God only gives you what you can handle.

The line popped in my head as I pulled away from the school this morning, and I haven’t been able to get it out all day.

OK, so first of all, as a committed agnostic, I’ve got some issues with the whole concept, right off the bat. But beyond that, if there is in fact a God, he has definitely got me out of my element when it comes to Sophie and math.

Sophie and just about everything else? I’m good with that. Not perfect, by any means, but I can get on the map. No way with math. You’d think that because her math is remedial (which is a nice way of saying she’s in the “low group”) I’d have no trouble doing her homework with her. I certainly thought that would be the case — til I tried it.

Take this morning. The math teacher had blown up the work on the Xerox machine to make it easier to read and circled just a few problems to make it managable, and still, Sophie and I stared at each other across the breakfast table, totally stumped.

“Do you understand this at all?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

We both looked back down at the paper. It was about “arrays” and included two identical problems — 7 X 4 — that you were supposed to solve and and from those, extrapolate the answer to 7 X 8. I tried to explain the most basic part of the problem.

“What’s 4 plus 4?” I asked.

Sophie looked at her fingers for a moment, and looked a little panicked. “Eight!” she said, obviously surprising herself.

Oh fuck, I thought. I looked at the rest of the page — it was all multiplication and division problems. I realized that not only do I not understand newfangled things like “arrays” and “fact families,” I can’t begin to figure out how to teach someone how to multiply and divide — without Schoolhouse Rock playing in the background. 

I did the only thing I could think to do. I pulled up the calculator on my iPhone and slid it across the table.

We plugged in the numbers together and she wrote the answers on the sheet. The higher concepts were forgotten, not to mention any sort of practice, but at least she was working with numbers, I told myself.

That was only half the worksheet. The rest was about word problems and rounding and identifying the 10 million spot in a number. Here’s the thing. Not only do I have no idea how to show Sophie how to do any of this, I have no idea if it matters. I admit that I stopped paying attention in math when I was about her age and aside from the fact that I’m pretty crappy at figuring out the tip on lunch, it hasn’t much impacted my life.

But will it impact Sophie’s? When will it be time to totally abandon math? Years ago, a teacher warned me not to discount math, said it’s vital to brain development. OK, I’ll bite. And I’m not saying Sophie’s brain is any less worthy than anyone else’s but would someone please tell me the truth: How much does math matter in this particular, um, circumstance?

In the meeting we had with Sophie’s team last week, someone mentioned that she really doesn’t enjoy music class much. So they’ve been letting her skip it. “Sometimes you have to pick your battles,” the principal said.

I totally agree. Music, shmusic. But what about when it comes to math? And if we let Sophie sit math out, where will she sit? Like literally, where will they put her during math class? Will she be on a path to the Special Ed room, to a self-contained environment where they send the kids who can’t perform?

So her brain won’t develop and the rest of her will rot. Great, I thought, watching her struggle with the calculator. When she finally finished, I smiled and said, “Good job!”

She smiled back and I thought for the millionth time about what it would feel like to actually believe it when someone told me, “Good job!” I always figure people are just being nice.

I was digging in her folder for the reading homework when Sophie grabbed the pen off the table and picked up her math worksheet again.

“How you spell hard, Mom?” she asked, as she scrawled a note on the top of the paper.

I told her — slowly, a couple times, per her request — then read the message she’d written to her teacher: My maths hard. Without comment, I carefully put the sheet in her math folder.

When we got to school, Sophie’s teacher was coming in from crosswalk duty.

“We had a hard time with the math homework today,” I told her. She promised to take a look. I had an email before lunch. Really, I know I keep saying this teacher is amazing — and she is. Here’s what she wrote:

Thank you for letting me know that last night’s homework was a challenge. We had a quick chat about math and have come up with a plan.

Sophie’s homework will match her IEP goal of mastering basic multiplication facts with the factors zero to five.

In math class, [her aide] will help Sophie use a multiplication chart to solve multiplication and division problems with factors larger than 5. As the group learns the process of multiplying larger numbers in the coming weeks, Sophie will continue to use the chart with [the aide's] support and if needed we’ll modify the problems.

When she meets with [the special ed teacher]  for math they will continue to work on her goal with factors zero to five. She will also use the multiplication chart in resource as needed when multiplying larger numbers.

How does this sound?

It sounds really fucking awesome, I told her. (I left “fucking” out.)

Maybe God (or who/whatever) didn’t give me what I can handle, but at least he/she/it gave Sophie this teacher.

I wish fourth grade could last forever.

I had a feeling it would be a good meeting after the principal sent that email with the exciting news that he and Sophie share a birthday — but still, I held my breath as I walked into the school yesterday afternoon for a gathering of Team Sophie. And when we all went around the table and introduced ourselves, my throat closed up like it always does when it was my turn.

“Amy Silverman, Mom,” I said, hoping no one noticed my voice crack. I’ve sat around this conference room table with most of these women for years now, but this time there was a big absence: The Old Principal.

The Old Principal retired last year, and I have to admit that the celebration was pretty universal — every parent I know had had it with her. She wasn’t the worst principal ever, I’m sure, but probably one of the fakest. Fake as in she always had a super sunny greeting, a giant smile, a too-quick explanation, and a lot of gingham decorations all over the school office. When she came from another school in the district a few years ago she brought along a cabal of smiley women who are all too good with the die-cut machine to earn my trust.

And here’s the main thing: Sophie didn’t like her. I shouldn’t say that. It’s not like Sophie actively hated this woman, more that she had no use for her. And that’s not typical with Sophie. As I’ve said before, she can take one whiff and tell if you’re the real thing.

The New Principal? Definitely the real thing. I’d heard all about him before we met — and the fact that he’d sat down and read Sophie’s IEP for no other reason than because she’s a kid at his school? I was in love before first sight. Every time The Old Principal and I would have an “issue” over the years (and we had our share — like the time she told me Sophie needed to act like a typical kid if she wanted to attend this public school, or the instance where Sophie was bullied in the lunch room after I’d plead forever for extra help for her there) she’d be quick to remind me all about her background in special ed.

Yeah. And I’m sure some of her best friends are gay/black/developmentally disabled. Whatever. She sucked. But we smiled hard (literally) at each other til she left.

Yesterday’s meeting wasn’t one of those DEFCON situations I’ve been in before. It was the meeting we ask for in the IEP each year, since Sophie’s IEP comes around in the spring and it seems like a good idea to meet after a month of a new grade at school to see how things are going.

Things are going well. Really well, by all accounts. But still, I walked into that room extremely concerned about Sophie’s handwriting — and the fact that for years now, I’ve asked for someone to implement a system where she uses the same device for written expression, across the board. (As opposed to hand writing in one class, a laptop in another and the iPad in still another.) I always ask, and everyone always mumbles. The Old Principal would look at her Blackberry and look bored and I’d worry that I was pushing too hard. And nothing would change. By this summer, Sophie’s physical therapist was horrified that nothing was in place; her nanny (the one with the special ed teaching degree) was, too. I was feeling extra guilty — and lost.

This time, I walked in and there was literally a solution on the table — an iPad holder and a tiny wireless keyboard to go with it. All I needed to do was order it, send our iPad to school every day (something I’ve offered for two years) and voila — Sophie will be able to write. (Well, she will have the tools, anyway.)

To be fair, the occupational therapist was probably planning on that anyhow, but it became clear during yesterday’s meeting that the principal had approached each team member the previous day to go over concerns and be sure everyone was ready for this meeting. When I mentioned that I was looking for a home occupational therapist, he excused himself and came back with a recommendation. He’s on top of it.

And more than that, the guy is genuine. I can’t really describe it;  you’ll just have to take my word for it. (Sophie’s word, too, she’s smitten.) The principal admitted after the meeting that he’s fallen hard for Sophie. “She’s melted my heart,” he said, adding that he has a purple shirt he looks forward to wearing because he knows the reaction he’ll get.

Sweet nothings aside, this is a man who actually told me he wants to create an environment for my kid — my kid with Down syndrome – where she’ll be able to fully use and develop her own voice.

See? Public education isn’t dead — just bleeding by the side of the road. Coincidentally, yesterday I heard a report on NPR that Arizona has cut K-12 more than any other state in the nation in the last five years. Nice. Why someone like this guy (he said he’s a recent transplant to the state) wants to take something like that on is beyond me — but I’m incredibly grateful he does. And grateful for Sophie’s wonderful classroom teacher, her aide, her special education teacher, and the entire village she’s surrounded with at this school. (I do wonder how the principal will get along with the school psychologist who told me two years ago that Sophie has the cognitive abilities of a 3-year-old. Should be interesting. I was on good behavior and didn’t mention that yesterday.)

I’ve never had the luxury of liking a principal; it might take a while to get used to. We walked to the school lobby after the meeting and stood chatting for a while. He motioned to the blank walls and talked about his plans to cover them with big, beautiful photos of kids. And huge word murals with favorite lines from books.

I looked around and realized the gingham is all gone and finally, I felt like I could breath.

Here’s what I wrote:

Tonight Sophie and I read Chapter 13 together — actually, I began by reading it aloud. I was glad I did because I noticed the word “retarded” is used a couple times. I have real issues with that word, as you might imagine, but as a journalist by training I am also not at all in favor of censorship — particularly of books! (Although to be totally honest, I do ask people to consider not using the word “retarded” when I hear it in public or see it on Facebook — which happens a lot) but i’m curious: How do you and the [fourth grade] team handle it when the word comes up in class, if it does, in the context of discussing the book? I don’t know if Sophie knows the word or if she’d ask about it; probably not. But I’m guessing some kids in 4th grade do.

I hope that question isn’t too much — curious to hear what you think!

And then I held my breath. I didn’t have to wait for long, she wrote back immediately. And I couldn’t have hoped for — or written — such a wonderful response. I only wish this woman had been my fourth grade teacher. (I’m so glad Annabelle had her!) I think this response should be required reading for all of us:

As you know, now that we are entering the realm of big kid books and all of their glory, we will come across a few words that we would never utter and definitely find offensive. There will be many a discussion this year about words that authors feel they need to include, how the characters react, how we feel about them, and how they are treated in our society. Each year we encounter the “r-word” and I am kind of bummed that it is in Winn Dixie right off the bat. Last year we [read] a terrific book called Out of My Mind about a 5th grader with CP who is brilliant, but cannot communicate until she receives a device when she’s about 10. She leaves behind the Special Education classroom and heads off to a traditional 5th grade class. She gives us a personal glimpse of just how painful that word is and the way it makes her feel. We’ll read that one soon, too bad it’s not before Winn Dixie.

I am totally open to your suggestions…but here is how I have traditionally handled it. I talk about how words can change meaning throughout time based on how it’s used. I tell them about my parents’ friend Gay {last name] and my former [co-worker] Linda Gay [last name] and how the word gay has gone from being a word that meant happy and was acceptable in names, literature, and daily use. In more recent years, some people use the word as a derogatory name and to pick on others. Then I talk about the r-word…in the book. I talk about flame retardant pajamas and how retardant means to slow down to give them a round-about definition. Typically I avoid saying that it was a word used to describe people with a cognitive disability. I share that some people, kids and grownups, without seeming to find offense with it, call friends and others the r-word or say they are so r-ted. I talk about how this truly is a hateful word and is just as bad a word as they can imagine and that we need to tell people when we hear them say it that it’s not OK to say. I also tell them that if they hear anyone use it at school, it is a super bad word and they need to tell a teacher. (Side Note: Usually I don’t give a consequence the first time if they were not part of this conversation but use it as an opportunity to have this talk.)

That’s pretty much how I’ve discussed it in the past. Not too much opportunity for them to share because I don’t want them to tell me where they’ve heard it, that’s too sad.

Pretty awesome, huh? And now I’m dying to read the book she mentioned, Out of My Mind.

UGH. I can guess A LOT. Turns out, it wasn’t one of those emails.

Inside it said:

I am in the process of reading all of the…children’s IEP’s and you won’t believe what I discovered! Sophie and I share the same birthday!!!! I can’t wait to tell her! I’m sure we will have a small party, right?

I started to cry. Really. Like, I had to wipe away tears.

He’s reading all the kids’ IEPs AND he’s a guy who “gets” birthdays? It doesn’t get better than that. Totally made my day.

And now I better go — I have a party to plan. Mark your calendars, folks: May 21.

I can’t believe Sophie’s in fourth grade.

Neither could the girl behind the counter at our bagel shop.

“It’s the first day of school,” I told her.

“Cool!” she told Sophie. “What grade are you in?”

“You tell her!” Sophie said. “Fourth,” I said.

“Really?” She peered over the counter to take a closer look.

“Really!” I said cheerfully.

“Really?!?!”

“Yes!”

“Really?!?!?!?!?”

Why would I lie?

This morning Sophie cuddled up against me in bed. Suddenly she pulled her thumb out of her mouth and yanked down the front of her nightgown. “My boobs are growing!” she said.

They aren’t — but they will be soon. Will she still be sucking her thumb then? I wondered as I rolled out of bed. Probably. In so many ways she’s still so young, frozen in time by that third 21st chromosome.

And yet I see the ice melting. Sophie requested gray for her first-day-of-school outfit instead of her usual purple, and a backpack with peace signs instead of a cartoon character. She brushed her own hair, although I had to tie the laces on her new gray sneakers. She insisted on swallowing her thyroid pill with water, just like a big girl, and even agreed to put on her glasses.

“Sophie, you look so professional!” Annabelle said when Sophie barged into her sister’s bedroom for a goodbye hug.

Sophie wilted a little bit when we got to school — yanked off the glasses, refused to take her thumb out of her mouth, even though we’d had a long talk about how fourth graders don’t suck their thumbs at school.

“I’m tired,” she said, leaning on me. I think she was nervous.

For once, I wasn’t. The bell rang and the kids disappeared into the school — Sophie dwarfed not only in size but so many other ways — and yet still, to me, the kid’s larger than life. Fourth grade will be a challenge, for sure. But I’m betting she’ll hold her own. She’s got a homeroom teacher named  Mrs. Wisehart and an aide named Mrs. Wright (great names, huh?) and in a departure from my usual expect-the-worst mantra, I’ve decided to look forward to a good year.

Fingers crossed.

My friend Cate’s daughter Abby is staring kindergarten this fall, and watching the preparation play out in Facebook posts over the last few weeks brought me back.

Like Sophie, Abby has Down syndrome. Like me, Cate had to fight to get Abby into the school that her older child (who, like Annabelle, does not have Down syndrome) attends.

It wasn’t until Cate and I were corresponding, comparing notes, that I realized how much of that year I’ve conveniently buried. I promised Cate that kindergarten was a wonderful experience for Sophie — and it was. I casually mentioned she might want to have some cocktails on hand throughout the year (for her, not her daughter) but I didn’t mention that it was one of the most nerve-wracking times of my life.

Some of it (a lot of it — after all, i started Girl in a Party Hat to document Sophie’s kindergarten year) I’ve written about. Some of it, not.

Unlike Abby (who lives in another state, which I’m guessing has a lot to do with it), Sophie had no aide. And while I adored (and still adore — she’s one of my closest friends) Sophie’s teacher, she was charged with the instruction of two dozen kids, not just one. I was terrified that Sophie would suck up all of her time. And what about when she wasn’t with the teacher? What about lunch, recess, PE? Early in the year, I learned that during lunch and lunch recess, there was one (really! one!) adult watching the entire kindergarten — just under 100 kids.

It was insane. I sat in an emergency “team” meeting and wrested the principal’s attention away from her Blackberry by announcing I was “looking into” whether this student/teacher ratio was appropriate. And I don’t just mean appropriate for Sophie. I mean any 5 year old.

Turns out there’s absolutely no ratio requirement in Arizona public schools — legal or otherwise — in such situations. Nice, huh? At other schools, the PTA raises money to hire lunchtime aides. When I brought it up to our PTA, I was ignored — instead someone suggested PTA funds be used for Italian lessons, or trips to the zoo.

Anytime I even thought about opening my mouth to ask about any sort of extra help for Sophie, I was told quite firmly, “If you want Sophie to be at this school, she’s going to have to act like the rest of the kids.”

And so I took matters into my own hands. Every single day of kindergarten (literally I think there was one day we went without — someone had a bad cold), a “volunteer” showed up at Sophie’s classroom. Two young women, students at nearby Arizona State University, worked in shifts, kindly offered their services — fixing snacks, handing out glue and scissors, grading papers — all while keeping an eye on Sophie.

These girls hung around during lunch and lunch recess. They went to PE and music class. And then, at the end of the day, one of them took Sophie home from school.

They were our babysitters. Yep, I sent Sophie to kindergarten with a babysitter. It wasn’t cheap, and I worried the entire year that someone would rat me out and the principal would call me in. Looking back, I can’t imagine she didn’t know. Clearly we had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy — and unlike in the military, in this case it worked.

It was a terrific year. The girls were hands-off; I’m not sure their charge ever realized they were there just for her. In any case, Sophie flourished. She wrote her name by the end of the first week of kindergarten, despite the occupational therapist who insisted she never would. She was invited to birthday parties and learned to read. She met the little girl who’s still, almost five years later, her best friend in the world.

That kindergarten classroom was the right place for Sophie. Could she have done it without Emily and Jeanine? Maybe. But I couldn’t have. (And still can’t — but today I have Sophie’s lawyer to thank for finally convincing the school to give Sophie the extra support she needs to stay safe.)

Funny, I’d forgotten all about the babysitters/aides/spies til Cate asked me how things worked for Sophie in kindergarten. I’m glad she reminded me.

And I’m glad I dug up a picture. Sophie grows so slowly, sometimes I feel like she hasn’t grown at all. But look how tiny she is in this picture! Could you drop this kid off in a kindergarten class all by herself? I didn’t think so.

Let that sink in.

It drives me nuts. I get the argument for standardized tests — I just don’t agree with it, not when I see the results. I don’t mean the test scores, I mean what it’s done to our schools. To my school, anyway. Teachers are paralyzed and pressure-cooked, it’s all about numbers. It’s incredibly depressing. This “teaching to the test” thing is ridiculous, and when you have a kid lagging behind, it’s ridiculous to the nth degree – since every day I think about things Sophie (or any other kid, really) should be learning instead.

“What’s this on her math worksheet?” the babysitter asks about some odd-looking geometry problem. “Oh, I know.” (She graduated with a degree in special ed she refuses to use, she’s that frustrated with the education system around here.) “It’s for AIMS.”

And then there’s the whole matter of Sophie pulling down the school’s average score, a number that matters more, it seems, than anything else in public education today.

Awkward. I’ve been trying not to dwell on it.

Today I had lunch with a lovely woman. We met because we both have kids with Down syndrome, so we have that in common, but let’s just say that when it comes to politics, I’m James Carville to her Mary Matalin.

She’s well-versed in education law, and ran (polite) circles around me over couscous salads on a pretty patio. When I mentioned that Sophie (who’s a few years older than her daughter) would be taking the AIMS test (“Arizona’s Instrument to Measure Standards,” our state’s version of the standardized tests, if that wasn’t already apparent)  next month, she saw the look on my face.

“I know how you feel,” she said. “But let me tell you my AIMS story.”

It goes something like this. This mom met another mom with a kid with Down syndrome. That kid’s older than either of ours, he’s 20 now.

“Make sure your kid takes the AIMS test,” she told my friend. “And make sure it’s the real one.” (Apparently there’s an alternative test they give to really cognitively challenged kids.)

Her reasoning? “Your kid needs to be able to sit still and fill in bubbles on a test sheet, to learn to complete the process. Even if she bombs.”

I couldn’t hide the look on my face. My friend continued.

“The tests will get harder and harder,” this mom told her. “Your kid will do worse and worse. But keep doing it. Your kid will learn to sit still, to fill in bubbles. It’s important.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “WHY?!” I demanded, teeth clenched. My friend shushed me.

“Because someday, your kid will need to sit still to take the SAT test, so she can go to college.”

She sat back with a big smile on her face. For a minute I smiled, too, imagining ivy-covered walls and university sweatshirts. Then my smile was gone.

I thought about saying, “But wait. If Sophie bombs the AIMS test every time, what will happen when she takes the SAT? I still don’t get the point.”

Instead, I changed the subject.

“Do you think we’re doing enough to make Sophie feel like it’s a special day?” Ray asked as he grabbed his stuff and headed out the door to work yesterday morning.

It was a good question. Ray wasn’t sticking around for The First Day of School. But he’d taken most of last week off to spend with the girls, so it wasn’t fair to nag him back into the house. And Annabelle had just refused to come along to drop her little sister off; she was sad (understatement) — she’s not going to this school any more, and her new school doesn’t start for two weeks. I figured she was more than entitled to a pout on the couch.

But that left just me, and usually there’s a lot more First Day hoopla than that.

We didn’t do much at all this year, come to think of it. My sister took the girls back to school shopping when she was here last week to help my mom with her hip and I had slipped back to work. After cleaning up over the weekend and realizing Sophie  already has a half dozen barely-touched backpacks, I skipped that trip to Target and told her to choose. (She chose her backpack from pre-school and I must say, it’s perfect.)

I didn’t bother with a new lunch box, either, after Sophie announced she would be buying her lunch at school this year.

Yesterday morning, as I scurried around to get ready in time to snap a couple photos in the front yard (can’t skip every tradition!) Sophie wandered in the kitchen and asked, “Where’s my lunch box?!”

I explained that I didn’t get her one (or anything to put in it) since she would be buying lunch.

“But I need it!” she said. “I need it so you can write me a note with stickers on it that says, “Good luck in third grade, Sophie! Love, Mommy and Daddy.”

Crap. How could I have forgotten that tradition, too? Just the other day, I was finally putting away the boxes labelled “Annabelle, Fourth Grade” and “Sophie, Second Grade” and found the cards I’d left in their lunches last year — carefully drawn with Sharpies, covered with sparkly star stickers.

“Oh, um, make sure you check your pencil box when you get to school!” I said, calling Annabelle in for a distraction as I tore the kitchen apart til I found an Olivia sticker and a purple marker.

Done.

Then Sophie realized Annabelle would not be coming along to school. She sobbed, Annabelle refused to budge, the clock ticked. I hadn’t showered.

“How about if Annabelle does your hair?” I asked, desperate.

First Day of School Miracle: The tears stopped, the big sister grabbed a hair brush, I jumped in the shower.

And that’s how Sophie came to wear a gigantic bow from the gift wrap cabinet in her hair to school yesterday. A bow I never would have allowed under ordinary circumstances, but which I had to admit looked pretty cute.

The drop off was blissfully uneventful (we’d spent extra time in Sophie’s new teacher’s room last week, getting acquainted, and I feel much better now that the classroom aide is in place) and I headed home to pick Annabelle up and take her to the mall.

On the way, I called my mom to tell her about Sophie and the card in the lunch box. So cute that she remembered that from a whole year ago! And then a voice came from the back seat, a warning that I better not be getting any stickers and Sharpies out for someone else’s first day of school.

“NO CARD,” Annabelle announced.

Fifth grade just might be a lot tougher than third.

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

Earlier this week, Sophie’s teacher sent home a note asking that students bring a “sturdy” bag to school to pack up their stuff from second grade.

Yesterday was Christmas in May. Along with the random spelling tests and half-finished worksheets were several treasures. Like a haiku (I had to count the syllables to be sure) called “Winter”:

Santa brings me toys
Snow angels with Annabelle
We drink hot cocoa

And a sensory tribute to spring:

Spring looks like sun.
Spring sounds like birds chirping.
Spring feels hot as summer.
Spring smells like flowers.
Spring tastes like yummy pizza.

Looking through the bag, I have to admit I had the same feeling I had when Annabelle was in pre-school and brought home elaborate construction paper animals that would be challenging for a 10-year-old. (Busy teacher!) I sort of doubt that Sophie wrote a haiku unassisted. 

But I love that she was exposed to the process. And that yummy pizza line? All Sophie.  

I don’t want the year to end. This morning Sophie was out of  sorts. Her teacher and I followed her to the bench where she was prepared to plant herself instead of going into the classroom, and as we trudged through the gravel, I whispered to the teacher, “Don’t you think Sophie needs to repeat second grade?”

The teacher turned and grinned, but only for a moment. Her attention was on Sophie.

I love this teacher. She and Sophie fell for each other many years ago at a science fair at the school. Sophie’s got good taste. This woman’s an old soul with a lot of experience on top of it. And she absolutely adores my kid. That is how I felt about kindergarten and first grade, too, but I don’t have that feeling about any of the third grade teachers. It makes me nervous.  

It wasn’t an easy year. But looking back, it was a good one. We haven’t had a bad one yet, actually. We scrape by no matter what, and Sophie has learned and grown — in her own way. And she will next year, too.

That’s what I need to keep telling myself. I think I’ll hang a beautiful watercolor that Sophie (or someone) made in second grade on my inspiration wall as a reminder.