I have long held the belief that when you get a cool freelance writing gig, it’s important to invest part of the proceeds.

Not in stock. In merch. Something that will remind you of a positive writing experience, every time you look at it. When I sold a piece to salon.com years ago about how it’s hard to name your kids when you’ve used up all the good names on the pets, I bought myself a red leather Kate Spade organizer, which I only recently gave up for Google’s calendar.

(You can read the piece at http://archive.salon.com/mwt/feature/2002/03/08/pet_names/index.html — and no, I still haven’t learned the link thing.)

Sometimes the purchases are not as auspicious. Ditto for the assignments. Earlier this year, I used the money from a Travel & Leisure assignment (which I will NOT link to here) to pay my Visa bill.

But when I got the check from “This American Life” last week, I knew what I was going to buy, and it’s something very special.

Now, I need to say here that I felt incredibly guilty, taking money from public radio. True confession: For years, I’d time my contributions during the pledge drives to TAL, so I could call in to donate in answer to Ira’s plea. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to beckon a little karma.

And it worked!

I do have bills to pay with much of my TAL check, but I intend to use part of it for this year’s donation. I used another small hunk to buy a piece from Amanda Blake, who so graciously agreed to let me use the image of “Beth” for Girl in a Party Hat. (And big thanks to Deborah, who suggested the name.)

Nancy will be arriving any day now, but I’m so psyched I had to show her off immediately (I also don’t know how to size photos — still — but here’s a bit of an idea), and give Amanda a plug: She’s got more little girls on wood for sale, on etsy.com. You can check her out at amandablakeart.com

I thought I was the only one who was nervous.

This morning I had a quick meeting with Gordon, Sophie’s pre-school Gordon. He has a very long beard and a very short window of time to talk — his priority is the kids, which I love.

But he wanted to meet this morning to tell me two things he’s noticed recently, about Sophie.

First, he said, she is starting to seek attention from her peers.

“That’s great!” I said.

Um, no. Apparently this is going on in an “immature” fashion — Sophie is grabbing other kids’ toys and getting upset when they react negatively. She grabs like a 3-year-old and reacts like a 5-year-old, Gordon said. Instead of screaming and crying, she gets sad, trying to hide her tears and disappointment at her inability to engage.

Rip my heart out.

Second, Gordon said, Sophie is clearly nervous about kindergarten. I haven’t ever seen Sophie really exhibit anxiety about anything at all abstract. “Scawy!!” for a ride at Disneyland, sure, but nothing less concrete than that.

But he insists she’s worried. He can tell, he told me, because Sophie talks a lot about her teacher and going to school with Annabelle. She seems fine with that, Gordon said, but she asks for Mommy more than usual.

I wanted to walk back into that pre-school room and grab Sophie up and — what? Take her to work with me? Home school her? Not good scenarios for either of us.

I need a cocktail.

Have you ever had a teacher crush?

I didn’t know there was such a thing til I met Ms. X.

Correction: The first time I met her, it was hardly love at first sight. She terrified me. I was at our neighborhood elementary school (for the first time, that was scary enough), for an evening discussion group about how to prepare your kid for kindergarten. (In this case, Annabelle.)

Two teachers spoke: Ms. X, and another longtime kindergarten teacher at the school. As soon as the other one opened her mouth, I knew Annabelle had to have her. She was gentle and sweet, a little sing songy (in an endearing way). She reminded me of the teachers at Annabelle’s pre-school, where it’s all about choices and feelings and other squishy things.

Ms. X was hard. At least, I thought so. She had a killer manicure, a beautiful head of hair and an attitude that said, “I’m going to kick your kid’s ass” and thoroughly enjoy the process.

(Remember Joan Cusack’s character in the movie “about last night”, the kindergarten teacher who views the kids as the enemy? Well, I’m embarrassed to admit that I saw the movie so many times in the 80s that I do remember it even if you don’t. Ms. X was a little like that.)

My knees were knocking, by the time she finished talking. I knew I had to get the OTHER teacher.

Then I ran into an old acquaintance (not quite a friend, not then, though I certainly call her one now) at Trader Joe’s. She noted, laughing, that I was able to keep both kids in the cart, carry on a detailed conversation with Ray on the cell, and shop at the same time.

It’s nice when someone notices your gifts, you know?

When we figured out our kids would be at the same school (her son’s older) she had one piece of advice: “Request Ms. X.”

“No way!” I said. “She scares the crap out of me!”

(Note to self: Check to make sure random parent acquaintance is not BFFs with teacher before you say something like, “No way! She scares the crap out of me!”)

Whoops.

In the end, I took my new friend’s advice. And I’m forever in her debt.

“Annabelle will adore Ms. X,” she said. “Yeah, she’s firm, but she’s girly and fun and the kids all love her.”

All true. Annabelle flourished and now I understand all about the Teacher Crush.

Late last year, I had to break it to Ms. X, that I was splitting my affections: I’d discovered Mrs. Z, the Rock Star of the Second Grade.

When the letter for Annabelle came, I was beside myself.

But nothing compared to the relief that came with Sophie’s letter. I don’t think I would be sending Sophie to this school — correction, I know I wouldn’t — if it weren’t for this teacher. And I’m not just saying that because she might read this. I’m saying it in spite of that — because I hate for her to feel that kind of pressure.

It’s okay. This woman embodies grace under pressure. Anyone who can get 22 5-year-olds to do anything simultaneously — particularly if it involves doing it with their mouths shut — is my idea of Wonder Woman.

Ms. X speaks the language of kindergarten.

She keeps insisting she’s not worried about Sophie. But she knows I am. Today she called to ask if we could come in sometime this week — not during Meet the Teacher, but a separate time when the classroom will be empty — so Sophie can familiarize herself with her new surroundings. Ms. X told me  splans to get projects ready for Sophie each day, so she doesn’t feel overwhelmed with a lot of cutting or drawing. No teacher has time for this. But Ms. X is doing it anyway. And if she has other kids in the class with specific needs, she’ll do the same for them.

I can bring her Diet Coke and Starbucks til she runs to the bathroom (which she also intends to show Sophie, ahead of time, to make sure she’s comfortable) and still, I’ll never be able to thank her.

Maybe Sophie will figure out a way, this year.

At 7, Annabelle’s way better with a video camera (actually, I think it’s an attachment on our old digital camera, which Ray gave her) than I am.

While Sophie and I were at Trader Joe’s yesterday, Annabelle made a movie. She had a little help from Ray, but he swears she filmed the whole thing herself. You might not find that hard to believe. My favorite part is where her thumb makes an appearance.

I think the title should be “Who Says A Trip to Target Can’t Buy Happiness?” but Annabelle called it “Annabelle’s Schoolstuff 2008″. Here’s the youtube link:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=G5QP8dp1cbs

Today Annabelle and I went to Kate Belly Button’s birthday party.

(You know, it could be that I’ve already introduced Kate Belly Button, but the truth is that it’s close to midnight and I’ve promised myself I’ll deal with at least one overflowing basket of laundry before bed, so I figure I either have time to go back and read old posts and figure out whether you’ve met KBB, or I have time to write about the party. And I just spent three minutes on this explanation, so I think i’ll cut my losses at this point.)

Kate Belly Button is Annabelle’s oldest friend. Born a day apart, the girls started day care the same day at the same place. Kate’s parents, Todd and Kacey are that odd couple in that Ray and I both actually like both of them. Unheard of! And they have a sweet little boy named Evan. The girls made their first trip to Disneyland together and they’ve played at the beach. Of course, they’ve always invited one another to their birthday parties.

The birthday party thing is tricky, since Annabelle and Kate (Kate nicknamed her Annabellybutton early on, and while that nickname didn’t stick, for some reason we’ve transferred it to Kate — probably because we know several Kates) haven’t been in school together since they were 3. They have no friends in common. That can be a tricky proposition with a swimming pool full of 7 year old girls, and although the invitation arrived with both Annabelle and Sophie’s names on it, for some reason I thought it would be wiser to just bring Annabelle.

I’ll be honest. Sophie has, in fact, been known to suck the attention out of a room (or a pool). I figured Annabelle would need (and deserve, for once) my undivided attention. And although he’s certainly a lot more fun that I am, Ray doesn’t particularly like kid birthday parties.

I thought I’d keep it simple. I thought Annabelle would be thrilled. I know I never wanted my sister around, when I was 7. (Sorry, Jenny, but I know you felt the same. Now we’re BFFs. Well, close.)

Halfway to Kate’s, Annabelle asked, in a small voice, “Will I know anyone at the party?”

Uh oh. We arrived, and no, she didn’t. Just Kate, and the birthday girl was understandably swept up in the commotion of her day.

In the end, it was fine. Several girls didn’t know the others, so everyone played and swam and ate and had fun. “That was a great party!” Annabelle announced as she buckled her seat belt. It was; Kacey always throws a nice party. Her mother in law even brought eegee’s lemon ice up from Tucson.

But at the beginning, it wasn’t so good.

As she wriggled into her swim shirt in the bathroom, Annabelle looked up said, “I hope I have someone to play with.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I’d left her playmate at home.

Already, today, the sisters had cycled through several highs and lows — Sophie chased her around the dining room table til Annabelle, crying, slammed herself into her room; later, the two tangoed across the kitchen floor, gasping for breath between giggles as Annabelle tried to dip Sophie.

“I should have brought Sophie, shouldn’t I?” I asked, in a small voice.

From under the swim shirt, an equally small voice answered. “Yes.”

Sophie!

Becuase contrary to my deep dark fears, she DID get the amazing Ms. X, star of stage and screen and Annabelle’s own fabulous kindergarten year.

Sophie is doing a poo-poo dance by my chair. More on Ms. X later.

I got home late tonight. Sophie was already in bed. It was sitting on the mail table, still sealed, in an envelope decorated with school stuff — apples and mortarboards — addressed to Sophie.

The Teacher Letter.

I considered ripping it open; she wouldn’t really know the difference. But I couldn’t do that. So there it sits, waiting til morning, the whole year inside.

Not long ago, Ray commented that we really should hang the Morning Monkey quilt — the one a mom in Sophie’s pre-school class made when she had heart surgery last fall — on the wall.

“It’s fading,” he said. I’d just blogged the same thing. It’s true. Everytime we wash the quilt, the monkeys are a more distant memory. And with kindergarten now less than two weeks away, the transition’s fresh in my mind all the time.

But when we put Sophie down to sleep (and YES, that’s a crib she’s in, in the picture, and yes I know it’s horrible to put my 5 year old in a crib, and yes I intend to discuss this material failing here, at some point soon) she begs for the quilt.

“Morning Monkeys!”

How can I say no to that?

She’s asleep now with Morning Monkeys on her back.

I’m wide awake, with the kindergarten monkey on mine. This wek we got Annabelle’s 2nd grade assignment — scored the rock star second grade teacher, I’ll call her the fabulous Mrs. Z — but haven’t received confirmation as to whether Sophie definitely got the amazing Ms. X.

And there are a million other questions, that can only be answered with time and experience. Sophie’s a lab rat in her mother’s experiment, headed to a mainstream kindergarten room. For the first day, at least.

Somehow, that was funnier when I said it in May, when this whole thing was months away, not days.

I wish I could crawl under the Morning Monkey quilt myself.

It started last week. Appropos of nothing (nothing I knew of, anyway) Annabelle came home from camp with a Magic Markered diagram, depicting instructions for making shoes.

The next morning, I couldn’t budge her away from the dining room table, she was so engrossed in typing paper, scissors and tape. By the time we finally left the house, she’d created two prototypes of slip-ons — and pretty good designs.

Often, these fancies end as quickly as they began. But some last, like the burning desire Annabelle had in kindergarten to write her own play. The amazing Ms. X actually made that one happen; “The Four Fairies Wish” may not ever make it to Broadway, but after its debut at Annabelle’s school, a fourth grade teacher friend of mine actually had her own kids perform it. Pretty cool.

So I wasn’t entirely surprised, a full week later, when Annabelle asked for materials to make more shoes. This time she ruined a pair of pale pink tights (I think they were too small, and anyhow, it’s a minor investment in the name of art).

She asked for scissors, a hole punch and ribbon, then when she couldn’t maneuver them herself (mainly because the scissors are too dull and the hole punch a dud) walked me through much of it: cutting the bottoms of the tights off, halfway down the leg, making five holes around the edges of the tops of the tight bottoms.

She strung the ribbon through the tights and voila! Shoes were born.

She put them on, asked me to tie them, and carefully slipped on the anklet she’s been wearing non-stop for weeks, since my mother in law gave it to her (actually, I think it’s a too-big bracelet) for her birthday.

Then, like any good designer, she struck several poses and planned the next step.

“Do you think this weekend, Daddy will take me to the hardware store so I can buy some wood to make heels?” she asked.

“Sure. Why not?”

She danced around the living room and squealed, “I can’t wait for school to start!”

And then Annabelle paused, thoughtful.

“I’m not sure I should wear my new shoes to school. High heels might not be appropriate.”

Long pause.

“Plus, these might be too slippery for school.”

Happy shrug. With that, she was off to brush teeth, leaving her shoes where everyone in our house leaves shoes: in a pile in the middle of the floor.

Nothing like the confirmation that your 7-year-old does most things better than you.

Nine times out of 10, when I tell Sophie it’s time to do her hair, she hollers (lately she’s been looking down, stamping her foot and making a snorting noise — all too similar to a horse, I know) and refuses.

The other afternoon, out of the blue, Annabelle said, “Sophie, it’s time to do your hair.”

And while I’d never seen Annabelle attempt more than a low ponytail on herself (maybe a side pony once or twice — sacrilege in my world, particularly after Napoleon Dynamite, side ponytails are just WRONG) she later emerged with two ponytails of her own, and a sister done up with the same, plus sideswept bangs pinned with Elmo and Zoe clips.

I was blown away.

They were both so proud. I’ve tried it on a couple hectic mornings since, and amazingly, it’s worked — Annabelle’s done her own hair, and then Sophie’s. And Sophie’s let her.

I feel only slightly guilty, and a little jealous that a 7 year old is able to command a. compliance and b. pretty good rubber band action.