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.

I saw it yesterday in our breakfast with the still-fabulous, still-celebrated Ms. Janice — without her classroom as an accessory, she’s now become simply a very good friend, rather than teacher. I had the role of the enforcer (not one I carried out too well, I might add) at the breakfast table.

The fact that pre-school’s quickly moving into the past became a sharper reality this morning, when I pulled the Morning Monkey quilt out of the dryer. (Ms. Janice has Morning Monkeys and Afternoon Alligators — what a workload.) When Sophie had her heart surgery last fall, the folks at her pre-school were phenomenal. Ms. Janice and others came to visit at the hospital and at home, and everyone sent presents. One night Sophie’s bus driver, Sam, showed up on our doorstep with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

But aside from the visits, the best present she got was the Morning Monkey quilt.

A mom I’d never met (she had a son in Ms. Janice’s classroom) made it for Sophie — it must have taken her days (would have taken me years) to sew this beautiful quilt made of several fabrics, each square printed with a photograph of a member of the class, including the teachers, aides and therapists.

Every night, Sophie insists we cover her with the Morning Monkeys (her own photo looks just like a mugshot, I swear, if you can imagine a 4-year-old getting arrested) and every morning she wants me to pretend to be Alex (her boyfriend) or Tatiana (her friend) or Ms. Sydney (her beloved speech therapist). Today she named each kid and adult, kissing her finger and placing it on a face, one by one.

But this morning, I noticed that the pictures on the quilt are starting to fade. Just like pre-school.

I can tell you this: She didn’t score high in the behavior category, if there is one. At one point, she climbed up behind the psychologist’s desk, grabbed a back issue of New York magazine and started paging through, laughing like crazy. (Knowing she was driving me crazy.)

Then last night we swam with the fabulous Ms. X, kindergarten teacher, who got a taste of her own near future when Sophie refused to leave the party. Everyone insisted it was cute; it terrified me.

Sophie even acted up this morning, in front of Ms. Janice, the lead singer of the rock star teacher line-up, the one who swears in two years she never witnessed the kind of behavior performed today at the breakfast table. Sophie’s taken to making this snorting noise and bumping her head into my chest, when she’s annoyed with me, which is often. She stood up in the booth, showed us her chewed up bacon, and refused to behave til her stuffed dog told her to. (A trick I’ve been employing constantly, it seems.)

We did all laugh when I handed Sophie her orange juice. She immediately took a big drink, her tongue sticking right out beneath the straw (a Down syndrome problem, that tongue — too big for a small mouth, combined with low muscle tone).

“Sophie, put your tongue in!” I said.

She stuck it out further.

“Sophie, put your tongue in,” Ms. Janice said, in perfect pre-school speak.

The tongue went back in.

It’ll be back out, I’m sure, when I see Sophie tonight. I just wonder how she’s faring with GaGa; they left breakfast for the mall.

I haven’t tried it (um, no thanks, don’t want to hear the sound of my own voice again — don’t you hate that?) but looks like you can just click and listen.

I was bad today.

No, I didn’t exceed my Weight Watchers points. I went to Last Chance.

As we like to say in these parts, you only get one Last Chance — and it’s in Phoenix.

For reasons I can’t remember, but at one point long ago did actually report, Nordstrom put its clearance center smack in the middle of my city. There actually might be more locations now, but at the time I wrote about Last Chance, ours was the only one.

(You can read the story at http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1997-02-13/news/possessed/)

Writing about Last Chance was a problem. I did the story more than 10 years ago (I know that because I bought my wedding shoes there — Kenneth Cole, super cute, looked like new, totally uncomfortable, wound up by the end of the night on the cake table with bridesmaid bouquets in them) and I developed quite the addiction, something only motherhood (the combined lack of expendable time and income, along with a gross-out factor — this place is like a garage sale on a good day, how could I put my kids in that stuff?) could cure.

But today I was driving past, and I’d had a rough afternoon, and my friend Michele had just bought, like, six skirts there last week. So I broke my rule, and headed in. (You’ve got to understand that only recently did I finally give away the last of the boxes of stuff I accumulated there in the late 90s.)

I walked out with the essentials — a set of Paul Frank days of the week underpants (the only drawback is they’re Xmas panties, but hey, they were only $6.97); this thing by SportSac — adorable colors, I’ve been wanting something SportSac ever since their resurrgence (which calls to mind Hush Puppies’ late 90s resurrgence and, you guessed it, my half-dozen pairs in assorted pastels) but I’m not sure what this thing is meant for, maybe a very lightweight laptop? And, bummer, didn’t notice til I got home that it has a tear across the back, and that’s after Ray had to wrestle the anti-theft thingie they left on, I wondered what that beeping was when I left the store; a red pendant studded with periwinkle rhinestones and a “Little Miss Giggles” figure stamped on it; something I tried typing in here but realized I’m too embarrassed to mention, which means it’s really bad; and a bunch of shoes.

I feel okay putting the girls in Last Chance shoes, because your feet are dirty to begin with, right? Plus, holy crap, they had some awesome shoes today at Last Chance. I got Annabelle a pair of red Mary Jane Crocs (she squealed a dog-deafening squeal when she saw them) and some Ecco slip-ons in that trendy puke green/red combo. But the real winner was Sophie.

Let me back up. Until very recently, I couldn’t buy Sophie squat when it came to shoes. Now, in the scheme of things (heart surgery, mental retardation, didn’t walk til she was 3) who cares?

Um, me. I cared. I can’t help it. I want my kids to wear cute shoes, and it really sucks when one can and the other can’t, even if the other doesn’t seem to notice. And she didn’t notice, not til recently. From a very early age, Sophie has worn braces on her feet. Not those creepy metal ones kids wore when I was a kid, but plastic, molded braces with velcro straps that keep her feet from pronating and make it almost impossible to a. find shoes that fit and b. cram them onto her feet.

That said, I am so grateful that Dorcas, Sophie’s physical therapist, insisted on the AFO’s. (I can’t remember the acronym, now she wears a modified version called SMO’s. Can’t remember that acronym either.) In fact, when the nice orthopedist insisted Sophie would be better off without the AFO’s (the trend is to let kids go barefoot to learn to walk, even if their feet do appear to be caving in), I had to refuse to leave his office til he acquiesed.

“Dorcas will quit if you don’t give me that prescription,” I said. “And I can’t have Dorcas quit.”

He wrote it. And Sophie’s worn those damn things ever since, although I have to admit not as much as she used to or perhaps should. But for crying out loud, even Converse don’t fit right with those braces, and it’s just not fair for her to spend her childhood clunking around in ugly white tennies. Plus her walking’s so good now.

So Dr. Mom’s been a little lenient. For the most part, as with the rest of her wardrobe (and only because she’s the littlest of our family/friends) Sophie’s worn hand-me-down shoes. Annabelle’s outgrown them so quickly, they’re barely worn.

All that as background to explain my gorging at Last Chance today. I bought Sophie 5 pairs of the most precious shoes I’ve ever seen, including pink Tevas (she’s been dying for Tevas so she can be like her sister and her dad, and as soon as she saw them, she put them on and wouldn’t take them off to try the rest) and hot pink patent leather clogs with bright green flowers that I’m terrified to put her in — she’ll fall right on her face.

But she’ll look so cute doing it.

Halfway through the movie, Annabelle stage-whispered, “I dropped my straw!”

I took mine out of my drink and handed it to her, silently. She went back to slurping.

Sophie looked over. Immediately, she reached over and took her own straw from her drink and put it in my cup. In the light from the movie, I could see her face beaming. I smiled back.

“Mommy, I love you SO MUCH,” she said, rubbing my arm, her hand wet from clandestine thumbsucking.

Me too, Sophie. Me too.

This week we discovered the double-messy bun(s). On the day this photo was taken, Sophie also had her shorts on backward (she knew, she insisted) and I worried that I’d really gone over the edge with the whole “I’ve gotta be me, I’ve gotta be free!” approach to childish expressions. But she actually got a few compliments. And no one seemed to notice the shorts.

I’m still not saying “for sure” on this one, even though I got confirmation from the producer today — but I MIGHT have a piece on the radio show This American Life, on the episode airing this weekend.

For me, that’s right up there with beating Kristy Kyl (yes, U.S. Senator Jon Kyl’s daughter, no, we didn’t have the same political views) at high school debate camp. In other words, I’m psyched! And for once, no caveats.

The piece is about Sophie (surprise!) and info about the show is at www.thislife.org — it airs on public radio, it’s different in every city. In Phoenix, it’s on KJZZ at 2 p.m. on Saturdays.

And with that, the shameless-self-promotion-portion of the blog is now over. For today.

I don’t remember much about my own birthday parties, growing up. But I do recall my 7th — celebrated at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. Where else? When some other party ordered The Zoo and the guys raced around the restaurant with it — bells banging, sirens blaring — it scared the crap out of me, like it always did. But it was a good birthday; I got one of those toy sewing machines that used glue. I also recall, that year, going to dinner at Howard Johnson’s on a separate night, where I received a yellow Snoopy watch (long gone). And of course there was also the party with the extended family, which always included a Googy’s surprise cake.

How’s that for a dose of 70s-era Phoenix nostalgia? (No, Wallace and Ladmo weren’t there, though family legend has it that my aunt once went on a date with Wallace. And no, I don’t recall having a birthday party at Legend City. Too dangerous.)

Anyhow, you get the picture. Birthdays in our family weren’t super-fancy or expensive, but they were treated like a Catholic wake — long and involved, stretched over several days, with lots of food.

And it wasn’t enough to celebrate once a year. My favorite gift ever was actually one I received on my HALF birthday, first celebrated in junior high. I got lemon-scented Tickle deodorant.

What can I tell you? My mother never met a holiday she didn’t want to celebrate. (Still true today.) One of her favorite sayings was, “Santa Claus does not discriminate against Jews.”

It was a good childhood, but as an adult, I find it hard to match the perfection of ice cream, hard candy and the player piano at Farrell’s. Twice a year, on my birthday and again on my sister Jenny’s, Jenny and I get on the phone to lament our birthdays as adults — that our husbands will never match the one-woman birthday parade that is our mother. (And let me say, Ray does a damn good job trying.)

Trouble is, the rest of the world didn’t always match Mom’s expectations for our birthdays — one of those things I only fully understand now that I’m a mother myself.

For me, each kid birthday party is a clean slate, a chance to try again to get it perfect. And with Sophie, it’s even more complicated. More on this later, I promise/threaten.

The blog’s not called Girl in a Party Hat for nothing.

And the worst part is that I should know who Shakira is, since I have a People magazine waiting by my bed. (I even subscribe, for crying out loud.) I think she’s a singer. Anyhow, apparently she’s a rocket science and I’m spending too much time on Facebook (my newest vice, along with tart-and-trendy frozen yogurt) since I’ve now seen ads touting the IQs of two celebs.

The first was Angelina, and I don’t recall her IQ (another bad sign, for sure) but I remember the ad because I’ve been thinking a lot about IQ these days. I’m too lazy to look up the New Yorker article about IQs I keep hearing was fabulous (I have like the last six months of the New Yorker unread in a pile because I’m too busy reading People) but I want to since we’re in the process of dealing with Sophie’s IQ.

Maybe my IQ is not 140 (I don’t know what it is. My mother won’t say. She won’t tell my sister or me — or my dad, unless he once knew and forgot, because she doesn’t want either of us to know the other’s smarter. Or more IQ-y. I tried to get it out of him not long ago, he’d only say that he knows my mother’s is higher than his.) but I do know there’s no freaking way you can accurately determine the true intelligence of a 5 year old, particularly a 5 year old with Down syndrome.

When I saw the ad I didn’t think about signing Sophie up. She’s already signed up for testing. I did think about clicking on it for myself, then decided that some things are better left unknow, or at least unsaid, and anyhow, who wants to find out they’re not as smart as Shakira?

I have no idea where that came from, but it’ll be appropriate, I suppose, at Annabelle’s bowling-themed birthday party Sunday.

(I’m bummed — I wanted to put “We Had a Bowl” on the goody bag tags, but realized in the nick of time that, um, that won’t quite work. Mom, I’ll explain later.

But thanks to my sister, I do think I’ve solved the conundrum over how to decorate the cupcakes with “tiny edible bowling balls,” Annabelle’s request. More on that later.)

Anyhow, the whole “Daddy-o” and “Mommy-o” schtick got so many laughs that Sophie’s tried it out on just about everyone she’s encountered in the past few days: Megan-o, Annabelle-o, Gaga-o, Grandma-o. I’ve gotten some mileage out of telling the story around the office.

I just told a co-worker about it. After she chuckled over what she dubbed “the comedic stylings of Sophie,” I said, “Hey, that went over so well I’ll have to blog about it!”

She looked uncomfortable. “Oh, I need to read your blog! I still haven’t!”

I assured her that it’s best to skip it, as I’m quickly realizing this whole blog thing is putting a damper on live conversation. In the past week, at least three people have said, “Uh, yeah, I know. I read that,” when I’ve tried to share some life detail.

It’s a brave new bungle, this whole blog thing.