Sophie has a new habit. She likes to ask me what’s next.

It’s better than some of her past “tics” — telling strangers “You’re mean!” or screaming “Buy it!” in stores (my dear friend Robrt’s favorite) — but frankly, it’s wearing. Here’s how it goes:

“Mommy, what day is it?” Sophie will ask — before sun up, if allowed. The days are getting longer, so I’m sleeping less.

“It’s Thursday.”

“What’s happening today?”

“You have physical therapy with Dorcas.”

“What’s after that?”

“I’ll drop you off at school.”

“What’s after that?”

“Courtney will pick you up.”

“What’s after that?”

“You have a play date with Sarah.”

“What’s after that?”

“Daddy comes home.”

“What’s after that?”

“You’ll eat dinner.”

“What’s after that?”

“You’ll do your homework.”

“What’s after that?”

“I will come home and tuck you in.”

“What’s after that?”

“You’ll go to sleep.”

“What’s after that?”

Usually, on principle — and due to sheer exhaustion — I’ll cut her off after we’ve gone through an entire day. Let her, and Sophie will ask you “What’s after that” for a week’s worth of days. It makes me a little sad, this constant desire to know what’s next, this lack of ability to live in the moment. I know it’s just a developmental phase, but it’s made me focus on my own habit of thinking about what’s next instead of reveling in the here and now.

I even bought myself a bracelet at one of my favorite boutiques, Frances, that says, “Live in the present.” (It also makes me chuckle as it serves as a reminder that I really should be less materialistic — living should be enjoyed without presents, if you know what I mean.)

This morning I was forced out of the moment and into the future, as I endured Sophie’s annual IEP (Individualized Education Program) meeting. A group of us sat around a table at the school and went over her goals for the next year.

The adaptive physical education teacher wants Sophie to learn how to hop on one foot. The occupational therapist is working on the number 7 and the lowercase letter b. The speech therapist’s goal is for Sophie to use a sentence with an adjective correctly, 8 times out of 10. (This is just a small fraction of what was discussed, as you might imagine.)

We talked about how well Sophie’s reading, and how (frankly) poorly she’s doing at math. Apparently she brings reading books with her to math class, which was news to me; there will be a new goal in next year’s IEP, instructing her to leave the books behind and focus on the numbers. (I feel Sophie’s pain. The administrators, teachers and therapists never believe me when I try to tell them that Sophie’s challenge is not just Down syndrome — it’s ME. Yeah, she gets the reading from me, but the math, too. And the hopping.)

I think I sucked them dry for every minute of extra help I can get for Sophie — with as much of it as possible happening in the classroom — and was feeling fairly pleased (though wary as always, I hadn’t yet gotten the chance to demand that lunch room help every day actually be written into the IEP, something the principal hasn’t wanted to do in the past, since she’ll be legally bound to provide it) when the special ed teacher presented one more list of accomodations for me to approve.

Test-taking accomodations. I always figured Sophie wouldn’t have to take the statewide standardized tests — including the dreaded AIMS test — that Annabelle takes. She didn’t in kindergarten, anyway. Turns out, kindergarten was an exception. All kids must take standardized tests, and their scores all count.

Suddenly, a light bulb went off over my head. Now I get it. This is why public schools don’t want special needs kids. (Or English Language Learners either, for that matter. They’re included in this f-ed up situation, too.)

And in Arizona, thanks to an incompetent (and that’s a kind description) legislature and a superintendent of public instruction who spends more time, I hear, arranging jobs for his girlfriend(s) with the state than actually paying attention to — or caring about — what’s best for kids, it’s ALL ABOUT THE TEST.

“Oh, I get it now,” I said to the principal. “Well, look on the bright side. At least my other kid sends your averages up, not down.”

She quickly corrected me. She doesn’t care a bit about Sophie bringing down her average, the principal insisted. She simply feels sorry for kids like Sophie who are forced to take these tests.

Uh huh.

In any case, Sophie will be taking them. Yeah, she’ll get all kinds of “accomodations” — a quiet place, extra time, someone to explain things. But still. It’s hardly a level playing field.

The bell rang and the teacher left to lead the Pledge of Allegiance. The rest of us were quiet around the table. The adaptive PE teacher spoke up.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” she said. “You’ll really enjoy reading the test results when they come out and seeing how much better Sophie does than some of the typical kids.”

Is that really what will happen? We’ll have to wait and see. But I have to admit, that made my day.

For today, any way.