It fits with the stream of questions — I prefer the “whys,” though they’re harder to answer, but it’s mostly “whatsits” — pouring out of her all the time, even in her sleep. (Really! Neither of us has been sleeping well; I can hear her talking in her dreams from down the hall.)

Last night found all four of us in the living room at the same time — rare, the television was off but we were all relaxing — listening to chapter three of A Wrinkle in Time.

So we’re all about the more famous Mrs. Whatsit at the moment, as well.

Annabelle’s into it — at least, I think she is. It was hard to tell last night until, a couple pages into chapter three (“Mrs. Which”), she asked if she could take a turn reading aloud. I happily relinquished the book and Ray and I sat quietly, listening to our big little third grader.

Sophie snuggled under my arm, sighing like a puppy right before it turns in circles and falls asleep, and just as her own eyes started to close, she asked, “Mommy, can I read the next chapter?”

Absolutely, I told her, thinking, maybe not chapter four, but someday….

As we left Starbucks this morning, I heard Annabelle instruct Sophie on how to put her “iced mocha” (a kid-sized chocolate milk with ice) into her cup holder.

It was a rite of passage. As you might know, car seats don’t come equipped with cup holders. At least, ours didn’t when we bought them a million years ago.

Yes, Sophie has graduated to a booster seat. Look how grown up she is, slumped down for a nap on the way home from ballet class (I need to figure out how to deal with that, safety-wise, I realize — it’s off to Target for some options) in her Big Girl Booster Seat! 

Both my girls were the last in their sets to hit the all-important 40 pound mark, the signal that it’s time to ditch the car seat. Sophie’s claimed she’s “fahty pounds” for years now, but it wasn’t til last week, when Ray plopped her on the bathroom scale, that her dream came true.

Unfortunately, the booster comes with the freedom to unbuckle oneself at will — something I discovered the hard way yesterday. We’ve already had a couple of terse discussions on the subject.

And then there’s trying to explain that no, as far as I know, they do not make a Yo Gabba Gabba booster seat. She’ll have to settle for something plain.

But mostly, this has been a happy occasion.

As she climbed into the car all by herself this morning, Sophie announced in a super hero voice, “I booster seat girl!”

It’s slow, but she’s growing up.

It’s barely February, but talk has already turned to What Fourth Grade Teacher Should I Request for Annabelle and What Will Happen to Sophie in Second Grade?

The special ed teacher called yesterday — it’s time to schedule the pre-IEP meeting. Let the games begin.

Sophie’s main challenge, as predicted, is writing. I saw it last night when we started working on valentines (granted, it’s not easy for anyone to write on a foam heart with a Sharpie, around Yo Gabba Gabba stickers – she did a darn good job) and I see it in all the work that comes home. Miss Y has finally suggested that it’s time to consult the occupational therapist about an electronic writing device.

Something else to make Sophie different. But I know it will help, and we’ve held off on it long enough.

The special ed teacher was sweet. She talked yesterday about how Sophie has so much to say — sentences to put together, thoughts to express — that she simply can’t get down on paper. I wonder, frankly, if she ever will. (A hard thing to admit, given my profession — heck, and my hobby. I blab constantly! I want Sophie to be able to as well, and not just on the phone — her current obsession, sorry if you’ve been on the other end of that.)

One of the OTs explained a while back that it’s like Sophie is wearing mittens — she just doesn’t have the same feeling in her fingers that typical kids have. Combine that with low muscle tone and other challenges and you have some pretty hard-to-read writing.

Drawing is tough, too, though she loves to do it. (And I do love the drawing she did of herself and Ms. X that I embroidered.) The other day I arrived to volunteer in Sophie’s classroom, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the bulletin board had been updated.

I always approach a new bulletin board with a little sadness. How will Sophie’s offering look next to the other kids’ creations? This particular display is (coincidentally, given the whole writing discussion) of mittens — cute, they are punched with holes and hung on string, and as I approached, I made enough breeze that Sophie’s literally flipped over. I had to flip them back to see.

I was pleasantly surprised. Her mittens are BEAUTIFUL (see above) and most important, she created a beautiful pattern and repeated it on each. Very nice. No, not what the other kids did (see below) but lovely in their own way, just like Sophie.

Things have been pretty mellow lately — nothing really earth-shaking. Maybe (pardon the pun and the too-neat wrapping on this package) — we (sigh — I) need to take the gloves off, make some demands that will push her to the next level.

And maybe I need to increase my expectations. So I’ll be optimistic, for once, and assume that when she gets her new contraption, Sophie will write volumes. I can’t wait to see what she has to say.

We all fall into patterns — some more flattering than others.

One of my less becoming? I’ve fallen into a habit of dressing Sophie myself.  She’s perfectly capable of choosing her clothes and dressing herself (with the exception of some shoes) and yet yesterday morning I realized that there I was — half-dressed myself, harried and watching the clock, fearful of a late slip — orchestrating her outfit, helping her out of PJs and literally putting her clothes on.

It’s terrible on so many levels. I know it. And doing it yesterday, I had one of those realizations you have — where you see yourself from above and think, “WTF?!”

This morning I managed to scrape together a little extra time, and as I jumped into the shower I announced to Sophie, “Hey! Let’s have a contest! I bet you can’t get dressed before I get done with my shower.”

She did it. That’s how we wound up with competing patterns. Normally I’d micromanage the situation — choose a different shirt (or two appropriate ones for her to choose from) and cajole her into holding her arms up so I could remove the offending one, replacing it with the more aesthetically pleasing option.

But today I didn’t, and it wasn’t even because we were out of time. When we got to the car, instead of lifting her into her car seat (that elusive 40 pounds — and a “grown up” booster seat is still a ways off, even at 6 and a half) I waited while Sophie climbed in herself.

She looked pretty satisfied, as you can see from the photographic evidence.

It was a good morning. Perhaps not coincidentally, Sophie didn’t cry or cling to me when it was time to walk into the school with her class.

I’m not saying things won’t fall apart again tomorrow morning. But I’m going to try hard to make this a new pattern — fashion (and expediency) be damned.

Lately, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been writing so much about Sophie and Down syndrome, per se. Maybe it was the distractions of the holiday season, but I think it’s more than that.

Funny, when she was born, the doctors and other experts warned us that as she grew, we’d see her differences more. Instead, more and more (for me at least), Sophie is simply Sophie, rather than Sophie-with-Down-syndrome.

I notice increasingly that I don’t notice it — I don’t compare her (as much, at least!) to kids her own age. She’s emerged as her own little person, good at some things, not as good at others. Sometimes a pain in the butt, but more often a source of indescribable (is that a word?) joy.

I don’t notice people staring in public as much as I used to — though they probably still do. I’m comfortable in my skin, being the parent of a kid with special needs.

At least, I think that til something blindsides me. I didn’t want to write about this, but I’m forcing myself, for honesty’s sake. I owe it to this blog, if nothing else.

Late last night I was rooting around in Sophie’s backpack, and happened upon a somewhat crumpled worksheet. It was a very simple sheet — hopefully you can read the wording on the photo above — asking the student to draw a picture of herself and write a short story about “Me”.

Check Sophie’s out.

OK, I’ll say it: Her finished product is underwhelming.

At first I was angry, thinking, “Wow, didn’t anyone sit down and work with her on that?” — which quickly changed to, “Hey, Amy, what happened to being more concerned that the special ed teacher does too much of Sophie’s work for her?” which then morphed into, “Oh no, what if the special ed teacher was helping her and this is all she came up with?”

In any case, I was bummed. I admit it. After dinner last night, Sophie read me the book in her homework folder, and I was impressed with how well she did with long(ish) sentences, in a sing-songy picture book about a Grizzly bear sitting in a chair, watching circus animals pass by.

But later, after I found that “Me” worksheet, I remembered that at the same point in first grade, Annabelle was easily reading the chapter book “How to Eat Fried Worms” for her nightly homework. (Yeah — I thought it was a little too sophisticated for a 6-year-old, too; Annabelle’s first grade teacher had recently switched from teaching third.)

I know I know I know I know. Sophie is who she is, and she’s a remarkable little girl. I wouldn’t trade her in, that’s for sure. It’s probably good that I dug that wake up call out of her backpack. Time for a conference with the teacher, if nothing else.

Someday I’ll find that happy medium between Just Sophie and Special Needs Sophie. I can see it on the horizon; I just can’t reach it quite yet.

Time to strap on the helmets.

That’s what I thought this morning as I watched Sophie learning to ride a scooter with her physical therapist. I should probably put one on, too.

I have a feeling I’m pretty much Public Enemy Number 1 at school today. I’m not thrilled with that, but c’est la vie — what bothers me is that real chance that the friend who tipped me off to last week’s bully episode is Public Enemy Number 2. And the one I really worry about is her daughter, who reported the bullying in the first place.

After several angry emails last night from the mother of one of the bullies (the girl we’ve had problems with for several years), I realized why people stay quiet about incidents like this. But I also saw why it’s important to report them.

Yesterday I wrote that a teacher failed to follow the school’s anti-bully policy by not telling the administration or Sophie’s teacher about what happened to Sophie. I was a little startled to see the responses attacking that teacher and (of more concern) teachers in general.

That’s what makes real life — and writing about it — so hard. Because the truth is that yes, not saying anything was wrong. But that doesn’t make that teacher or her colleagues bad people or bad educators. Far from it.

I am in constant awe of the teachers at Annabelle and Sophie’s school. Given the current climate, I can’t believe anyone would agree to teach public school. The pressures are constant and increasing; the pay is embarrassingly low; the expectations are ridiculously high.

I’ve waxed poetic for days about Ms. X, the girls’ kindergarten teacher. But I probably haven’t written enough about Annbaelle’s current teacher. She is a ball of energy — a sweet, caring, devoted, amazing presence in Annabelle’s life. My daugther will do hours of homework for this woman; she’s adopted some of her favorite sayings. I’m thrilled.

Sophie’s current teacher is a wonder. I cannot believe how much love she pours into those kids. It’s showing in Sophie’s school work. As I told the principal yesterday, Sophie is kicking some academic ass. That’s why she needs to be at this school.

But it needs to be a safe place for her, and for other kids.

The principal followed up our conversation yesterday with a note explaining that she intends to talk about procedures for reporting bullying at an upcoming staff meeting with teachers. I think that’s great. But I also hope she considers having a training session for parents. We could use some guidance, as well. After I wrote about what happened to Sophie, other parents told me their kids have been bullied, too. When I mentioned that the principal wants to hear about it, they seemed a little surprised. Only one said she’d already contacted her.

Like I said, after last night’s emails, I can see why. According to the mother I heard from, I am pretty much the most horrible person who’s ever caught a breath. She can’t imagine how I could have such sweet daughters. Hey, I’m with her on that part (that was some humor, people!) but the rest felt — well, it felt like bullying. I didn’t like it. And this morning I worried about how my girls would be treated at school.

We now have volunteers dedicated to watching out for Sophie at every lunch period. I’d rather the school provide a viable solution, but until that happens, Sophie will be safe. I visited at lunch today. Everything seemed cool, if somewhat chaotic. Sophie was happy; so was Annabelle.

Of course, my presence changed the dynamic. I’m sure of that. And I can’t be there at every lunch period. I can’t go to school with my girls and sit next to them at their desks, walk them to the bathroom, stand under the monkey bars to catch them if they fall.

But I can raise hell once in a while if I need to, even if it doesn’t win me any friends. From across the cafeteria today, I saw the teacher who didn’t report the bullying incident. Normally, I’d expect that she’d come over and say hello. She didn’t. I thought about approaching her — not to fight, just to say hi — but frankly, I was chicken.

When it was obvious she was probably ignoring me, I felt like crying. But I didn’t. Instead I strapped my proverbial helmet on a little tighter, and walked Sophie out to the playground.

This morning was my first chance this school year to volunteer in Sophie’s classroom. I scurried around, dropping the girls at school then grabbing Starbucks for Miss Y (and Ms X, of course), and I’d just skidded to a stop at the school office and grabbed the volunteer book to sign in when I saw the school nurse.

She had something to tell me.

Sophie failed both her vision and hearing tests. Super. I had a feeling it was coming (even though, to be honest, I don’t see issues with either Sophie’s hearing or sight, and I look for signs constantly) and made a note on my hand to schedule more tests.

That was on my mind when I entered Miss Y’s classroom to begin my morning job overseeing the creation of pumpkin paintings for the hallway bulletin board — but I was quickly distracted by the goings-ons in the classroom.

I can’t offer much in detail because I don’t want to violate any privacy rules, but let’s just say that it’s not fair to ask any one person — even the amazing Miss Y — to run that classroom. As others have murmured already this year, Sophie is the least of her concerns — at least, she was this morning, particularly since the special ed teacher has begun her inclusion work in the classroom, meaning she wound up helping not just Sophie but a few other kids as well.

There are several Tough Kids with a capital T in that room, and a few others I’d stick a lowercase t on. At least one of those kids (not counting Sophie) should have a full time aide — no doubt about it.

Miss Y kept a smile on her face, ringing her yoga chimes to get the kids’ attention and never losing her cool. I smiled, but inside I was seathing. No wonder no one lasts long as a teacher. If I was this woman, I’d run screaming from the classroom.

At least it was a distraction from thinking about the appointments I’ll need to make this afternoon. And I got, oh, about a dozen hugs from Sophie — who was very happy to have me in her room.

I was glad to be there, too. And even happier when it was time to leave.

This is Sophie, posing yesterday morning just before school. A happy first grader, to say the least.

What could be more important than that? Yes, at this morning’s parent/teacher conference, I was happy (though skeptical) to hear that Sophie is reading at grade level — not at grade level for a kid with Down syndrome, Miss Y reiterated under questioning, but at grade level for a typical kid.

Super. The rest of her report card was equally positive. But academics are not as important as happiness (something I’ve come to realize rather late in life — in fact, I think they might be mutually exclusive) and happiness can’t be protected without safety.

I am reminded of Maslow’s hierarchy and high school debate — but I won’t go there today; lucky you, reader. I’ll just say that the other topic of discussion during the parent/teacher conference this morning was the fact that Sophie went AWOL (again) during lunch recess yesterday.

That is not surprising. There is one person (count ‘em, one) supervising (to use the term loosely) the entire first grade (close to 100 kids I’m guessing, I’m afraid to ask) on the playground at lunch recess. Sophie takes her time eating, so she leaves the cafeteria after the duty has walked the kids out. That means she leaves by herself.

Look at her picture. Does that look like a kid who’s going to go where she pleases? You bet your ass it is. And you can also bet that I want it that way — well, in theory. I want my kid to be friendly and loving and to have a ball in her world. But I want her to be safe. I don’t want her to be one of those “trained” people/kids with Down syndrome who refuses to make eye contact, who does exactly what she’s told as though she’s been whipped into submission.

Or do I? At least those people are physically safe, if not mentally so.

What Sophie needs is an aide at school and her mother is too big a wimp to fight for one. That’s the truth. Or one of the truths, anyway.

On some levels, I exaggerate. The new school (built over the summer) is much safer, enclosed. Everyone knows Sophie. So far, she’s only gone to safe places she’s not supposed to be. Yesterday, during lunch recess, she turned up in Miss Y’s classroom and the two of them spent the last 7 minutes of recess playing teacher (Sophie’s favorite game).

Part of me wishes Miss Y had reprimanded Sophie and sent her back to recess. But that is only part of the truth. I love that Sophie is loved, and that she gets to be independent.

But I want her happy. And that means safe.

(And she’s reading at grade level — can you flipping believe it?! Yes, I’m proud.)

Yesterday morning was pretty typical — we scurried to get ready, scurried out the door, scurried out of the car into backpacks and lunch boxes and over the crosswalk to school.

When Sophie, Annabelle and I arrived, it was the typical rush of teachers opening doors in the carpool lane (it always reminds me so much of a valet service) and kids flowing onto the playground.

We all stopped to say hello to Annabelle’s teacher, who gave us her usual big, happy greeting. Sophie said to her, “I come to your classroom!”

At first I didn’t give that much thought, standing there, because Sophie’s been saying that since the first day of school and we’ve always laughed about it. She doesn’t have easy access to Annabelle’s classroom. It’s on another floor, a gigantic (for Sophie) staircase away.

But something compelled me to look up from Sophie’s face to the teacher’s.

“Um, Sophie hasn’t actually shown up in your classroom, has she?”

“Why, yes!” the teacher responded cheerily. “Just yesterday!”

The craze of arriving kids continued through this discussion, so I couldn’t get much out of her, except that Sophie had shown up and a friend of Annabelle’s had escorted her back down the stairs to class.

When the bell rang, and Miss Y appeared to usher in her line, I broke the Cardinal rule. I brought up a Big Subject in the before-school rush.

“Hey, did you hear that Sophie showed up in Annabelle’s teacher’s room yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Noooooooooo,” she replied, clearly replaying the past day in her head even as she grabbed for hands and secured packs on backs.

She stopped and looked at me.

“Really?”

By day’s end, when we corresponded on email, she had asked for but not received details of the journey. There was speculation that this might have taken place during a therapy session or maybe music, since Miss Y never knew it happened.

I suppose it was a good week for this. In a couple hours, I’ll drive over to school for that one-month meeting of Sophie’s IEP team, which is finally to take place. And I’ll bring this up.

But first I’m going to let them all go around the room and talk about how incredibly well Sophie is doing, how this is the best possible setting for her, how her academics and socialization are through the roof (even if they really aren’t — I notice how eager people are to tell me how well Sophie is doing, and how eager I am to accept that news; events like yesterday’s are a wake-up call from the complacency that sets in) and when they’re done, I’ll pipe up.

And maybe, just maybe, if she’s at this meeting, the principal won’t turn to me, wince, and say what she said last year at this meeting, when I asked if we could write a provision into her IEP to have someone walk Sophie from the cafeteria to the playground at lunch each day.

You  know, if Sophie needs to be treated like someone other than a typical kid, the principal said, you will need to look at options elsewhere in the district.

Maybe there’s a simple explanation for the wandering. It’s true, Sophie was fine — people know and love her at this school, they want to take care of her. I just wish that when I’d asked Miss Y about it, she’d had a ready explanation. I know she does, too. She takes this as seriously as I do.

Honestly, the seriousness of it didn’t really sink in til I called my mom last night, to recount the events of the day, and mentioned it almost as an aside. She was horrified, speechless (rare for her). We hung up and 20 minutes later, I was in Safeway, and the phone rang again. What can we do about this? she asked.

I honestly don’t know. I’m back to thinking Sophie needs a micro chip or a tattoo or at least a tag that says, “If lost, please return to:”

Or maybe I’m just exhausted.

Last night, the girls and I sat at the dining room table to do homework. Annabelle had some fancy-schmancy assignment involving decorating her spelling words (some nights it’s drawing them in a shape of pyramid or making them blocks), so once Sophie finished reading her little book, I took her spelling words off the fridge, handed her a pen and paper, and told her to write them. Just once.

It took a while.

Sophie delighted in drawing each letter carefully, drawing big circles over every “i”.

“You know,” I told her, “sometimes it’s really fun to put a smiley face inside your i.”

Without missing a beat, the pen left the paper — headed for her eyeball.

Annabelle burst out laughing and sucked wind at the same time. I grabbed the pen and looked Sophie in the (luckily still-unmarked) eye and asked, “You didn’t really think that’s what I meant, did you?”

She just smiled.

Inside, I was sad. Of her many challenges, the greatest might be Sophie’s handwriting. We got through five words last night and that filled the page (I know I should have lined paper, though it wouldn’t have made much of a difference). She tries hard, but it’s tough. You can see it in the picture. We need to make some big decisions about how to proceed: Should Sophie learn to keyboard, which might be easier for her but would set her apart from the class? Should she be receiving more occupational therapy for writing? Are there other remedies? Or should I not be so concerned?

These questions need to be answered, and soon. That’s why I was so frustrated this week with the special education teacher. Sophie’s IEP requires that after the first month of school, a meeting of her entire team (teacher, therapists, special ed instructors) be held to assess how she’s doing. Writing will certainly be at the top of the list — if we ever do have that freaking meeting.

I know the beginning of the school year is a crazy time, so I held back from asking about the meeting. I wanted to see what would happen. By last week (five weeks into the year – and experience tells me it will take at least two weeks to schedule this meeting)  I was not pleased. So when the principal stopped me to ask my opinion about something unrelated, I mentioned that the meeting hadn’t been scheduled.

I had a call from the special ed teacher that afternoon. But when we finally did communicate a few days later, she suggested we ask each therapist to simply send a note home about Sophie’s progress.

The guilt bug bit, but not hard enough for me to agree. I wanted to say okay — it is a lot of work to gather everyone — but again, experience teaches me that the group needs to sit down in person so we can share news about

Sophie’s progress and problems, and brainstorm solutions.

A meeting’s in the works, I’m told. Meanwhile, October looms. I’m beginning to worry about second grade. And now I have a new concern — that my daughter will try to draw a smiley face on her eyeball, at my behest.

Good thing I didn’t tell her to make her “i” into a daisy.