This morning the girls and I were cuddling in bed, and I was stalling, waiting a few more moments before starting our suddenly upside down day.

Annabelle is home sick; she woke up in the middle of the night with a fever that wound up being yet another bug that’s going around. That meant: cancelling school; making an appointment with the pediatrician; cancelling Sophie’s eye doctor appointment and letting Ms. X know she was coming  to school earlier than expected– and Ms. X had her observation with the principal this morning and was probably looking forward to one less kid in the room, though she didn’t say it; calling the speech therapist to warn her that Annabelle is sick and she might want to stay away from the house this afternoon; calling my mom and sister to tell them we can’t play with the cousins tonight, very sad, since the cousins are only in town for a week; calling, emailing and texting my boss and assorted co-workers to say I won’t be at work; and cancelling a vet appointment — except both Ray and I forgot to do that, crap. 

We were still in bed, none of that had happened yet, when Annabelle suddenly remarked, “I think Sophie will be a very good mom, even though she has Down syndrome.”

(A lot of conversations these days involve the phrase “even though she has Down syndrome.” I don’t know how much Sophie’s digging that; at first I thought Ray was crazy for saying it bugged her, but now I’m beginning to think maybe it is. Not today, this exchange was too quick.)

I thought about explaining to Annabelle (again — I could swear we’ve had that talk, or that Ray’s had it with her) that it’s highly unlikely, for assorted reasons, that Sophie will have kids. But I didn’t say anything. I just agreed that Sophie would make a really good mom.

“How many kids will you have?” Annabelle asked her.

Sophie thought for a moment and announced her decision with the triumph she reserves for — well, for almost everything.

“Forty!”