It’s still well over 100 degrees — heck, it’s barely October — so it just doesn’t feel right to call the semester half in the can. But it is. Sophie is halfway done with her first half of kindergarten.

And Annabelle’s half done with the first half of second grade. Ray and I beamed through her conference — she’s a little above grade level for reading and right at grade level for math, and her teacher, Mrs. Z., adores her. The feeling’s mutual; Annabelle practically melts when she hears Mrs. Z’s name. I grilled Mrs. Z about mean girl stuff and whether AB’s a nag (no and no) and we talked about Annabelle’s morning ritual.

Before Sophie came to school with Annabelle, AB had us all to herself. Ray or I would drive both girls to the end of the block, put Sophie on the school bus (the pre-school insisted, and it was a cush ride — just Sophie and one or two other kids, and she had her own car seat) then drive AB to school, where we’d have a few minutes of one-on-one before the bell rang.

That’s over this year. This year we’re juggling both girls, and while Sophie’s much better than she was a few weeks ago, from the moment we step out of the car she has to be encouraged to stay on the straight and narrow. I have to leave Annabelle to put her own backpack on, while I make sure Sophie doesn’t run into traffic. We have to pause when Sophie refuses to relinquish the crossing guard’s hand. And we usually have to chase Sophie in one direction (out to the playground) or another (away from the older kids’ classrooms). Annabelle’s old enough to line up with her classmates when the first bell rings — and most mornings she does — but she’d rather I stay by her side and walk in with the line. I try, but most days I’m corraling Sophie into her own classroom.

And so we have developed a ritual. Annabelle stands outside her classroom, waiting for one last hug. “Once she has that hug, she’s fine,” Mrs. Z. assured us yesterday. She thinks it’s sweet. So do I, though I see it as a sign of my own neurotic tendencies, lurking.

But there was no denying it was a terrific conference. I made Ray give me a high five as we headed for Ms. X’s room across the breezeway. “I just worry about Annabelle once she hits fifth and sixth grade,” Ray said. “Yeah, that’s when I began screwing around, too,” I replied. (Although I think our definitions vary dramatically; my idea of screwing around was not doing my homework and reading unassigned books. Ray was way cooler — I’ll leave it at that.)

We were late for Ms. X. She had all the paperwork laid out, and first handed us the reports from the therapists — occupational and speech. I was immediately struck by how little those reports meant. Sophie gets 20 minutes at a time with these women, who are certainly well-meaning but also paid to simply catalogue their activities with special needs children. So much of the job is about making sure the reports are done, to satisfy the requirements of the IEP. What the kindergarten teacher has to say is the money shot, I realized. (I knew this already, sort of, but it was really made clear when she handed us those reports.)

I was eager to get a look at Sophie’s report card. I have to admit that I was a little startled to see a couple of “N”s for “needs improvement”. I’m thinking back, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an “N” on a report card. Not on one of mine (in third grade, I did get an S minus — S is for satifactory, the minus was NOT — for handwriting, which pissed me off so much I cleaned up my act immediately) and not on one of Annabelle’s.

But Ms. X is more than right, of course. Sophie DOES need improvement when it comes to completing tasks on her own. Most of her grades were P for progressing, with a couple S’s thrown in. And Ms. X swears she’s doing remarkably, that she is listening better at carpet time, following directions, even staying on the playground at recess. (The playground safety thing is still on my mind; I’m trying to figure that one out — a blog for another day.)

Ms. X pulled out a looseleaf binder, and flipped through Sophie’s section. She showed us that Sophie has, indeed, mastered every one of her sounds. “And she’s really not the last one to do it?” I asked (I asked AGAIN, I’m geting annoying, I know, but I had to hear it).

She looked through her notebook and reported that Sophie is actually the FIRST kid in her class to get every single sound. Sophie recognizes almost every letter (a couple exceptions: the lower case L — duh, it looks like an I! — and the “typewriter g”) and is on her way to counting to 100. She can sight read several words:

And check out her “first quarter portrait” — true, she does have just one nostril:

She got an “S” for writing her first name, and Ms. X assured us she’s stopped drawing on other kids’ papers. The PE teacher reports that the kids are “mother henning” her less and interacting with her more as friends.

Of course I sat there wondering what Ms. X isn’t telling us, though I hear from her nearly every day. (Again, my neurotic tendencies.) I know things are far from perfect. On Monday morning, Annabelle tripped on the playground before school. Of course she was standing right in front of me when it happened. (Don’t you love being there to witness your kids’ injuries?!) I grabbed her hand, then Sophie’s, and started marching to the nurse’s office.

It wound up being close to nothing, but Annabelle did get a bloody lip, which startled both Sophie and me. Halfway to the nurse, we passed two good mom friends; they agreed to walk Sophie to class. “I’ll be back to say goodbye!” I called to Sophie as I hustled Annabelle away.

In the nurse’s office, Annabelle was washed and Band Aided. The bell rang. A few moments later, I heard the quietest knock possible on the door. It took me a minute to even realize what it was. I opened the door, and there was Sophie. She marched in the door and walked directly to Annabelle, giving her a hug and examining her wounds. Before I’d had time to react, the door swung open and in walked Ms. X.

“Sophie, that is not all right! You are not to leave the classroom!” Ms. X said, in her perfect stern kindergarten teacher way. Sophie followed her out the door, sheepish. (My friends had deposited her in the classroom just fine; the escape happened later.)

In some ways, Sophie’s actions were totally appropriate. She was worried about her sister. But they were also completely unsafe. Ms. X assured us yesterday that Sophie’s not the only kid in the class with challenges — far from it she said, laughing. But of course I worry.

I will always worry.

Ray hadn’t seen the bulletin board with Dan the Flying Man. I haven’t read the book, but I’m guessing Dan is a character who flies. Ms. X asked each of the kids to draw themselves flying, and stapled them up in a line. Ms. X pointed out Sophie’s flying figure — a happy blue shape, not as complex as the others’, but way better than she would have done in July, that’s for sure.

And my favorite part is that she’s up there flying with her classmates, keeping up. She looks pretty good.

The news varies. Often it involves an indiscretion or safety breach. For example, on Monday, Sophie announced to some other kids (but not the teacher!) that she was going to the bathroom, and took off for the nurse’s office without a “buddy”.

Not good. Sophie has solemnly promised all of us she won’t do that again, and Ms. X. has noticed that she does seem to try things only once, but not again — like yesterday, when she unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. (The nurse was not pleased; I don’t blame her.)

I’m hopeful. We’ll see if she leaves the TP alone from now on.

One piece of news in the past few days made my heart soar, and I thought sharing it would be a good way to end the week.

Ms. X called on Tuesday afternoon. “So I was testing all the kids on their sounds, and I tested Sophie, and she knows all of them,” she told me. “She knew most of them at the beginning of school, but now she knows them all!”

Cool, I thought, having no idea what that really meant, or why Ms. X was so darn excited. The next day I asked her, “You know the sound testing thing? Was Sophie the last kid in the class to get that, or are there others who still haven’t?” (I’m weak; I compare.)

No, I was told. Only one or two other kids in the class have mastered all their sounds.

OH.

Well, how was I supposed to know that? I have no idea what to expect of Sophie. She surprises me every day, and I never know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. (Or what it says about me, which I fear is not good at all.)

I’m not a prayer kind of person, or a god kind of person, but I feel like maybe there should a Serenity Prayer for Parents:

SOMEONE, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change about my kid;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

I had no clue how to apply that. And by the end of the meeting with the principal, my cluelessness was evident. Also my bitchiness.

“Were you raised in New York?” the private psychologist asked me, as we walked outside. 

No, I replied. Why do people always ask me that? (That’s a rhetorical question.)

Maybe it was the full moon. Ms. X said she could feel it in her kids — she called it before she’d even looked at the calendar.

Or maybe I was just doomed. I’m never going to get what I want for Sophie. Clearly bringing the psychologist didn’t do it. Probably the only thing that would work is a lawyer.

The principal DID apologize for abandoning two meetings in a row. She DID acknowledge that I’m not the first parent to complain about playground safety, and teacher/student ratios. But she was quick to tell me her numbers (she says it’s 1 to 88; i’d heard 1 to 92) are perfectly legal.

“I know,” I said. “I researched it. They’re legal because there is no law.”

Whoops. I shouldn’t have said that. She frostily answered that she’s well within the district policy. (So now I need to research THAT.)

She told me that if we write into Sophie’s IEP that someone must walk my child from the cafeteria to the playground each day at lunch, that counts as a personal aide. “And then it wouldn’t be the least restrictive setting for Sophie,” she said, “and you’d need to research other programs in the district.”

(I’m beginning to hate the term “least restrictive setting” as much as I hate the term “retard”.)

I think this is the point in the conversation where I actually used the word bullshit. I saw her literally start to quiver, then stop. I did feel badly, but kept going.

“Look, I KNOW what a personal aide is. You mean to tell me that someone to spend 5 minutes ensuring my kid’s safety is the same as a full time aide in the classroom?”

She claimed that’s how the district sees it. Her suggestion (mandate): Find some sort of solution that doesn’t have to be written into a binding legal document.

Hmmm. Why does that make me nervous?

Everything about this principal makes me nervous. I think about that old neumonic (is that how you spell neumonic? I doubt it) device — “the principal is your pal”. I wish. I’d like to think so. As always, she said all the right things, that she loves Sophie, that she thinks Sophie is in the right place. I feel myself pulled toward her, wanting to like her. But she’s like a boss, and you always have to be careful about getting chummy with the boss.

“Yeah,” I thought, “as long as I don’t ask you for anything.” (At least that one didn’t come out of my mouth.)

And really, the upshot of yesterday’s meeting was that sthe principal took the opportunity to belittle the poor speech therapist who had had the guts to complain to her about the 1 to 92 playground thing. (The speech therapist does duty once a week, so she knows firsthand what it’s like.) Oh, and she was obviously mad at another team member who’d shared information about another kid’s IEP. The principal made it clear she was holding that woman back after the meeting, to let her have it.

I didn’t let anyone have it. Not really. Because I wasn’t sure what to say. If I was writing a story about someone else in this situation, I’d know just what they should say and do, and I know where to go to find the information to make the case. But as such, I’m lost.

Sophie’s IEP team met yesterday. Crammed around a small table in a portable classroom were:

Me. The kindergarten teacher, physical therapist, speech therapist, adaptive PE teacher, school psychologist and classroom volunteer. The psychologist who evaluated Sophie this summer made a special trip over. And the principal was there.

We began by reviewing Sophie’s progress in therapy. I brought reports from her outside physical therapist and occupational therapist, and we went over her daily schedule and achievements in class. Everything’s going well, I was assured.

Not long after the meeting began, the principal stepped outside. I know she’s busy; her job is obviously a demanding one and she had been checking her phone while we’d been sitting there (to be honest, I itched to check my own, I left work far earlier than I should have, but I put the thing on silent and left it in my purse).

The principal never said she needed to leave early. I wish she had, because I wouldn’t have saved my most significant concerns for the end. But I was nervous. My main goal with this principal, with this school, has been to avoid rocking the boat. I was worried about sharing my concern, which is about Sophie’s safety.

I first shared this concern at the original IEP meeting we had in the spring, at Sophie’s pre-school. The principal was at that meeting, too, but again, slipped out early without saying anything. And so when we got to the part of the meeting where I announced that I believed Sophie needed a parttime aide for transitions (playground, lunch, that sort of thing — any time she could stray from the group), if only for the first two weeks of school — a safety net, so she could get settled in, considering the front gate on the school is left open all day — the pre-school principal said, “Oh, no, I can’t make that decision. That’s the other principal’s decision, and she isn’t here.”

Oh. Actually, as I gently pointed out, I believe the law states that it’s the IEP team’s decision, not the principal’s. But again, I didn’t want to make trouble, so I signed the IEP anyhow – but only after everyone agreed that the “team” would meet again one month into the school year, to review Sophie’s progress and challenges and make any changes needed to the IEP, a binding legal document.

Yesterday was that meeting. Turns out, my concerns are sadly founded. Sophie has already escaped from recess once, and that was morning recess, where there are several adults present.

Lunch time is the real concern. At lunch time at Sophie’s school, there are 92 kindergarteners on the playground, with one adult to watch them. There is no one to help Sophie make the transition from the lunch room to the playground, and just one person to watch her and 91 other kids.

We scheduled yet another meeting with the principal for next week, to review these concerns. This morning she said she left the IEP meeting early, because she had heard it was just a review session (although I’d made clear it wasn’t, weeks ago) and anyhow, she had another meeting to attend that day.

I hope I’ve calmed down by our next meeting, because ever since I heard why she left Sophie’s IEP, I’ve been, well, let’s just call it unhappy.

The principal left Sophie’s IEP so she could run a meeting about a golf tournament.

That pushed me right off the tight rope. Which might be the best thing that could have happened.

Sophie’s IEP team is meeting, to review her first month of kindergarten.

When we were putting the finishing touches on Sophie’s IEP (Individualized Education Program, the document that prescribes her school situation, from what therapies she gets to where she pees) I insisted we reassemble the team (everyone from principal to teacher to therapists to parents) a month into kindergarten, to see how Sophie was doing.

I could feel some internal eye rolling; IEP’s are a huge pain in the butt, if only for how hard it is to get all those people in the room at the same time. But at the time I signed the IEP, I had real doubts — mainly about Sophie’s safety at a “big kids” school. Why not get together to see how things are going, and make changes if necessary?

OK. It was agreed. When the speech therapist — a lovely woman who’s new to the school, if not the profession — suggested we meet September 11, I bristled. School started August 4th. That’s NOT a month. It’s five weeks. But I kept my mouth shut. I have learned to do that, in such situations. The ballbuster me (gee, wonder where Sophie gets THAT?) has learned to make way for the sweet-as-pie-mother-of-a-special-needs-kid me. Well, sometimes the ballbuster gets in the way. We’ll see tomorrow. But for now, I’ve been fairly sweet, if I do say so myself.

I didn’t say anything about the date, but when the speech therapist then emailed to confirm this would just be a “get to know each other” session, I freaked a little. Um, no, I replied. This is an IEP meeting. There might be changes necessary.

I hear the speech therapist is freaked, too. Apparently she IS rather new, and she’s used to dealing with kids with speech delays, rather than global disabilities. And here it gets a little confusing: Sophie has the “mild retardation” label but her IQ is so high (and yes, I know, IQ tests are bullshit, but hey, better high than low, I always say, to paraphrase Shrek) she doesn’t qualify for services from the special education teacher, who would typically lead the team.

In any case, I am approaching this meeting with trepidation. I already know that I won’t get what I want, which is a parttime aide to keep Sophie safe on the playground and at lunch. And I know (after a conversation with the school psychologist yesterday) that I better brace myself for the advice (yet again) that really, Sophie might be better off in a “pull out” program, the one where the other “special” kids go.

But because of her aforementioned IQ, she doesn’t qualify for that “special” program. She belongs where she is. But she needs to be safe. Between this and Sarah Palin, I really do wonder — AM I ON AN EPISODE OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE???

Part of my coping mechanism — when faced with tough kid challenges and fear of the future of America — is to organize. Well, to try. I’ve already shown you pictures of my playroom, so I can’t pretend. I’ve had the stamp pad out a lot. I figure anything that can go in a Rubbermaid from Target is, somehow, containable and doable. I made a new bin for Sophie’s paperwork — and that’s just the stuff from the last couple months that needs to be filed.

So we’ll have this meeting tomorrow (which will generate even more paper for the SOPHIE PAPER bin) and we’ll talk about a lot of things and I’ll bring  up the aide and I’ll get shot down and that will pretty much be that, unless I decide to go all ball buster on them and I really don’t want to do that. I wish I believed in God so I could pray for Sophie’s safety, because at this point that’s my best bet.

And here’s the kicker: My ace in the hole did not pan out. A few weeks ago, I talked to a rather zealous but well-meaning former state legislator, who was horrified Sophie doesn’t get an aide. She insisted that Sophie’s got state dollars attached directly to her, because of her diagnosis, and that I simply need to play that card in the IEP meeting, to tell the group that I know how much extra money they’re getting for Sophie, and that they better spend it on her.

So I made the calls and the preliminary figures are in. I’m double checking, since this sounds so ridiculous even for the painfully backward state of Arizona, but if I’m right, here’s the extra amount of money dedicated to a kid like Sophie (a kid who qualifies as “mildly retarded,” boy I hate that term, I think I hate the word mild even more than the word retarded!), each year of public school:

Nine dollars.

That won’t even buy my Starbucks for a week.

It was all idle chatter, til the phone rang a couple hours later. I love Ms. X. She promised she’d let me know any time anything happened, and she has, so far. The phone rings almost every afternoon. This time she sounded serious. Turns out, Sophie actually left the classroom, and headed, in her high-spirited way, right down the hall toward the main door (which isn’t so far from the street). Ms. X caught her and gave her a time out and was very, very stern with her.

Sophie knew. She immediately walked to the bulletin board, where the “green behavior slips” are posted (make it through the day without losing the slip, and a note goes home saying you were “super”) and silently handed it to Ms. X.

“She’s not dumb,” I said.

“Oh no,” Ms. X replied. “She’s not dumb.”

She’s not. Just this morning, Ray and Annabelle and I marveled at a dozen things Sophie did and said.

But her behavior is simply unacceptable. And exactly what I was worried about.

What am I supposed to do? Put Sophie in a contained, dumbed-down classroom she can’t escape from? (I’m not sure such a place even exists; she doesn’t qualify for it cognitively, in any case.) Or hold my breath for the unforseeable future?

Or get a micro-chip?

And I’m the first to admit my reaction here is likely super-premature and overly sensitive in an It’s All About Me way, but something happened outside Sophie’s classroom this morning that raised my hackles. (What the heck ARE hackles, anyhow?)

Sophie was being her before-school-ball-buster self — preferring to stand in front of the classroom rather than move to the playground (truth be told, she really wanted to be indoors with the teachers, but that wasn’t going to happen), demanding her water bottle from her backpack. Hey, it’s a new one and it’s got Abby Cadabby on it so I can hardly blame her. But to other eyes, it probably looked like my kid’s just a huge pain in the butt.

I felt a set of eyes headed my way, from on high, and looked up to see a football-jersey’ed dad watching me, carefully.

“Are you her mother?” he asked, pointing to Sophie, who was wriggling in my arms, trying to get her water bottle open.

“Yes.”

“How old is she?”

I dispensed with my usual cutesy, “Sophie, how old are you?” and simply answered, “Five.”

“Oh. That’s my son,” the guy said, pointing. “He’s 4.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “Um, I’m Amy.”

The guy introduced himself and was pleasant enough, I suppose, though he made sure to tell me his kid’s kindergarten experience wasn’t going so well. I made some meaningless comment about kindergaren being hard on all kids and the guy said something like, yeah, well, in this life things don’t always go the way you want them to.

No duh, dude.

He kept staring at Sophie. He didn’t say hi or try to engage her. Then he turned away and started discussing tennis shoes with another dad.  

What I didn’t tell the guy is that kindergarten is particularly hard on kids who aren’t yet 5. I know that from watching the action in Annabelle’s classroom, when she was in kindergarten. I have to admit, I was 4 myself when I started kindergarten, so I’m being hypocritical, making any sort of comment, but hey, when has that ever stopped me? I do know that while it’s allowed, the sticking-your-kid-particularly-your-boy-kid-in-kindergarten-before-5-thing is technically allowed (I think the kid has to turn 5 by December) but somewhat frowned upon, at this school. I’m guessing the guy’s kid has had issues and he’s complained and he’s been told, well, he’s not quite old enough, is he?

I’m no mind-reader, so I’m worried. I’m hoping that guy was just wondering about Sophie’s age because she’s so teeny, rather than wondering why this kid with Down syndrome is in a regular kindergarten classroom, sucking attention away from his kid.

I’ll have to watch The Man with the 4-Year-Old Son…..

I don’t think a penny chart will work in that case, but I am hopeful it will help Sophie. We are in the process of listing possible motivators: a trip to the bookstore/pet store/Chuck E. Cheese, New Piglet at rest time, Sesame Street computer games, and as an extra special reward, chocolate ice cream with Ms. X.

“And she wrote her name today,” she added.

“She what???”

At all the meetings we had last winter and spring, to determine Sophie’s next step, the one face at the table that was always the dourest belonged to the occupational therapist, who’s in charge of fine motor skills. She made no bones: The OT said point blank that she did not think Sophie could handle kindergarten.

“She may never be able to write her name,” she said at one of the early meetings.

That line has haunted me since. Look, I know we’re just entering the computer age. By the time she’s an adult, Sophie and everyone else will have some sort of computer strapped to them that will probably let them communicate with their eyes, never mind type with fingers. Handwriting will be obsolete.

But to hear that my child may never be able to write her own name?

“Are you sure?” I asked Ms. X. “Really? She did it herself?”

She promised to show me next week, adding that it’s not perfect, but that Sophie absolutely did it herself and you can certainly tell what she wrote: S O P H I E. 

“I have goosebumps!” she said.

Me, too. And in that moment, I understood just why Ms. X teaches kindergarten, and why she’s willing to put up with all of Sophie’s ball buster BS.

Sophie wrote her name today. I can’t think of a better way to end the first week of kindergarten.

The first week of kindergarten is full of growing pains for all the kids, and for Sophie I think it’s been especially hard because of the heat (you try going back to school — and onto the playground — when it’s 111 degrees out, and humid) and the long day. She had long days, the last two years, but as Ms. X pointed out this afternoon, in what’s turning into our daily chat, she only went to a formal pre-school for two hours a day.

The expectations in kindergarten are high. The bedlam on Day One had turned into a pretty darn controlled environment by Day Four. (I told you Ms. X was amazing.) Even Sophie stood patiently the last two mornings, holding her backpack and lunch box, waiting to enter the classroom.

I tried spying, for a while, but that didn’t work, so I fill in the blanks from the accounts of Ms. X, and other adults who are occasionally in the classroom. (From what I can tell, Ms. X is sticking to her solemn promise to not sugarcoat Sophie’s kindergarten experience.)

The week, so far:

Monday was basically nuts for everyone.

Tuesday, Sophie had a dentist appointment, so she wasn’t there much.

Wednesday, she immediately announced she was tired, and refused to sit for carpet time. That afternoon, she zonked out when some of the other kids were resting, and actually slept through music.

But today, our little ball buster appeared.

“Wow, I’ve never seen that,” Ms. X said, sounding downright awestruck, when she called. Sophie was much better this morning (probably thanks in part to an earlier bedtime last night and my parting promise that we’d take Ms. X out for chocolate ice cream if Sophie did well today and tomorrow) but as soon as they got back from the library this afternoon, Sophie was BAD. BAD BAD BAD. Wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t put toys away. No matter what Ms. X asked or tried, she simply refused to listen.

“I told you so!” I said. “See? This is what I’ve been so worried about.”

Bless her, Ms. X sounded completely unruffled (a jaunty attitude I’m sure she’s practiced over the years). We came up with several strategies: a reward chart; time out; and, if nothing else works, time away from the group in a bean bag chair, with some books. I told Ms. X I’m most concerned that Sophie not disrupt the class or keep her from teaching.

We decided it was all workable. I hung up feeling calm; five minutes later, I was freaked. So it goes.

This morning, I told Ray I was worried about Sophie. “Me, too,” he said. “I keep thinking about what that principal at the other school said about her making more friends there.”

There is ANOTHER school, an elementary school in our district with a program for special needs kids. There’s one kid with Down syndrome there, in fourth or fifth grade. If she went there, it’s true, Sophie would get a little more support for part of the day, in a pull-out program.

When I visited, I wasn’t all that impressed. The extra services didn’t seem to outweigh the benefits of having Ms. X (assuming we could nab her as Sophie’s teacher) and having Sophie in a familiar environment.

Plus, the principal said something that day that really pissed me off. She told me there was something special about her kid at her school (even the non-special ones). “I don’t know what it is,” she told me. “There’s just something about this place. At ANOTHER school, the kids might be nice to Sophie, but they wouldn’t be her friends.”

I’d been warned, just before the meeting, by a good friend in the know, that our school — where Annabelle had gone for almost two years — has a bad reputation for being snotty and exclusive. I’d never seen it. I loved the school (still do) and was hurt that this principal would jump to such a nasty conclusion.

Plus — get this — Sophie’s IQ is too high for her to go to the “special” school. She’s not technically “mentally retarded,” so she does not even get services from the special ed teacher at her current school, let alone an entire special program.

In any case, that other principal’s just plain wrong. Sophie may have had her struggles, so far this week, but a lack of friends and people who care about her isn’t one of them.

From the first day, Sophie’s gotten (not just given!) hugs. Friends have wanted their picture taken with her.

The second day of school, when I looked away for a moment, she and Annabelle grabbed the hands of two other little girls — another kindergartener and second grader — and headed out to the playground. When it came time to gather her up for school to start, another two friends urged her in.

The third day, when we parked and got the backpacks out, Annabelle screamed, “I LOVE THIS SCHOOL!” Sophie screamed, “I LOVE ANNABELLE!”

Annabelle explained to me, “That means she loves the school because she loves me.” Makes sense.

And today, I heard that Sophie ate lunch with a group of fourth grade boys.

She’s a freaking rock star. This week, anyway.

“Oh no,” I told Ray. “The friends are why we have to make this work, at this school.”

If only I can figure out how to keep my little ball buster at bay.

Not unlike most school days, from our household’s perspective. Despite my best efforts to be in the car by 8:15, it was more like 8:35, and the first bell rings at 8:45. (Well, it’s not like I could skip writing the girls notes for their lunch boxes, or not take pictures, and I had this awful blue nail polish on that I just had to get off before I could leave the house. Plus, Annabelle needed to put on the outfit she made famous on YouTube — minus the skirt, which wound up being several sizes too big. And Sophie had to be dressed just so, in Elmo panties and her First Day of School Outfit — a polkadotted affair from Baby Gap. Size 2T, and at that, it was hanging on her. They both looked beautiful.)

As we pulled up to the first crosswalk, several drops of rain appeared on the windshield. It had been unusually overcast. I don’t know why that was the trigger, but I took one look at that rain and started to cry.

There was little time for sentimentality. We zoomed in just before the bell rang, and a small disaster struck, but not the kid I expected. From the corner of my eye, i saw Mrs. Z on the playground, so I sent Annabelle to her, grabbed Sophie’s hand and went in search of Ms. X. After depositing Sophie in the classroom, I had a bad feeling, so I went looking for Annabelle. I crashed into her classroom, despite the fact that announcements were underway, to give her a hug. She was sniffling a little.

I wanted to say, “Oh, shit, sweetie, I’m terrified that this is the rest of your life — me chasing Sophie, you getting left in the dust.”

Instead, I kissed her and got out of there, amidst profuse apologies to Mrs. Z. Went back to Sophie’s room one more time, kissed her, and got out of there.

It was your typical first day of kindergarten bedlam. Every parent was freaked. Ms. X was zen. Been there, done that. I was happy to hear there were extra adults in the classroom, since Sophie was not the only one who needed, as it was later kindly explained to me, “a little redirection”.

Knowing Sophie wouldn’t behave with me in the vicinity, I retreated to the courtyard — and The Momfia.

I promise an entry devoted solely to this group (if you’ve got a school age kid, you’ve got your own) later. Today, we moms talked about summer vacations and the weather and which kid got which teacher. We inched closer and closer to the edge of campus, intent on leaving but unable to do it, finally hiding behind a wall to peer out and see the younger grades head into the cafeteria for assembly.

I felt like Harriet the Spy (more on her later, too). I caught glimpses of both girls — Sophie was holding a grown up’s hand, Annabelle was smiling – and finally, I was able to pull myself away. It felt like a big magnet was holding me there.

I won’t typically pick the girls up from school — that pesky fulltime job gets in the way, and today was the worst of days, I have a cover story coming out this week — but today was not negotiable. Late again (I swear I left on time, it was that damn construction that’s everywhere in metropolitan Phoenix these days) I skidded to a stop in front of Ms. X’s classroom.

Sophie was inside, with one of our favorite kids, a fourth grade girl. (The village thing worked perfectly — for day one, at least. So many kids already knew Sophie at school, she was a little rock star, finally arrived. Sat in the lap of a favorite second grader during assembly, I later heard.)

She looked up and smiled hugely and made me carry her back pack and lunch box. And then her, for most of the way to the car.

Later, Ms. X called, just to fill me in on the day. I love her. She must have been beyond exhausted, but she called. And get this: She was at WalMart, buying step stools. “Some of the kids can’t reach the sink in my classroom,” she said. Later I realized it’s probably Sophie who can’t reach; I bet the rest do just fine.

Ms. X told me about a little girl in the class who took an instant liking to Sophie, instigating play with her and looking out for her. Ms. X had a hunch, and she checked and was right — it was a child whose parents had written on their teacher-information form that she has an older brother with Down syndrome. This little girl took to Sophie instinctively.

My heart sang.

Ms. X also talked about taking Sophie to the bathroom. (Usually she’ll go to the nurse, but Ms. X wanted to see what would happen, I think.)

Sophie was okay til the end, when she insisted on wetting paper towels and rubbing her face.

“Time to go, Sophie,” Ms. X recalled telling her.

“No!”

“Yes, Sophie, it’s time to put that away and go back to the classroom.”

“No!”

Finally, Ms. X channeled her Inner Kindergarten Teacher — the one I’ve seen on a few occasions, the one that scares me a just a little in a good way — and said, “SOPHIE! TIME TO GO!”

Sophie looked up, put the paper towel down, and complied.

“There’s a new sheriff in town,” I told Ms. X, and we both had a good laugh.