose, though he made sure to tell me his kid’s kindergarten experience wasn’t going so well. I made some meaningless comment about kindergaren being hard on all kids and the guy said something like, yeah, well, in this life things don’t always go the way you want them to.

No duh, dude.

He kept staring at Sophie. He didn’t say hi or try to engage her. Then he turned away and started discussing tennis shoes with another dad.  

What I didn’t tell the guy is that kindergarten is particularly hard on kids who aren’t yet 5. I know that from watching the action in Annabelle’s classroom, when she was in kindergarten. I have to admit, I was 4 myself when I started kindergarten, so I’m being hypocritical, making any sort of comment, but hey, when has that ever stopped me? I do know that while it’s allowed, the sticking-your-kid-particularly-your-boy-kid-in-kindergarten-before-5-thing is technically allowed (I think the kid has to turn 5 by December) but somewhat frowned upon, at this school. I’m guessing the guy’s kid has had issues and he’s complained and he’s been told, well, he’s not quite old enough, is he?

I’m no mind-reader, so I’m worried. I’m hoping that guy was just wondering about Sophie’s age because she’s so teeny, rather than wondering why this kid with Down syndrome is in a regular kindergarten classroom, sucking attention away from his kid.

I’ll have to watch The Man with the 4-Year-Old Son…..

I don’t think a penny chart will work in that case, but I am hopeful it will help Sophie. We are in the process of listing possible motivators: a trip to the bookstore/pet store/Chuck E. Cheese, New Piglet at rest time, Sesame Street computer games, and as an extra special reward, chocolate ice cream with Ms. X.

Quite a bit happened today, not all of it good, so I think i’ll focus on one of the pure, joyous moments of childhood and parenthood: the loss of a tooth.

This was Annabelle’s third tooth. Sophie insists she has loose teeth that are going to fall out “in 15 minutes” but so far, only AB has got the toothless grin going. Not so toothless, not yet. She’s got a wiggly top one, but this was her third bottom in a row to fall out (rather, be tugged out, from all accounts of what went down in the classroom).

She was beyond ecstatic, anticipating the arrival of the much-celebrated TF, which doesn’t just stand for tooth fairy.

When Annabelle’s first tooth fell out, I consulted with my Mom Brain Trust, Trish and Deborah.

Trish, the parent of two tween/teen types, gave me her drill: A dollar for the first, two for the second, and so on. Of course you must give silver dollars. (I hope a reasonable facsimile counts; the bank didn’t have REAL silver dollars the day I went to lay in a supply, a few months back. These are some sort of Susan B. Anthony thing. Or was that the $2 bill? Anyhow.)

Deborah’s daughter, Anna, filled Annabelle in on the rest, namely that everyone has her own individual tooth fairy, whose name will be revealed the night of the first visit. Anna’s TF is named Yoko. (If you know Deborah, you’re nodding right now, saying to yourself, “Of course Anna’s tooth fairy is named Yoko.” Deborah’s that cool.)

I forgot about the name thing, The Night of the First Tooth, and had just finished sealing the card (a very special first tooth card, given to me at least a year before by my friend Cyndi Coon, whose www.laboratory5.com designs are to die for, and set aside for this very occasion) when Annabelle appeared in the kitchen doorway, announcing she just couldn’t sleep til she’d written her tooth fairy a note, asking her name.

I’d already signed the card “Love, T.F.”, so I struggled to come up with an appropriate name, which I added to the outside of the envelope. It’s not cool, but Annabelle loves the name Tabitha Fairchild (after all, the child is named Annabelle) and she speaks of her, once in a while, even when she doesn’t have a loose tooth.

This evening, though she should have been prepared, it took Tabitha a good half hour to locate those aforementioned dollar coins in the depths of the kitchen cabinets, and even longer to answer what has turned into a ritual list of questions that are getting harder, I notice. Tonight’s included:

What did you mean when you said you were older than the moon and the stars? (A lady never reveals her exact age!)

Are you fancy or casual? (Very fancy, of course.)

Do you have pets? (A buck toothed bunny rabbit.)

What do you look like? Why can’t I see you? (I really can’t be seen since I’m magic, but close your eyes and imagine a collection of sparkling diamonds with wings, and you’ll be close.)

Do you use the door or the window? (Neither!)

Now I must practice the most terrifying task of parenthood, the Removal of the Tooth from the Bedroom. How will I not get caught? I’ve also got to leave the envelope with the note, along with instructions to look under Izzy’s food bowl for another prize (since the cat recently lost a mouthful of teeth herself), the dollars, and a new hair accessory, because if she’s anything, Tabitha is stylish.

I’d say wish me luck, but I know that tonight I couldn’t be luckier. Best I can tell, this is what it’s all about.

I should really be asleep by now. In a few short hours, I’ve got an early morning meeting with the special education teacher at Sophie’s school — I need to try to convince her that even though my kid’s got an IQ of 86, she deserves time in the “resource room” without letting her think Sophie needs to be in a special program at another school.

I’m grouchy. I hate the word “special”. I keep thinking of that Saturday Night Live character who used it all the time — “He’s so SPECIAL” — you know, the one who lisped a lot. I’ll have to look up the particulars.

But that task is for another night, because tonight I will not be googling. Nor going to bed right away. I’m headed to the couch with “Breaking Dawn,” the embarrassingly addictive fourth Young Adult novel by Stephenie Meyer. (Lauded as the next J.K. Rowling, but for teenage girls and pathetic, panting older women. I’m horrified to admit that these are vampire books. With werewolves in them.)

I stayed up late last night reading the book (it’s ginormous — probably 600 pages) and was up before the proverbial dawn, reading it again, thanks to Annabelle’s Digi-Pet, which started demanding “food” at about 4 this morning.

I do not know how the rest of my family slept through the very large beep that came out of that very tiny piece of plastic crap, particularly since it was nestled about, oh, five inches from Annabelle’s head. I finally crawled out of my own bed, wrestled with AB’s alarm clock til I realized that wasn’t the culprit, grabbed the Digi-Pet and deposited it on the dining room table, on the other side of the house. I narrowly avoided stepping right on a gecko carcass. (Why does the cat insist on leaving the torso?)

I crawled back into bed, but since I had stupidly sworn off Benadryl (for one night, anyway) I was wide awake.

So I headed to the couch with Bella, Edward and Jacob. I won’t spoil the story (so far) for anyone who might dare lift the brick of a book, but I will echo just about everyone else I’ve heard from: in a word, disappointing.

But no less crack-esque than the four-quel’s predecessors. It made me miss Megan, my writer who recently left the paper. In my head, Megan will always be Bella. Now, 99% of that’s because Megan profiled Stephenie Meyer (she lives in metro Phoenix) last year for New Times (you can read the excellent piece at http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2007-07-12/news/charmed) but just a teeny bit is because Megan’s got pale skin, long brown hair and big brown eyes — just like Bella. She even left Phoenix for the Pacific Northwest, an irony not lost on Megan. (This is a woman on whom irony is never lost.)

And both women have a lot of poise.

Megan and I have a big disagreement: She’s all about Jacob, while I’m firmly in Edward’s camp.

If you don’t know what I mean, break down and buy “Twilight,” the first (and by far the best) in the series and just see if you can get any sleep. Just make sure you hide your kid’s Digi-Pet deep in a kitchen drawer.

I begged Ray to watch Sophie on Friday night.

“Oh come on,” he said. “She’ll LOVE the piano concert. You can watch both of them, no problem.”

Annoyingly, Ray is almost always right, so why was I surprised when, in fact, Sophie did love the piano concert? The both part — that’s where he was wrong.

We were out with Mrs. M., O. and L., friends from school who have come — in a little more than two years — to be a big part of our lives. (Stop crying, Mrs. M.! Mrs. M. has been a bad influence on my own tear ducts.)

Anyhow, L. and Annabelle, who are the same age and have been in the same class since they had the fabulous Ms. X. for kindergarten, are both taking piano lessons. Well, sort of.

I can’t honestly recall the last time Annabelle practiced. Part of that is due to the fact that, um, we don’t actually own a piano. We do have a keyboard, so it’s technically possible, but if you’ve seen our playroom lately you know the avalanche that must be risked to retrieve the keyboard or any other item in the room. I am told that we’ll be inheriting my grandparents’ piano — a lovely whitewashed upright number carefully chosen by some Scottsdale interior decorator in the 70s. I can’t imagine where we’ll put it.

Annabelle and L. did seem excited about going to see their teacher perform; so did O., L.’s older sister. I wasn’t so sure about Sophie; she’s not the best at sitting still.

The evening started out well, with margaritas (for the adults) and the macarena (for the kids) at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. The girls got the wiggles out (or so we thought) by shimmying to the stylings of a particularly raucous group of mariachis. Oblivious to what was ahead, Mrs. M. and I drove a few blocks to a gorgeous little cathedral in downtown Phoenix and took our seats in the front row, ready for the concert.

Really, the setting was amazing, so un-Phoenix (my poor hometown takes a beating, and no more so than from me — or is it from I?) and the trio that played, including the piano teacher, was stunning. Sophie curled up in Mrs. M.’s lap; O. sat perfectly still, enchanted. Even I relaxed after a long week and enjoyed it.

For about 30 seconds.

Annabelle and L. were a mess from the first note. “Can we go outside?” L. whispered loudly — oh, I don’t know, maybe 100 times in the first 10 minutes. Annabelle giggled, fidgeted, and tried to dance in the aisles. There were requests regarding pedicures and questions about prayer books.

Toward the end of the first half, Sophie did pop off Mrs. M.’s lap and insist on saying hello to the performers. I had to keep a death grip on her.

No one was surprised that we didn’t stay past intermission.

Afterward, Annabelle didn’t say a word about the concert. She and L. moved on immediately — mainly to the rich contents of the backseat of my car (which included an Elmo costume, remote control puppy and several books) and the topic of what sort of ice cream they’d get for dessert.

Sophie’s mentioned the piano — and imitated the flute playing — several times since. Maybe she’ll be my musician. She DOES do a mean macarena.