I won’t bury the lede. At this point, if I had to make a decision, I’d send Sophie to the feeder school, the standard-issue junior high in our district.

The last option on my list.

That sounds shitty, like a slap, and it shouldn’t, because the truth is that I haven’t even visited that school. That’s why I was in the principal’s office; he had promised to set up a tour when I was ready, to find the right contact person, to make things okay. (Or as close as he can.)

He’s such a great guy. He’s the one who wore fuzzy purple pajamas to Sophie’s birthday party last year (they share a birthday, as she reminds him whenever she sees him). He’s the one with the inspirational messages on the walls of his office; I’ve written about them before.

Yesterday I fixated on one on the back of the door, just above his head, in all red:

ALL MEANS ALL

And it has, for Sophie, at this school — to a very large extent, maybe the largest possible. True, I had to fight to get her in and the principal at the time was not my favorite. We’ve had our ups and downs at this little K-5, but looking back, it’s been nothing short of remarkable. Sophie is truly a part of a community — she knows everyone, they know her. I’m quite sure she’s overstayed her welcome with both adults and kids, in a few cases, but she’s also made true friends. She has learned so much. And I like to think Sophie’s taught the folks here a thing or two, as well.

A friend of mine — the  mom of another kid with special needs at the school — calls the place Camelot. With caveats, for sure, she remarked recently after a school choir concert as we struggled to chat over the din in the gym, but Camelot.

And next year? We stared at each other, neither sure what to do with our daughters, even after months of research. So we wrapped our winter scarves tight around our necks, gathered our families, and went home.

I’ll just say it: The future is grim. Oh, I know, Sophie will be awesome wherever she goes, she’ll win hearts and minds and all that crap. Before I know it, I’ll be writing about that. But before that, I’m going to write about the fact at for all practical purposes, once Sophie leaves fifth grade, inclusion will end. For junior high, anyway.

I’ve ventured out — toured schools; talked to parents, teachers, lawyers; hired a consultant; googled and read, everything short of praying (though that’s been recommended). From time to time, I’ve turned to the Church of Facebook, kneeling at that altar to ask for advice. Last week a Facebook acquaintance — I’ll call her that since we’ve never actually met — commented:

Arizona has a tremendous amount of school choice available….You’d have to search pretty hard to find another state with the amount of options that we have in AZ. I’m sincerely sorry that this quest has proven to be so difficult for you and your family.

I’m sorry, too. And sorry for all the whining I’ve done. But when it comes to Sophie — and probably most kids with special needs — it’s simply not true. And pretending that it is is not only insulting but dangerous.

Maybe that perfect school is out there and I simply haven’t found it. But as much as I’m quick to doubt myself in other realms, at this point I’m pretty sure I’ve rattled all the cages in town.

Bottom line: I decided to take full advantage of the school choice thing when finding a school for Sophie. We looked hard and found the right place for Annabelle. There had to be just the right niche for Sophie, right?

As I told the principal yesterday, here’s what I’ve learned. Please, tell me if I’ve left a stone unturned:

*There is likely not a charter school for Sophie. We put in for lotteries at two schools; both would be good choices (with caveats) but her chances could be as crappy as 1 in 100. I’m not holding my breath. Most of the charters I researched and talked to (including Annabelle’s) made it clear that they don’t have appropriate special ed services for Sophie. I could force her way in; that wouldn’t be good for any of us, most of all Sophie.

*There’s not a public school outside of our district, Tempe. Yes, technically, you can open enroll a kid out of district in Arizona. Even a kid with special needs. A kid with an IEP? Not so easy — and almost certainly impossible, particularly at the super-popular schools I’d like to send Sophie to. (Her lawyer confirmed this for me.)

So much of this skirts the law — yes, legally all public schools (and that means charters) are supposed to provide appropriate services. And the choice to open enroll should be as open to Sophie as to other kids. But in reality, it is not.

*There’s not a private school. There are some terrific schools — for high achievers. The private school I found for special needs kids isn’t quite right for Sophie. And we are not interested in a religious school.

*No, I’m not home schooling. And if you know me at all, you are applauding right now. Plus, Sophie needs to be around her peers.

*There are no other viable public school choices in Tempe. Then I turned back to Tempe. A friend urged me — rightly — to figure out a way to keep Sophie with her peers, her classmates, the kids she’s known, in some cases, since pre-school. Her best friend. A very good point, and the bright side of not being able to find a perfect boutique school. But that is sticky, too, and not only because some of those kids will go out of the district or to charter schools. It’s because Tempe has shut Sophie out of that choice.

A few years ago, the junior high across the street from Sophie’s elementary school closed, due to declining enrollment. Blame the charter schools. I did — even as I was guiltily pulling Annabelle out of public school to send her to one. The school stood empty and lots of options were discussed — a charter school collaboration with ASU or maybe Sophie’s school could be a K-8.

In the end, the district decided to go head to head with the boutiques — creating an “international academy” that will someday (they hope) house a prestigious IB program.

Mediocre students need not apply.

Well, technically, we could have petitioned, brought in the lawyer, demanded fair treatment — but my understanding is that this school has no special education services in place (not the kind Sophie needs, anyway) and all I’d be doing is making a point. And enemies.

I heard a rumor that more than half of the fifth grade has been accepted to the international academy. Many more will go to charters or out of the district. That will leave a few to go to the feeder school. It has a gifted program, so most likely any of the higher achievers left in the pot will leave for that.

I’m guessing Sophie will be at that school with dozen or so kids. Mostly “resource” kids.

“So what’s she bitching about?” you might be asking yourself. Sounds like that’s where Sophie belongs. And maybe it is. But so much for inclusion. And so much for school choice.

ALL MEANS ALL.

I stared at the words over the principal’s head and I didn’t cry, even when he offered to come with me on the tour of the big, scary junior high. Even when he offered to bring Sophie over himself. She’s excited about it — weeks ago, apparently, her special ed teacher told her he spoke with the resource teachers at the junior high and they can’t wait to meet her.

For her special ed teacher, it was a foregone conclusion. Maybe it should have been for me, all along, too. I’ll probably always be on the lookout for the right junior high for Sophie, the way I keep an eye out for Holiday Tic Tacs at Walgreens all year.

Maybe this junior high will be Sophie’s dream school. As a friend observed not long ago, the school’s color is purple. They have a cheer squad. Maybe she’ll love it, flourish, learn. Maybe I’ll be just as sad to leave there in three years as we are to leave elementary school. Maybe.

I googled Camelot to make sure I was using the reference correctly, and the following scholarly quote popped up:

“Camelot, located no where in particular, can be anywhere.”

This woman gave her school the pretty hard sell — unusual since so many others have dissuaded me from considering theirs, including a special teacher at the school Annabelle attends. But I wasn’t so surprised; the school principal had already sent me a really awesome note last week which said, in part:

We, of course, think every student is special, and we want to give each student the support they need. Some need more than others, such is life. Sophie would fit right in, though you and she definitely should come and see if it seems like a good fit for you and her.  Middle school is such an important time for kids, and it can be even harder for mom.  Most of our families are very involved, as best as their schedules and life circumstances allow. That is a great thing. I have a feeling you would do the same. Another reason why it would seem to be a good fit. 

Goosebumps, right? I wrote back and told him I was going to frame his email. We scheduled a tour for next week. “Tell Sophie we said hello,” he wrote as we signed off.

Of course I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. First, this is a charter school, with no guarantee of winning the lottery (though the special ed director reminded me several times that no one will know of Sophie’s situation during the lottery process, so many times I had to tell her to stop). But more troubling was the fact that the deeper we got into the conversation, the more worried I got that even if Sophie does get in, this really won’t be the right fit.

This woman (I was directed to her when I started asking detailed questions about special ed)  was entirely polite and appropriate, but reminded me in so many words that as kids with Down syndrome get older, they stop developing. They fall farther behind. This is a rigorous school academically; it might be too much for Sophie.

And then in the next breath she assured me that all laws would be followed and Sophie would get whatever assistance she needed to thrive like all the other kids — and that in fact, there are kids at this school who may have even more involved needs than Sophie.

I was beginning to feel like I was watching a tennis match, so I lobbed one at her.

She was in the middle of telling me that she’d definitely send her kids to this school if they were still young enough, that she was anti charter for her entire career til coming to this school (and so on) when I interrupted:

“So what would you do if Sophie was your kid?”

There was a long pause, followed by some nervous laughter. “Now that’s a great question!” she said, hesitating then careful to let me know she was now speaking as “a friend” rather than a professional.

She’s not so sure, she said. I felt my throat close up. She asked why I don’t want to send Sophie to our home school. I explained that our home school is now an international baccalaureate program Sophie can’t attend — and the new feeder school is a classic junior high, with all that comes along that. “I can’t send her someplace big, where she might get bullied,” I said, voice rising, feeling awkward for getting upset in front of someone I’ve never even met.

“Yeah,” she said gently.

The woman gave me a long speech about how if she were me she’d look at all the available schools, tour them, think about them. “And then I’d pray,” she said.

That’s when I knew I had to hang up or risk bursting into tears. How can I tell this stranger that that’s a nice idea but I stopped believing in God when I was in the first grade and we were doing a Simchat Torah craft at temple religious school and I looked around the room and suddenly thought, “Hey, wait a second, we’re doing all this because of this God character? Well, that’s ridiculous.”

How could I tell her that I wish desperately that I believed in something I could pray to — but I have to make do with good luck charms, knocking on wood, and taking care not to make big decisions while Mercury is in retrograde?

It was a moot point, because by then I couldn’t speak at all. She jumped in and offered to be there when Sophie and I tour the school next week. She promised to help me find Sophie the right school, whether or not it’s hers.

So maybe I don’t have anyone to pray to. But I might have found a guardian angel.

Yesterday I found myself home from vacation and without any more good excuses for putting this off. So I looked up the first school on my list — ASU Prep, a charter school in downtown Phoenix — and fired off an email to the director:

Mr. Lebowitz — My daughter Sophie is entering 5th grade…and my husband and I are looking for middle school options. I’d love to learn more about your middle school program in Phoenix — could I get a tour?

Thanks in advance!

Amy Silverman

I had a personal response by last night:

Hi Amy.  Thanks for contacting me, and I am glad you are interested in ASU
Prep.  We are very proud of our school and our students, and we would be happy to give you a tour and tell you about our school.  We are preparing now for the new school year and our students start back on July 31.  I would give us a couple of weeks after that before we schedule a tour of the school so you can see real kids and teachers in their classrooms.  We also will be having prospective student/family orientations starting in October. Those will be advertised on our website.

Let me know what works for you.  I have included our academic counselor, Ms. Moreno, on this e-mail as she will help coordinate your tour.  I look forward to meeting you and your daughter.

Of course, Sophie is Greek for wisdom, so ASU Prep would be the perfect place for her.

Art Lebowitz
Director of Secondary Learning
ASU Preparatory Academy, Phoenix

Oh fuck, I thought as I read that lovely note. This is really awkward. Do I immediately reply and say, “Well, um, actually, there’s something I forgot to mention?” Do I go ahead and schedule the tour, and not say anything — yet? Do I move onto my next option?

For such a pushy person, I’m just not very good at how hard to push when it comes to Sophie. Or, in this case, where to push.

By the way, I already knew Sophie was Greek for wisdom. I knew it when we named her, which was before she was born, before we “knew,” if you know what I mean. I have a vague memory of saying to someone (Ray? my mom?) at the time of her diagnosis, “Maybe we should consider a different name, since, you know….”

There was a general wincing at the fact that I’d even mention such a thing, and Sophie stuck. Last night, I read the prep school director’s email, then looked up the word “wisdom” in the dictionary. From Merriam-Webster:

wis·dom noun \ˈwiz-dəm\
a : accumulated philosophic or scientific learning
b : ability to discern inner qualities and relationships
c : good sense

I’m not sure about a and c, but Sophie’s definitely got b going on — in spades. Still, I’m not sure that’s what Mr. Lebowitz meant. I think I need to keep looking.

There’s the whole Down syndrome thing, of course, and on top of that even though the sensors fell off and we never got good test results, she’s got to have pretty bad sleep apnea. Last night I found her asleep on the couch, sitting straight up, her mouth pointed to the sky, simultaneously snorting and sucking air.

And yet she’s constantly surprising me with what she remembers.

Two years ago, Annabelle left our local elementary school a year early to go to an arts charter school across town. The elementary school goes through fifth grade, but the charter school starts at fifth. I didn’t think Sophie remembered that happened, let alone grasped what it meant. But there she was, standing in the middle of the kitchen on the last day of fourth grade, stomping her foot and demanding to go to the charter school next year.

“But Sophie, next year you’ll rule the school!” I told her. “You’ll be the oldest one there. Won’t that be fun?”

No, she said. She wants to to go the charter school.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering what Sophie’s wondering — why she can’t go that charter school with her sister. Some days I wonder the same thing. But most of the time I realize with a clarity I lack elsewhere in my life that it just won’t work.

This charter school not only offers kids rigorous instruction in performing arts (Annabelle’s taken ballet, choir and piano almost daily for the last two years), the academics are tough. Very tough. As in some of the highest scores in the state tough.

I know more than one typical — even allegedly above average — kid who’s been held back a grade, or asked to leave the charter school, simply because she wasn’t quite up to snuff.

The truth is that Sophie’s nowhere near snuff.

Yes, legally she has a right to be at that school, and I could strong arm our way in. But she’d be miserable. The school officials would be miserable. And I worry a lot about Annabelle being miserable at this place she’s forged as her own. (It hasn’t been easy for her.)

Potential misery aside, I want Sophie mainstreamed as much as possible, not sitting in a room by herself because she can’t hit the high notes or master the keys or stay in place at the ballet bar, let alone do the math.

What I want is just the right school for Sophie — a school like this charter school, but with a little wiggle room, high but realistic expectations and a diverse population.

I’m looking. I’ve got another year.

At least, I thought I did.

If Annabelle remembers anything about the fifth grade, I hope it’s the bright red wig I bought her one Friday after school.

I wouldn’t typically indulge one of my kids like that (have you bought a wig lately?! expensive!) but she’d been asking for weeks — said she needed it desperately to complete her Halloween costume, she’s going to be a devil — and one afternoon I gave in. I needed to see her smile.

Years from now, she might not remember the wig. I did an inventory, and here’s what little I recall from my own fifth grade experience:

1. Around Christmastime that year, a kid kicked my Snoopy lunch box — hard — and informed me that the Jews killed Jesus. (Awkward, since I was one of the only Jews at the school.)
2. A boy named Jay (I don’t recall his last name, though I remember his straight, blonde feathered hair) gave my friend Ilene Becker a gold “s” chain necklace, and announced that they were going steady. A few days later, she gave the necklace back. I never knew why.
3. My teacher, Mrs. Creighton, accused me (wrongly) of plagiarizing a social studies paper. To this day, my mother holds that up as an indication of my academic prowess. (I tended to get shitty grades, though I could write okay — she had to have something to hold onto.)

That’s it. A whole year, three odd memories. After watching Annabelle suffer through the first few weeks of her own fifth grade experience, I’d like to grab one of those wands they use on Wizards of Waverly Place and make it all go poof.

I haven’t written much about Annabelle’s time in fifth grade so far, mainly because lately I’ve had that feeling that I have when I see women breast feeding kids who are walking and talking and doing calculus. My feeling — and consider the fact I was never able to breast feed, so maybe I’m bitter — has always been, “If you’re old enough to ask for it, you’re too old to get it.”

In other words, Annabelle’s getting too old to blog about. Perhaps her experiences were always her own — and I am a terrible mom for publicly documenting any of them, ditto for Sophie — but now that she’s asking me questions about my blog, questions like, “Do you write about me on there?” it’s seeming like it’s definitely time to leave her be.

(And I promise to do just that — as soon as I’m done with this post.)

“Maybe you’ll start your own blog sometime,” I told her during one of these discussions. She liked that idea, and even came up with a name: Masquerade Ball.

But there hasn’t been time to start a blog, not for Annabelle, who is completely overwhelmed by her new school. I try explaining that cramming choir, piano and dance on an almost daily basis alongside academics means a lot of pressure, and I know she gets it on an intellectual level, but emotionally it’s tough. She’s getting good grades, turning in her work, even admitting (some days) that she loves her ballet class. But she’s so stressed out. The other day she told me that it feels like she’s forced to play that game where you bounce a tennis ball on a racquet, keeping the ball in the air — all the time. And she desperately misses her friends and teachers from her old school. Even after almost two months.

All my friends with older kids at the school warned me this would happen, that fifth grade simply sucks — but after that, new study habits will be in place, schedules will run like clockwork, it will all be worth it. I believe them. But it’s so tough right now. For years, in parent/teacher conferences, my one question for the teacher has always been, “Is Annabelle happy at school?” I want her to be happy, to be stress-free, to excel but to love it. I don’t want her to be the neurotic mess I was (and am).

Too late. I just hope it doesn’t last — or that the memories don’t. One thing that’s gonna last is that wig. It looks like it could withstand a nuclear war. Which is good — since for what I paid for that thing, it’s your Halloween costume til you’re 18, Annabelle.

As for Sophie, I’m not done blogging about her. I’m just not sure what to say about her latest parent/teacher conference. I’ll be back when I figure that out.

Mark your calendars, folks. Sophie has been cast in the Snow Queen, December 3 and 4 (matinees only) at the Herberger Theater in Phoenix.

She will be appearing in the role of Sprite.

This is big. And scary. Not scary for Sophie — she’s thrilled. Scary for her mother, and probably (though they aren’t saying) for the people behind the Snow Queen, which is the holiday performance put on by Center Dance Ensemble, a modern dance company in town.

Think of Snow Queen as the non-Christmasy, less-uptight version of The Nutcracker. But less uptight does not mean less professional. This is quite a show, and the junior cast members (there are many children in each performance) are expected to behave and perform.

Ditto for Sophie.

This will be Annabelle’s fourth year in Snow Queen. Sophie’s been asking for years for a chance to audition. That chance came last Sunday. My mother (who — full disclosure — runs a dance studio with the woman who runs Center Dance Ensemble) suggested I put Sophie’s hair in a bun, to set a professional tone. So I did; I believe it’s the smallest ballet bun ever made. Sophie promised to try not to suck her thumb during the audition, and as soon as it was over, motioned to me through the studio window — sticking her thumb in the air and shaking her head — to indicate her success. She looked so proud.

So did I. I think I held my breath for a whole hour, as the instructors (including my mom) put 40 or so kids through the paces. At first, I wasn’t so sure it would work. Sophie insisted on ballet slippers when I had left them at home, so she did the entire audition in shoes several sizes too big (I dug them out of a box in the back of the studio; this was after I had to forcibly remove my mother’s shoes from Sophie’s feet — she’d grabbed them out of her bag — and warn her this all could end before it had begun).

Just before the audition, Sophie wandered out for one last hug and our dear friend Maria wished her luck.

“Break a leg, Sophie!” Maria said.

Sophie looked very serious.

“I can’t,” she told Maria.

Sophie was not able to do the heel-toe required for the Villagers, and she will most likely never be able to do the steps required to be a Rosebud, but she definitely has the moves to be a Sprite — and she demonstrated that at the audition. So that’s what she will be. We got the email last night.

I am keenly aware of the special favor here (I am pretty sure there’s never been a special needs child in the Snow Queen cast) and prepared to gently remove Sophie if rehearsals don’t go well. But she tends to be a  kid who rises to the occasion when then occasion is a fancy party — and this is one fancy party. She’s going to go nuts when she sees how cool it is backstage, not to mention what it’s like on stage. All the kids do.

One more reason I really need to get going on that arts charter school that welcomes kids with special needs.

“One-inch,” I said, not looking up. Until last week, I didn’t even know that binders had sizes. Now, thanks to Annabelle’s new school, I am intimately aware.

She hid behind the binder and groaned.

“Really?” I asked in my most cheerful voice. “You need half-inch? Okay! No problem! We’ll get it tonight!”

What I really wanted to say was, “Jesus Christ, you have you got to be fucking kidding me. There is no way I’m going to any more flipping stores to buy any more goddamn binders!”

Last week — days before school was to start, feeling very early-birdish, and having been warned by other parents – I got out the two page list of school supplies the school requires, and we bought them all. I thought. I ran all over town gathering composition books with graph paper and lined paper, the right number of pens and pencils, a ruler, a stapler, a three-hole punch and several binders in the required sizes. The night before school started, I put the supplies designated to come to school in Annabelle’s backpack — even labeling them all with her name. The home supplies went in a Rubbermaid. Ballet clothes were all ready, including performance outfits and hair nets. I felt so organized, so prepared.

Not. Annabelle came home Monday night and tearfully announced she was short two 1-inch binders.

No problem! Off to Office Max I went. And then Walgreen’s, when it turned out that one of the binders needed to be black and I had bought orange. That was nothing compared to the following night, when I learned that a. Annabelle had to have her ballet text book for class the next day and b. although I’d ordered it in (what I thought was) plenty of time from amazon.com, it had yet to arrive.

No problem! I called five bookstores til I found a copy at the Bookman’s at 19th Avenue and Northern. “Hey, at least I don’t have to drive to Tucson,” I half-joked to Ray.

“Wow, are you lucky,” the clerk said. “We only have a half-shelf of dance books. I’ll hold this for you, it’s $2.50.”

$2.50 plus the $10 in gas it took to get there, plus what I spent on the now-useless first copy. No problem! Not a big deal. All part of the adventure.

“This is like a Hanukkah miracle!” I announced to the girls as I piled them into the car.

On the way to Bookman’s I learned that Annabelle couldn’t find one of the two books she was required to read over the summer and was now required to bring to school — the next day. Bookman’s didn’t have a copy (of course) so that’s how we wound up at Changing Hands. No worries! No problem! Happy to support independent bookstores.

We dragged home long past 9 — the new official bedtime in our house. 5:30 came awfully quick this morning. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee, which would have been great except we have a French press that no one had yet pressed. Ick. I was on my second Diet Coke of the day by 10.

And now I’ll be hitting Office Max again. That’s okay. Despite what you might think after reading this rant (and despite the fact that I’ve announced to anyone who will listen that Annabelle’s school is kicking my ass) I couldn’t be happier with her new gig. For as much as they talk about the emphasis on the arts at this school, I’ve already learned by Day 3 that it’s as much about personal responsibility as anything else.

Funny, it turns out I spent much of last spring finding a place that will push Annabelle to be more responsible at the same time I was pushing Sophie’s school to help her succeed by making her less responsible.

Let me explain.

My job with this first-week (oh how I hope it’s only the first week, though somehow I doubt that) runaround is to make sure Annabelle has the tools to succeed. The right-sized binders — that’s easy. Harder is the edict we parents received at a meeting last week: We are not, under any circumstances, to help our kids with their homework. They are to fail or succeed on their own. I love that, and not just because I can’t do fifth grade math. It makes so much sense and though I know she’s nervous, I also know Annabelle’s up to the task.

Not so much with Sophie. The tools are in place — she now has a classroom aide — and I’ve heard wonderful things about the woman. Sophie loves her. But clearly there’s some need for runaround on behalf of Sophie, too. For the last several days, she’s come home without her red “take home” folder. That means no spelling words, among other things. For me, it’s a huge red flag — it happened so much last year in second grade it became a serious hindrance, and part of my motivation to fight for extra help for Sophie. (It’s impossible to expect a teacher with dozens of kids to chase to stop everything and help Sophie pack up at day’s end — but it’s not something Sophie is responsible enough to do on her own.)

After an email to the teacher this morning, the red folder did appear this afternoon — so I’m hopeful that’s been straightened out. Meantime, I’ve consulted some experts, and got some good advice about ways for Sophie to keep track, and when her “team” meets early next month, we’ll talk about an “End of the Day” check list as well as some other tools that should help Sophie be more responsible — in her own way.

And I’m going to get more organized — for both girls.

Tonight Sophie will spend extra time on spelling to make up for lost days, while Annabelle fixes her science notebook. The class was asked to number the pages of their composition books to 200 — then to check one another’s work. Annabelle wrote 42 twice, so she is in the process as I write this (kid you not) of Liquid-Paper-ing all the numbers up to 42 and redo-ing them on the right page.

Bet she won’t make that mistake again.

She just blew on a page, looked up, and announced, “Sometimes I wish I was a dog or a cat.”

I know how she feels. As for me, I think I’ll buy one of everything at Office Max. Maybe two.

“5:30 is the new 7:30!” Ray announced cheerfully yesterday morning, as the entire family skittered through the house, getting ready for Annabelle’s first day of school.

Ouch. The old school started at 8:50 (9 this year!) and we live, oh, about 30 seconds away. The new school starts at 7:45 — across town.

Yesterday morning was okay, I think we were all running on adrenaline. And Sophie’s always ready to get up, no matter what time it is. Today was a little tougher; reality is setting in.

The reality is that I’ve got a fifth grader. How did this happen? Just yesterday, I was on amazon.com, searching for a book I saw in Annabelle’s kindergarten teacher’s room called, appropriately, “Annabelle Swift, Kindergartener.” As books tend to in our house, that one surfaced in the bathroom the other day, and I stood at the counter and flipped through it, remembering my tiny, fuzzy-headed kindergartener.

Swift, indeed.

Annabelle was absolutely terrified to go to elementary school, sobbed when she got close to some big boys playing kickball against the office wall as we walked in to register for kindergarten.  Fifth grade boys.

Annabelle’s not scared of big kids anymore, even though she’s likely the shortest student at her new school, which begins in fifth grade and will take her (thankfully) through high school. She’s got the typical set of 10-year-old concerns. One afternoon last week we were getting out of the car at the mall for a rare day alone together when she told me she’s jealous of Sophie because Sophie doesn’t ever care what other people think of her.

I hope that’s always the case, I thought to myself, keeping my mouth shut to see what Annabelle would say next.

“I don’t care about everything they think about me,” she continued. “Like I don’t care what people think about my freckles. But I do care about what they think about what I wear.”

And so I was curious to see what she’d choose yesterday. Plain khaki shorts, plain blue Converse, hot pink tee shirt with a black cat on it, not-so-fuzzy-anymore hair pulled into a plain low ponytail with a tiny pink flower barrette. She whined, kicked and screamed over going to school, but when it came time to walk in, Annabelle was cucumber-cool; I was the one in tears as her math teacher closed the door.

I walked to the car — past older kids in purple knit caps, long skirts with strands of beads, dorky black-framed glasses — and wondered how Annabelle will dress in high school, after she’s been at this arts school for a while. I think at the core, she’ll stay the same girl: sweet, smart, a little neurotic, with a tendency toward plain clothes. But with a flourish or two.

Who knows. High school is a long way away. At this point, Friday seems like an eternity. And yet I know I’ll blink, and it’ll be Saturday; again, and she’ll be off to college like the kids we’ve been driving past on our way each morning to school.  

Way, way too early in the morning.

Annabelle slept til 8 yesterday morning.

No, it wasn’t the first day of summer. It was the last day of school. Who’s ever heard of an elementary school that starts at the civilized hour of 8:50 a.m.? Me. And since we live just a few blocks from school, we slipped out of the house at 8:40 most mornings this year. (Which is not to say we didn’t have our fair share of late slips.)

I let her sleep late because Annabelle had cried herself to sleep the night before. The tears started again in the morning, continuing off and on all day. Poor girl. I tried reminding her how scared she was to come to this school — how as a tiny 4 year old she spooked when some big boys (probably fourth graders) played dodge ball a little too close to her, as she and and I waited to fill out her kindergarten registration forms.

I have my share of complaints about this school — tribulations regarding Sophie’s treatment there, and don’t get me started on the PTA and a few of the parents — but as I told the principal today (more like hiccuped, as I fought tears) it’s been the perfect place for Annabelle. In so many ways (for a typical, low maintenance kid) this is the neighborhood school at it’s finest. For Annabelle, the place was home the last five years. Three of those years, she’s had Sophie just down the hall or the stairs.

It’s been a great run, but it’s time to go. The charter arts school is the right place, I know it is, and I think Annabelle knows it is, too. But that didn’t help today, when it was time to say goodbye. After school she cried in her room for a long while, then emerged red-eyed and we headed to a pool party and I watched her play with kids she’s been with since kindergarten. A few are going to the charter school, too, but she’ll leave good friends behind — and equally important, a place where she felt so comfortable.

Maybe a little too comfortable, I thought last night, when I opened her report card and gazed at all the As. I’m prouder of the Os for outstanding effort. Sophie got a bunch of those, too.

Come August, Annabelle will need to be at school — across town — at 7:45. She’ll be back at her old school for events and just to hang out (Sophie will still be there — for the time being, at least) but as Annabelle pointed out to me today, it’ll never be the same.

I had to agree.

That’s

Annabelle popped a tooth tonight. Her tenth. Per tradition, she wrote her tooth fairy a note, folding it carefully and putting it (and some shredded cheese) next to the pillow holding her tooth.

I love reading those notes. Tonight’s was short, but I think it will always be my favorite.

“Do you like my cursive?” Annabelle wanted to know. And how was the cheese? When did the tooth fairy lose her 10th tooth? And just what does she do with those teeth? Does she like to dance?

And there was a bit of news among the questions.

“I got into [CHARTER SCHOOL NAME]!” she wrote.

My heart soared.

This morning I literally stood on the steps of a castle and got the news that Annabelle was accepted into this charter school, our dream school. OK, my dream school. Ray’s dream school, my mom’s dream school. Not Annabelle’s dream school. Not yet, anyway.

This will sound corny, but it was a day of dreams (small ones, anyway) come true.

If you live in Phoenix, and particularly if you grew up here, you’ll know what I mean when I say I’ve always dreamed about poking my head inside Tovrea Castle, the wedding cake of a once-falling-apart historic building perched on a hill near the middle of the city.  Particularly at night, it looks like it’s hung from the sky. Today I got my tour. Turns out, all I would have had to do was ask, years ago. Who knew?

Not so with that charter school. We’ve had tours and math exams and ballet auditions, paperwork to fill out, lottery numbers to try to make sense of and finally, a lot of waiting. I’d been checking my email constantly for a month, hoping for news from the school, and I stepped out of the castle this morning into the sunshine and held up my phone and there it was, the email announcing that Annabelle had made it in.

My eyes teared up in the sunshine. Look, I won’t pretend it’s like “Waiting for Superman” or anything — Annabelle is the kind of kid who would likely be fine wherever she lands. But this school is 5-12, with as little of the high school bullshit as possible and huge doses of dance and music along with terrific academics. I was hesitant about ditching public education, but this place was hard to resist — particularly with rumors floating around that our home middle school might be closing.

So we applied, despite Annabelle’s nerves. For months I’ve been prohibited from even uttering the school’s name in her presence, so tonight when she and Ray came in the door (he had broken the news), I wasn’t surprised to get a “NO!” before I’d even finished asking the question, “Can I say anything about next year?”

OK, OK. I gave her a hug and we ate dinner, did homework, read books, watched some TV and she wrote her note to the tooth fairy.

I sat up late, working on my laptop, waiting til everyone was definitely asleep (Sophie is as interested in Annabelle’s tooth as Annabelle is — she left her some cheese, too!) then carefully picked up Annabelle’s letter and crept into the kitchen to read it.

Maybe this school is Annabelle’s dream, too, and she’s just about to know it. I wrote the tooth fairy’s reply (the cheese was great, I was 9 3/4 when I lost my 10th tooth, I’m not a very good dancer but I love to watch you) and tucked it in the envelope with the obligatory silver dollars and pink glitter –and a big smile on my face.

I was licking the envelope when my phone beeped a text with some news.

Tonight, the school board voted to close our home middle school.