I really liked the idea of having a kid with Down syndrome who wasn’t retarded, even though all the medical literature tells you the two go hand-in-hand, and the only reason the whole thing was in question was because if she did test too well the state would take away her services.

Ray rolled his eyes when I told him.

“You know how I know Sophie’s mentally retarded?” my plain-spoken husband asked. “Because when I play the Memory Game with her, she’s as excited about the last match as she is the first.”

I had to agree. It was true. I figured that would change with time, that as she got older, Sophie would figure out what’s worth getting excited about.

So far, she hasn’t. Or maybe she has — and I’m the one who’s got it wrong.

I thought of the Memory Game this morning as Sophie competed in the 50 meter dash in the Special Olympics state track meet.

“Oh fuck,” I thought as the runners took their marks. As is typically the case with Sophie — both on the track and in life — the other kids towered over her. And they all looked pretty fit. She took off fast, arms pumping, tongue out, hair flying, trying her very best.

It was a close finish, and from my (admittedly inexperienced) perspective, it looked like she placed.

“She came in last,” Ray said matter-of-factly when I found him. (He’d been right at the finish line to get the best video.)

“But did you see her run?” he asked. “Her stride was awesome!”

It was. I was really proud. But still, I pouted a little as we walked around the dusty track to meet up with Sophie at the awards tent, where groups of volunteers in sweater vests and turquoise jewelry played the Olympic theme song again and again (and again and again and again) as they handed out medals and ribbons in heat after heat.

Every athlete takes the stage, everyone gets a medal or a ribbon and the gold medal winner gets flowers. They do it right; it’s designed to make everyone feel good. Even so, some of the athletes looked happier than others. My favorite was an older woman with jet black hair and bright turquoise eye shadow that matched her team tee shirt; she rolled her eyes and smirked when they gave her her ribbon, clearly a little embarrassed to be celebrated for a mediocre effort.

I felt a kinship with that woman. But not with Sophie, who absolutely beamed as she took her spot — Ray was right, fifth out of five — and grinned as Ray and I cheered loudly when her name was called.

Afterward, Sophie called her babysitter. “I got fifth out of five!” she told her, super excited, then told me that I should hang her ribbon up in my office because it’s really special.

So I did.  On my bulletin board, next to the button that reads, “If at first you don’t succeed, you’ll be a loser and a burden on society for the rest of your life.”

Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Or, apparently, 10 years. But I’m getting there.

Sophie had her first official Special Olympics experience Saturday — a regional track meet.

It was pretty freaking awesome. Not a lot of pomp and circumstance, no opening ceremonies as promised in the email, and the whole thing felt a little disorganized (although the volunteers were all terrific). But there was a medal ceremony for every heat, and a lot of heartwarming moments.

“So, were there a lot of people?” my mom asked gingerly when I called to report that Sophie had won three third place medals. I knew what she was really asking: “Were there more than three entries in any of Sophie’s races?”

Totally fair question. The answer: There were only three participants each in the 100 m run and the turbojavelin throw — including Sophie.

But there were five in the 50 m run. Five! I’ve never beat anyone at running, ever; watching Sophie kick ass (well, kick two of the four other asses) in that race was one of the most exciting moments of my life. Whoever said, “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game” clearly hadn’t seen a race the likes of this one.

Beating someone else didn’t matter to Sophie. She was just as happy being third of three as she would have been with first place. I wonder if that will change as she gets older and participates in more Special Olympic competitions. Part of me hopes it does, but another part wishes it doesn’t.

I loved the 50 m run, but my very favorite moment came when Sophie threw the turbojavelin. There were three kids in her heat — Sophie and two boys, she was the smallest by far, although she was the only one with her own purple javelin. Both of her official throws fell several feet short of her competitors’ — but Sophie didn’t care. She took center stage for each of her turns, heard the (small but meaningful) crowd cheer, and threw her hardest.

When she was done, she threw her arms around me and announced, “I did good!”

She did.

How nice would it be to feel great about yourself simply because you know you tried your best?

Track and field practice has been really great for Sophie — tonight she even set a personal record in the javelin, throwing it 10 and a half feet (I think — it was 10 and a half something). But it never occurred to me that Special Olympics would lead Sophie to ask such hard questions.

Last time it was, “Why do I have Down syndrome?”

Tonight’s was more of a demand than a query: “Mommy, sign Annabelle up for track and field with me!”

Trying to keep my eyes on the traffic, I snuck a glance at Courtney (the Wonder Nanny, she’s been with us since Sophie was in kindergarten, and had come along to watch practice) and muttered, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Me neither,” she muttered back.

Shit.

Gee, Sophie, that’s impossible, because Special Olympics is only for people who can’t compete against the rest of us. And that’s the category you fall into. Your sister, on the other hand — well, the sky’s the limit for her.

That wasn’t going to work. I thought hard and tried to keep my tone light.

“Oh, well, you know how you and Annabelle do different things sometimes? This is your thing. Okay?”

“No. Sign her up for track and field.”

“Well, I can’t. Is that okay?”

“No.”

I looked at Courtney again and mouthed, “Should I tell her the truth?”

“Sure,” she mouthed back.

But what is the truth? If the truth was that only people with Down syndrome can compete  in Special Olympics then  yeah, I guess i could have told Sophie that. But how do I explain “developmental disabilities,” “cognitive impairment” and “brain damage”?

Heck, I don’t even know what sort of diagnosis half these people (the half that don’t have Down syndrome) have. I can’t always tell the coaches from the participants.

“Um, Sophie, have you noticed that everyone in Special Olympics has something in common?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They are like at Detour.”

Detour is a local theater company for adults with developmental disabilities. Later this year, Sophie’s going to get a chance to be in one of their productions (up to now she’s just watched) and Annabelle’s been asked to be in it, too, as a sort of coach. Both girls are super excited.

“That’s it!” Courtney stage-whispered to me, then quickly asked Sophie,  “How about if Annabelle’s your coach at Special Olympics?”

“Sure!” Sophie answered, really excited.

Crisis averted. This week.

But she’s onto me, I can tell. Onto the world.

I noticed him right away. Others brought water bottles to Special Olympics practice, and Sophie had her special purple javelin with her, but this boy — probably in his mid to late teens — he had a suitcase. A standard-issue, black rolling suitcase, the kind businessmen hoist all day long into overhead bins on airplanes. This one was pretty beat up, dusty. The boy was a little dusty, too. He had dark, messy hair, a slender build, and he wore all black.

Except for the suitcase, I might have thought at first that he was a family member, rather than an athlete. My guess, when I realized what was going on, was autism. It’s a little game I’ve been playing in my head during this, Sophie’s first Special Olympics experience. Not particularly polite, but you tell me that you stand in a crowd of people with developmental disabilities and don’t wonder about diagnoses. Liar.

There’s one girl I’ve wondered about a lot. She has no tics, no tilt of the head, she doesn’t wave her arms even a little, she doesn’t make any sounds. That’s it, I realized during the second practice. She doesn’t make any sounds. She’s really lovely, this girl, with dark curly hair framing her face. I’m going to keep wondering about her.

And I’m going to wonder what’s inside that suitcase. It makes sense, after all. I carry a big purse. Hell, I still sleep with my baby blanket. I get the attachment thing. But when this boy’s group gathered to practice the 100 m dash, I wondered what would happen.

You know everyone else did, too, but people were so cool — no one, no athletes, no family members, no coaches, so much as smirked as he took his place at the starting mark, rolling suitcase handle in hand.

He did pretty well, too.