But in the interest of, well, shameless self-promotion, I’ll tell you that I will be teaching and co-teaching some writing workshops in July — one at Changing Hands Bookstore, the others at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art.

Also, registration for Mothers Who Write begins July 1, and it tends to fill fast.

All details are here.

And this concludes our commercial break. Back to your regularly scheduled blog reading, everyone.

Last week marked the end of another Mothers Who Write workshop. I’ve lost track of how many we’ve taught. This one, like those before it, was the best yet.

We don’t play favorites, of course (wink, wink — what teacher doesn’t?!) but Deborah and I both have very cushy spots in our hearts for our long-time student Estelle Gracer.

As we say in class, “show don’t tell,” and so I’ll show you, with a video Estelle’s son Richard taped in Sedona this weekend. In it, she is reading a wonderful poem she wrote for class. You can also read it on her blog.

I sat next to Estelle at our end-of-the-workshop reading on Saturday, and as always, she had some good advice. When I complimented her outfit, she shook her scarf at me and said, “No matter what you’re wearing, you can always dress it up with a nice scarf!”

Yes, I replied, but I’m already wearing my cowgirl boots. Estelle looked at my completely plain black outfit (save for the bit of trim on the boots) and smiled kindly, eyebrows raised just a bit.

I’m hard-pressed to think of a woman who’s better at accessorizing — not just when it comes to clothing, but to her home and even her life — than Estelle. She’s taught me a lot, and I’m looking forward to the lesson.

That was the assignment for last night’s Mothers Who Write class — the workshop I’ve co-taught for years with my dear friend Deborah Sussman Susser. We wanted our students to write about health care, but frankly, we weren’t interested in 15 essays about health care reform.

So the ever-wise Deborah came up with “home remedy” — and it was just what the doctor ordered. We spent two hours workshopping amazing pieces on topics ranging from the remedy for jalapeno pepper in the eye (salt under the tongue!) to the remedy for a troubled marriage (shining the sink — long story) with incredible tales behind each.

Funny we chose that topic, since I’ve been struggling myself with the notion of home remedies. I haven’t applied any, but have been gathering suggestions. The malady: possible ADHD.

We had the much-awaited (by me, anyway) IEP team meeting this morning at Sophie’s school, and it actually went pretty well.

The mystery of the wandering kid was solved. She sometimes finds her way upstairs at the end of lunch — everyone is now aware of this and looking out for it, and Annabelle’s teacher will be asked to report immediately if it happens again. I got to give my speech about how my two priorities are that Sophie be safe and that she not disrupt others’ learning environment. Everyone looked appropriately uncomfortable, since the subtext is that Sophie deserves to be at this school as much as any other kid — at least, that’s what the law says. I didn’t raise my voice and afterward, no one asked me if I was raised in New York. Progress, I think.

Turning to academics, we rewrote some of Sophie’s goals to incorporate more inclusion in the classroom, talked about  concerns, shared successes –and across the board, every therapist and Sophie’s teacher commented that she has trouble paying attention.

I’ve heard that before. Several times. Including from two psychologists.

But here’s the thing. Even if she does, in fact, have ADHD, I’m not going the heavy-duty medication route with Sophie.

Not that I judge you if you do — far from it. I’m all in favor of better living through chemistry.

But Sophie has a serious heart condition. So no way, even if I could switch cardiologists til I found one who said okay to the meds (as a psychiatrist and psychologist have each suggested I do). No way.

There are home remedies, I’ve been learning. But to me (and maybe it’s just because I’m naive) some seem akin to one student’s tale last night of her mother’s home remedy for any injury: Wrap the afflicted limb in a whiskey-soaked shmatta (rag) and then Saran Wrap til the circulation is practically cut off.

I explained the ADHD medication conundrum to the group at school this morning, and the principal piped up. “Have you heard about Mountain Dew?” she asked.

As a matter of fact, Sophie’s physical therapist mentioned it just yesterday, I told her. 

Apparently I’m the last to know that many parents give their kids a can of Mountain Dew after school. It calms them down so they can do their homework — a sure sign the kid has ADHD (or ADD, I’m using them interchangably in my ignorance).

At this point, I’m not ready to buy a case of Mountain Dew — or Coke Zero, as another therapist suggested. What I really need — and what I keep asking people for — is a referral to a medical doctor who can give me some ideas for supplements. And if a doctor who understands Sophie’s heart condition, and understands Down syndrome — not just the super-popular ADHD thing — suggests Mountain Dew, I’ll be happy to try it.

I don’t know if the caffeine will hurt Sophie’s heart. Even some supplements like Omega 3 fatty acids are not good for a kid with a heart condition. I’m not taking any chances. I’d rather have my flighty kid good and alive.

Last night after class, I tossed the question out there: “Anyone know an expert in ADHD who’d work with a kid with Down syndrome and a heart condition?” One student suggested a doctor in Los Angeles who bases his ADHD diagnoses on brain scans. (“Are you okay with spending a lot?” she asked.) Another promised to ask her son-in-law, an alternative medicine expert in Sedona.

My dear friend Mrs. M. has given me a pile of reading material; I have a feeling the answer’s in there. But my favorite suggestion so far has come from one of Sophie’s more spirited therapists. I adore this woman, and laughed out loud at her very honest list of remedies some use:

“If all else fails, a good shot of a strong spirit or a glass of wine, or a cup of coffee (no sugar),” she wrote in an email this week.

For the record, this therapist does not believe Sophie has ADHD, but has been helpful in offering advice on many things — she’s very smart and dedicated. I adore her. But Sophie doing tequila shots? Swilling lattes? I was leaving the therapist a voice mail the other day, and Annabelle overheard me.

“Mommy, why were you talking about Sophie drinking coffee?” she asked. “Is that part of her therapy?”

“Not right now, it isn’t!” I replied. “But sometimes coffee can help adults pay attention, and some people think Sophie doesn’t pay attention very well. Haven’t you noticed that, when we are all doing homework?”

Annabelle considered that. “Yes,” she said. “But I just always figured that ‘s because Sophie isn’t interested in what you want her to do.”

From the mouths of babes….

In any case, no iced mochas for my youngest baby — not til an M.D. hands me a prescription.

Phew.

As we walked down the steep ramp to the basketball arena yesterday morning, the First Day, I thought Annabelle was going to lose it. As soon as she saw the lowered hoops — and, I think, sensed the lowered expectations — she was okay. Today I got a double thumbs up.

Sophie’s camp experience has been downright uneventful. I have the sitter with her, though I’m guessing we’d be okay without her. (Sophie might but I wouldn’t so the sitter stays.)

But one thing was a little bizarre. It’s what my friend and colleague Robrt (that’s not a typo, it’s how he spells it) calls a Phoenix Moment, given the small world nature of this town. I call it more proof that the theater world is just full of drama.

A few years back, some writing pals and I got together and put on a play. You can do that kind of thing in Phoenix. No, really, you can. And people will even come. We gathered monologues about motherhood from writers we’d worked with in the Mothers Who Write class, found a director and a venue and dates and named it Pearls: Motherhood Unstrung.

I make it sound so easy. It was a gigantic pain in the ass. But it happened, we did it, in large thanks to the co-producer, an amazing actor/writer/mom/person named  Debra Rich Gettleman, and, frankly, her husband’s pediatric practice, our largest benefactor. No, we didn’t make it to Broadway, but we had a respectable run. And we did it all from scratch.

Pearls is but a distant memory at this point. It’s where I learned just how much drama there can be in the world of theater. (Oy! That’s all I’ll say.) I went to as many performances as I could — hey, they were performing my stuff! My stories about Sophie, from pre-motherhood to the notion that the world retarded just isn’t funny anymore. I was a pig in shit, mainly because I had two incredible actors doing my role. (They switched off.)

I had forgotten the casting drama. But something about Pearls tickled the edge of my memory Sunday night, when I read the details about Sophie’s camp. One of the teacher’s names sounded so familiar. I emailed Debra. She emailed me back the next morning to say yeah, it should sound familiar. That’s the actor who originally accepted the role as “Amy” then backed out at the last minute. I never knew exactly why she didn’t take the role, but now I do know why the teacher/actor didn’t quite catch my eye yesterday morning. At least, I think that’s why.

Really, what were the chances of that happening?

Did Sophie’s teacher remember Pearls? Hmmm, I don’t know. Oh, come on. There aren’t many kids with Down syndrome named Sophie in this town, with moms named Amy.

Or maybe her memory’s as bad as mine. True, she and I never met face to face. At least, I don’t think we did.

In any case, AWKWARD. Do I say something? Or do I uncharacteristically leave it be, put on my game face, and let the girls enjoy their week at camp?

Ah, the drama.