I mean, I did want to figure out whether that Down syndrome Girl episode was funny or not, on its face (general consensus from admittedly biased GIAPH readers: not really) but the truth is that this isn’t about a not-very-funny TV show.

It’s about Sarah Palin. As Stacey eloquently put it in the comments on the previous post, the thing that’s so infuriarting is not that the Family Guy folks decided to make fun of someone with Down syndrome — it’s that they did it to get Sarah Palin’s goat. (For the record, I’m also with Kathleen, who points out thank goodness we live in a country where people can make a not so funny TV show about just about anything, if they want.)

I really don’t see why they didn’t just cut to the chase and make fun of Palin herself, since everyone else does.

I will say here that as someone who also writes reminders on her hand — “milk,” “pay Visa bill,” “call dentist” — I don’t find it at all strange that Mrs. Palin writes crib notes to herself when giving a policy speech as part of her would-be presidential candidacy.

Argh! Don’t you see? This woman and I have way too much in common.

Damn you, Sarah Palin. I don’t want to have anything in common with you. And if you emerge from all this as the Poster Mom for Down syndrome, I’ll be really really really pissed. So far it hasn’t happened – for one thing, I don’t get the impression you’re that interested in the subject —  but you know, it still could. When that whole presidency thing tanks, you’re going to be looking for work. The non-profit world just might beckon. Perish the thought. Hopefully the NRA will be hiring.

Of course, it’s not only about Sarah Palin, either.

Palin aside (again), the Family Guy thing struck a nerve because the whole “Is it okay to make fun of people with Down syndrome” thing has bugged me for years. Is anything about Down syndrome funny? Rather, is it okay if anything about Down syndrome is funny?

Here’s an essay I wrote when Sophie was 2. It’s a little raw. (For one thing, I used the word retarded a lot back then.) I’m not sure I would write it exactly this way today, but that’s what happens when you reach into the time machine. (And apologies if some of this material is retread for regular readers. Bits and pieces might be. Also, it’s really long. Sorry.)

I have come to the conclusion that when you have a retarded kid, you can’t make fun of retarded people.  

 The other day, a guy at work showed up in a tee shirt that said, “Homosexuals are so gay.”

 All day, people pointed and laughed.

 I tried it out on Sophie.

“People with Down syndrome are so retarded.”

 Not funny.

Sophie is only two, so I’m leaving the door open to the possibility that at some point, having a retarded kid might be funny. But for now, it’s not. And that really pisses me off, because I’ve always been the kind of person who tries to look on the sick-joke side of life. I like to think I have a good sense of humor, and it’s grounded, like most funny stuff, in the ability to be self-deprecating. For example, I love a good Jewish joke (as long as it has nothing to do with ovens), and as long as I – or another Jew – am telling it. Even at the height of the politically correct thing, you could still snark on yourself, right? And now that we’re past P.C., the world of comedy is pretty much a free-for-all. It’s so post-modern. The other day I heard a joke I thought was really funny:

What t do you call a black guy who flies a plane?

 A pilot, you racist.

 I told that joke so many times and laughed so hard, that finally my husband, who voted for George W. Bush and is not at all P.C., asked, `What kind of a bigot are you?’ That stopped me cold. I thought that was a joke that made fun of bigots – but maybe not.

It’s all gotten so confusing, and no more so than when it comes to Sophie. It’s not funny to make fun of your kid with Down syndrome. I know; I’ve tried. We took the girls to have their pictures taken with Santa (OK, so I’m not a very good Jew) and in the picture, Sophie looks, well, retarded. I pointed that out to a colleague at work, who looked like he wanted to kill himself. Or me.

I’ve thought about it a lot, and I might have figured it out. It’s not funny to make fun of your retarded kid – or, really, any retarded person – because there’s no way that kid or person will ever be in on the joke. By nature of the exact situation you’re making fun of, they can’t make fun, too. Sure, they’ll laugh along, but will they really get it?

So far, Sophie doesn’t. Of course, that could be because she’s 2. I’m planning to hold out hope. I could use a laugh.

Ever since I had my kids, but particularly since Sophie was born, I feel like someone turned off a filter in my head. Lights are too bright, sounds are too loud. I can’t bear to read a story in the paper about an abused kid, but I can’t tear my eyes away, either.

Before Sophie, it was sad when a kid was sick. Now I can’t watch my formerly favorite guilty pleasure television show, E.R., because I recognize the string of medical terms they’re shouting over a patient. I really try not to feel sorry for myself. Yeah, Sophie had open heart surgery when she was 3 months old, but her heart is OK, now. And yeah, last month she was crying bloody tears after eye surgery, but the surgery was minor, and I sat in the waiting room at Phoenix Childrens Hospital during the 15 minute procedure and watched parents carting their children to chemotherapy in little red wagons and wondered how on earth they find the strength to do that?

So you understand that I can use a little levity in my life. And I want you to have some, too, because I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, or for Sophie. I don’t want you to ask how it’s been on Annabelle, her 4-year-old sister, or how this whole thing is affecting my marriage.

Recently, a guy I work with pulled me aside and said, “Look, a lot of times, in staff meetings, people use the word retarded. Want me to ask them to stop?”

“No,” I replied, honestly. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t even notice it.”

And I hadn’t. But from that day on, I’ve noticed every time anyone, anywhere, has used the word retarded. And then I’ve noticed how often, just afterward, they wince.

Do we have to talk about that? Let’s just have a laugh.

I’m trying. I used to read constantly. I still read, but now it’s usually those horrible parenting magazines or Sandra Boynton books. In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I sneak into the bathroom and read the books I want to read — gobbling them like cookies in the near dark. I love David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, mostly because nothing’s off limits for those guys. They make fun of themselves, and they make fun of everyone else. But one night, I had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t handle that anymore.

I was reading Burroughs’ latest book, a collection of essays, and I came to one that delved into one of his favorite topics, cruising at bars, and he recounted a tale a friend told him about going out drunk and picking up a guy, waking up the next morning and realizing, to his horror, that his conquest had Down syndrome.

Perched on the toilet (don’t worry, the seat was down. Between two dogs, two cats, two kids and a husband, I don’t have anyplace to sit and read quietly anymore) I thought I was going to vomit. I put the book down and climbed into bed, and lay there and thought, `Well, at least that guy with Down syndrome was high functioning enough to go out to a bar by himself. And to know he was gay. That’s something.’

That’s not enough for a person – me – who two years ago would have howled at the image of Augusten Burroughs’ friend realizing he fucked a retard.

And that’s part of it. Not only is that stuff not funny anymore, but I sicken myself at the thought that it ever was funny to me. What kind of a horrible excuse for a human being am I?

Wait. It gets worse.

When Sophie was about two weeks old, I suddenly remembered “Pink Slip.” “Pink Slip” is an instructional video made in the 70s. Dead serious at the time, but now a joke making the rounds on the Internet. A friend of mine got a copy years ago and we watched it again and again and howled. I’d never known anyone with Down syndrome. (I didn’t even watch that show with Corky in it.)  I’m not even sure I knew that Jill, the main character in the video, had it – just that she was kind of slow. The video portrays Jill’s entire family – in incredible detail, including her father  – teaching Jill about her period. It even includes a scene in which Susie, Jill’s older sister, pulls down her pants to reveal her own thick maxi-pad.

Shit, I thought, staring at my new baby. I’m going to have to get a copy of “Pink Slip” for myself when Sophie hits puberty.

I know I’m supposed to completely change my personality, now that I have a kid with Down syndrome. I’m to take pleasure in life’s simple joys, as revealed to me in Sophie’s beautiful smile. And it is beautiful, and she does bring me a kind of happiness I never knew existed, which is what parents of kids with Down syndrome always tell you. It’s true, I’m not trying to discount it. I’m just trying to figure out how to handle all that joy, and still have a laugh.

Now, if I was a. a regular viewer of Family Guy and/or b. not the parent of a child with Down syndrome, I might find it hilarious. But i doubt it.

Be honest. Have I lost my sense of humor?

I’ll reserve further comment — for now.

It is pretty juicy, according to an LA Times blog.

I have my own thoughts about Sarah Palin, which I expressed last year (was it only a year ago?) in Phoenix New Times. My feelings haven’t changed. I don’t know if Levi Johnston’s telling the truth, but since all’s game in love and politics, the Vanity Fair piece will at least be worth a read. (Interesting that he was reportedly paid for writing it. I wonder how much is really in his own words?)

I still blame John McCain for the whole Palin thing, but that’s me.

Whether Johnston’s telling the truth or not (and my guess is that it’s shades of gray, as is much of life) I can say one thing definitively: Sarah Palin is no poster mom of a kid with Down syndrome. Not on my wall, anyway.

I’m not sure what to think.

I was glad we weren’t home, because Ray might have wanted the girls to watch, and I just can’t let them make Sarah Palin any sort of role model. Heck, I’d rather they watch Kenley, the bad whiny girl on Project Runway.

Literally.

OK, I am a horrible mom. I let Annabelle stay up til 10 on Wednesday, to see the end of Project Runway. Hey, it was down to four designers. It was a big week. Truth be told, if you’d made me pick one, I would have skipped the debate for the runway, no prob.

I love that Annabelle loves Project Runway, and not just because it gives me a reason to watch something other than childrens TV. (I actually don’t mind kiddie shows much; they drive Ray nuts but I think they make nice background noise.) But Annabelle, like (I’m guessing) millions of other little kids (and some big ones — Trish swears that 15 year old Zach is among them) are now planning careers as fashion designers.

And what’s wrong with that? I love that she wants to create. After the show ended Wednesday (I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen this week’s yet) Annabelle announced that she was going to design her own evening dress. It will be sleeveless and orange with a big flower in the middle and it will go down to THERE, she said, pointing past her ankle. She intends to pair it with orange boots, which she also plans to design herself.

“You go girl,” I thought. “And thank goodness you’re gong to Grandma’s on Monday!”

I seriously have trouble sewing on a button, a lack of skill I inherited directly from my mother (GAGA). But my mother in law, now she can sew. She’ll laugh when she reads that, but I am in awe of her abilities — she can even operate a sewing machine. We met up for bagels last weekend (pic to follow) and the girls got silly with her, but I have a feeling that Monday Annabelle will arrive to spend the first day of Fall Break with Grandma, and she’s going to be carrying a bag of materials.

We’re planning a trip to SAS fabrics this weekend. I can’t wait. After the debate last night, no one quite knew what to say: Palin did just well enough to escape the full-on wrath of the crowd, which frankly pissed most of us off. So we talked about other things, like Project Runway. And trips to SAS. One friend with grown kids fondly remembered trips to SAS (it’s a dump of a small warehouse packed with fabric remnants and accoutrements — sequins, feather boas, patches, ribbons, I’m getting excited just writing this) as a young, poor mom. For five bucks, she recalls, you could occupy the kids for days.

Not bad advice in this economy. Google SAS fabric. There are several in the Phoenix area; I’m not sure how far the chain extends.

All I know is that Grandma better have her equipment out on Monday!

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?

“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