I can’t believe a week’s gone by and I’ve neglected to share how we celebrated the second anniversary of Sophie’s “happy heart”.

Aside from the fact that Ray and Annabelle were gone camping with the Brownies, it was a perfect day. There was time for cuddling in bed, a bath and hair brushing before ballet. We hit a little outdoor festival with some good friends, then settled in for the rest of the day with Ms. X.

We watched Project Runway, made bracelets (Sophie made piles — and a mess) and Ms. X even decorated a cake. After our fruitful labors, the three of us went out for dinner at a nearby Turkish restaurant, where Sophie was quite taken with the belly dancer performing!

After that, a trip to our favorite bookstore, Changing Hands. There, Sophie managed to find a Junie B. Jones book she didn’t already have (the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake) and Ms. X read it to her while she ate chocolate ice cream. Ms. X doesn’t fix the grammar like Mommy does, so that was an extra-special treat.

A good day. We have a lot of good days — so many, I take them for granted. I thought about that this week when a good friend and fellow first grader had hand surgery. And Ray and I talked about it this week when we were remarking that it’s time to call the cardiologist for a routine check-up.

Everything’s fine, Ray said. It’s not like she’s had any problems.

Remember, I warned him. That’s how it was the last time, two years ago – when a routine exam turned up a leak. Sophie wasn’t showing any symptoms then.

Yeah, he said. “I’ll never forget that.” Me, either. 

The cardiologist is on my “to do” list for today. But I think I’ll put the call off til Monday.

Here is a lovely photo of the girls, posing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, marred only by the fact that Sophie insisted on clutching a Sesame Street coloring book.

I can relate. At the next lookout point (I lost count, not sure which that was) yesterday, she initially refused to get out of the car, and so I read “Junie B. Jones, Graduation Girl” while Ray and Annabelle oohed and ahhed. Eventually, Sophie did agree to get out, so I joined her. We walked to the edge of that lookout, and she was suitably impressed.

Ray was pleased, which pleased me. Despite the fact that he accused me of a sullen expression most of the trip (I swear, I felt like crap, I have a sinus infection, and even tried showing him a Kleenexful of green snot to prove it) I actually enjoyed myself. Ray made great efforts were made to assure that — we stayed in a nice hotel (not El Tovar, but still, it was very clean and spacious) and I was not forced to attempt any hikes that scared me. (Which, to be honest, is most any hike, particularly one that involves standing near a precipice, which is pretty much what the Grand Canyon is all about, hence the name.)

Sophie’s a great equalizer in the equation of our family, I have to admit. She and I attempt the more modest physical endeavors in life (she’ll tip the balance and surpass me, I know, it’s just a matter of time), while Ray nudges Annabelle to join him. She had whined for weeks, anytime he suggested a hike, so I was worried and I know he was, too. But she performed admirably, this trip. They made it almost to the first rest house, which I’m told is a heck of a hike for an almost 8 year old.

Ray adores the Grand Canyon. It’s one of his favorite places. He first traveled there with his parents when he was young, recently transplanted from New York. He’s stayed in Bucky O’Neil’s cabin (so close to the edge you wouldn’t want to stay there if you sleepwalk), he’s hiked up and down in a day (not recommended) and even rim to rim in a day (definitely not recommended). He’d been there before, but this trip he thoroughly enjoyed every lookout, every peek, every bit of the canyon experience.

I most appreciated the parts that involved people and buildings — I’m fascinated by Mary Colter, who designed many of the buildings at the Grand Canyon’s south rim, long before it was fashionable for a woman to do so. I love the decor in her Bright Angel lodge, down to the whimsical, decrepit, painted window panes near the ceiling of the lodge’s cafe.

The Grand Canyon itself? Eh. To me, it looks like a backdrop for a movie — almost too pretty to look at for too long, and definitely vertigo-inducing for me if I go anywhere close to the edge. I’ll admit that perhaps I lack a full appreciation because I have not ever ventured down into the canyon. And I never will. I walked 13 and a half miles a few months ago, but that was all flat except for a slight incline near the end that nearly killed me. I trip over curbs; no thanks, I’ll skip mile-deep canyons.

Despite the fact (or maybe because of it) that I’m an Arizona native, my first trip to the Grand Canyon didn’t come til I was in my 20s, on assignment for my first newspaper job: A murderer was loose in the Grand Canyon National Park. Now, that was my kind of trip! The guy didn’t hurt anybody (else, that is) and they caught him fairly quickly, but I had fun traisping around the grounds, talking to scared tourists.

I did walk to the edge and looked for a few seconds, National Lampoon’s Vacation-style, then posed and our photographer (handy, to have one of those around; these days I’d be forced to take my own photos) snapped my picture, smiling and waving.

I knew I’d be okay if I never went back. So yeah, to be completely honest, that sullen expression this weekend may have been 90 percent sinus infection and 10 percent Grand Canyon, but I know one thing: I thoroughly enjoyed being with my family for three days straight, even though Sophie pooed her pants (bye bye Elmo panties) and later drew all over herself with markers (where’d she get them?!) and Annabelle got motion sick and threw up in the car, just minutes from home. (My weak stomach — she did inherit something from me.)

I’m looking forward to traveling — even camping, yes, I’ve committed — with the family this summer. Sophie will now sleep in a bed with the rest of us in the room without getting up all night (knock wood), climbs stairs on her own and, generally speaking, doesn’t bolt, which is a very good thing when you’re standing next to, oh, say, the Grand Canyon.

And Sophie’s my kindred spirit — for the moment, at least. I, too, reach for reading materials when I’ve had too much sightseeing (most memorable: me, sitting on a pile of Roman ruins, reading People magazine on my honeymoon, while Ray inspected the nth stone whatever).

I’ll need to stock up on the reading material, because we’re headed to some more national parks. After turning it down at the Petrified Forest  last year, Ray decided we should take the Park Service up on its kind offer, and score Sophie a free lifetime pass to all national parks.

“Anyone in this car have a medical disability that gets them government services?” the ranger asked when we pulled up. I looked at my feet.

Ray pointed toward the back seat.

“Sophie does!” he said.

I couldn’t look, but Ray said said the ranger barely glanced back.

“OK, let’s make this quick,” she said, shoving a clipboard in Ray’s face. He signed for Sophie and handed her the card (she was thrilled), which he later wisely grabbed and hid in his wallet. We saved $25.

The Petrified Forest ranger’s words echoed in my ears as we drove into the park — “You get one of those, you never leave that person home when you go on vacation!”

As if.

“Is there an Easter Junie B.?”

She shot back, “Yes. Junie B. First Grader Dumb Bunny!”

 Then she called to say she’d seen it at Target. I didn’t find it there, but they had it at Barnes and Noble. As I was checking out, the young saleswoman commented on my other purchase, “A Birthday for Frances.”

“Is that the one with the blue and white tea set?” she asked.

“Oh no, that’s `A Bargain for Frances,’” I replied automatically.

Frances is my all-time favorite, a 1960s (or so) era hedgehog (whoops! badger!) with a mom and a dad and a little brother, and if you’ve never read Russell Hoban’s books about her, you must run out and get them immediately, regardless of the ages of your kids or whether you have kids at all. I’m quite sure I’ve already waxed dreamily here about “Bread and Jam for Frances,” which is about school lunch.

Frances is most definitely a badger in a party hat. Love her love her love her.

I love Junie B., too, but I have to admit that the relationship’s more complicated. “Yeah,” the saleswoman said after we’d shared our mutual affection for Frances, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Her grammar’s really bad.”

It is. A lot of people don’t like the Junie B. Jones chapter books because the main character’s a bit of a brat, but what drives me nuts about her is definitely her grammar. She uses “ain’t” — and worse.

I’d tell you the rules she breaks, but here’s a true confession: I’m a newspaper editor who spends her days (and nights) fixing grammatical errors, but I can’t tell you the rules my writers are breaking.

That’s an embarrassing admission. I know I’m supposed to be able to identify a dangling participle and diagram a sentence, but to be honest, I wasn’t paying attention that month in seventh grade English. Thanks to my maternal grandmother’s good word sense and the desire to pick a paragraph clean the way a mama monkey picks nits off her babies, I can make your copy look pretty good.

I’m pretty sure that’s my one and only marketable skill, by the way. And I’m not going to tell you here that I never make mistakes — grammatical or otherwise — in this blog and elsewhere. But I don’t use crappy English on purpose, particularly not around young children, and that’s exactly my problem with Junie B.

She talks like a kindergartener. Or so I’m told.

Ms. X. adores Junie B. As soon as the spring semester starts, she stops reading picture books to her class each day after lunch and starts reading Junie B. Jones books.

Annabelle fell hard for Junie B. two years ago in Ms. X’s kindergarten. I’d never heard of her. (As I’ve learned, there are now more than two dozen in the Junie B. series — they’re wildly successful. The first was published in 1992. Thanks, Wikipedia!)

I did some asking around and the consensus among smart kid experts was, “Not to worry. The kids get that it’s a character speaking. The most important thing is that they love Junie B. and they love her books and this will instill a lifelong love of reading.”

(I wanted to ask the author, Barbara Park, about it, too. Turns out she lives here in metropolitan Phoenix, and I thought she’d make a good profile subject for my paper. Also turns out she’s a recluse. I stalked her at a rare public appearance and left her a package with a heartfelt letter and examples of my work, but I never heard back. Darn. I love recluses almost as much as I love hoarders. But that’s a different blog post.)

Annabelle already loved books, but I figured another reason to love them wouldn’t hurt, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard her say “ain’t,” so no harm done. When I read the books aloud to her, I do correct the grammar as I go. I can’t help myself. But she’s been reading them on her own for years, now.

So I didn’t think much of it when, the first week after Christmas vacation, Sophie came home and dug around in Annabelle’s room and emerged with a pile of Junie B. books. Now it’s early April and she’s downright obsessed. She can’t read the books, per se, but she carries them around and turns the pages (licking her finger first, just like Ms. X) and tells stories. She won’t get in the car without one. It’s sweet.

And harmless, right? Right?

It wasn’t til I was walking out of Barnes and Noble with my Easter-themed Junie B. Jones and thinking how clever I was to come up with such a cute idea for Sophie’s basket that it suddenly dawned on me.

Sophie’s not like Annabelle. She’s speaking wonderfully, amazing all her therapists and doing so well for a kid with Down syndrome, but the truth is that her grammar is terrible. In fact, in a list of goals the speech therapist sent me last week, the two main focuses are grammar and learning how to chew gum. (So the Easter bunny’s going to leave some Orbit, too.)

Now I don’t know what to do. I guess I better email the speech therapist and ask her if Sophie’s allowed Junie B. I’m already feeling sorry for myself because we spent a hunk of the girls’ day off yesterday picking up Sophie’s new orthotics. Despite promises from the physical therapist, the new ones look a lot like the old ones and the guy who fitted her for them told me to make sure to get her some sturdy new shoes to wear with them.

So Sophie will be wearing dorky sneakers and reading straight-laced kid fiction. It’s not fair.

The Easter Bunny just might have to be a little naughty.