Two bits of breaking news.

1. Annabelle got her ears pierced.

I wasn’t so sure it would ever happen. We promised her she could do it when she turned 10 (only because that’s the age my mother chose for me, and it seemed as good as any) but she didn’t seem too interested — for 10 years and, oh, about a month. Then she was hot on the idea, but afraid. We made more than one trip to Claire’s to scout the landscape this past week, walking out unpierced and petrified. I assured Annabelle it was just fine with me if she never got it done, but she was determined. Still, I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.

I think the difference this time was Sophie. I know it was. Sophie came along yesterday. We marched in to Claire’s and I announced with conviction, “We’re here to get some ears pierced!” (That helped, too.)

Sophie was such a good sport. She didn’t ask to get hers done (though she did try to talk me down to 9). My favorite part: When Annabelle announced that she wanted Sophie to hold both her hands, Sophie stepped forward and announced, “It’s my lucky day!”

And in the end, when Annabelle changed her mind and asked for me to hold one hand and Sophie the other, Sophie graciously let go.

As soon as the deed was done, Annabelle announced, “I will NEVER do anything like THAT again!” — likely to the chagrin of the rhinestone-pocked girls manning the piercing guns. I was very pleased.

We left Claire’s and headed for lunch. On the way, we passed a particularly provocative underwear display in the window at the Gap. (At the Gap — when did that happen?!) Annabelle slowed to take a look, appearing particularly interested in a lacey cream-colored bra.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Here we go. I get her ears pierced, she’s instantly a slut.”

Turns out, she was just stopping to admire her sparkly ears in the window’s reflection. Phew.

And when we got to Justice, the blinged-out tween shopping mecca, she insisted on spending her gift card on a hot pink stuffed monkey instead of leopard print tank tops.

2. Sophie got her reading teacher assignment.

The second piece of breaking news is not good news, not at all.

By all accounts, third grade got off to a good start last week. But last week was Pretend School, learning classroom rules and remembering where the bathrooms are. This week they get down to business, and one of the first orders of the week was reading teacher assignments.

Here’s the thing. Reading is Sophie’s subject. Math is a challenge, for sure, but she reads really well, just about at grade level, and more important she loves to read. I attribute her remarkable progress to every teacher she’s had along the way — people who believe in her, who believe that Sophie is truly smart and capable of achieving, who push her just hard enough and never condescend to her.

I’ve had my doubts over the last three years about Sophie’s safety at this school, doubts that she was too disruptive, doubts that she wasn’t completely accepted socially — but I’ve never doubted that her teachers believed in her.

Now comes the news that Sophie’s reading teacher this year is none other than the sister of the school psychologist, the woman who announced this spring in front of everyone from the principal down at Sophie’s IEP meeting that Sophie, at 8, has the cognitive abilities of a 3-year-old.

Beyond that, I know this teacher personally; she’s never shown an interest in Sophie. Trust me, when you are the mom of a kid with something like Down syndrome, you can sniff that kind of thing out. (Am I being defensive? You bet. But it’s also true.)

I specifically asked that Sophie be kept out of this woman’s class, and she was — for homeroom. I can’t make any more requests. Even I know my limits. If anyone has any suggestions, I’m all ears.  

Today, I fear, is not Sophie’s lucky day.