Like when she gets ahold of my phone and calls you (repeatedly) at 6 a.m., or gets ahold of your phone and fills it with self-portraits (like the one above), or when she comes to your house and nags you til you give her all your paint brushes and then doesn’t believe you the next time, when you insist that you don’t have any more paint brushes because she took them all. (Really, this happens all the time.)

I worry a lot that Sophie is overstaying her welcome at school — not so much that she’s bothering her classmates (she seems pretty cool on that front, at least that’s what I tell myself) but that she’s taking up a lot more than her share of adult time. Last week she lost her glasses at school and I winced at the thought of having to email the teacher to ask her to please look around the classroom again (and again).  I worry all the time that Sophie’s sucking her thumb then trying to hold someone’s hand. (Gross.) That’s a big fear.

And so you’ll understand why the note I got this afternoon from a friend, a dad whose kids go to the same school as Sophie, made me smile — and well up a little.  

Your amazing little daughter made my day this morning. She spotted me walking down the hall at school and shouted my name and asked me to walk her to class. Holding my hand tightly the whole way, she stopped to show me her tree painting and then wished me a nice day. I loved every second of it! Please tell her hi and thank you for me.

That made my day, I told my friend, adding that I hoped Sophie hadn’t held his hand with her thumb-sucking hand.

All dry, he assured me. All dry.

Twenty, 30, 40 times? I lost count. We must have been at the Cake Walk a full hour by then, almost half the time allotted for the school’s fall festival. Other people had started to notice Sophie’s terrible luck.

I blame myself. For a person who doesn’t consider herself religious I’m hyper-superstitious and as I watched Sophie scoot around the circle to “I’ve Got a Feeling” by the Black-Eyed Peas, then rush to take her place on a number, lips pressed together to contain the excitement of what she just knew was an imminent win — only to hear someone else’s number called again — I couldn’t help but think that no amount of prayer was going to help in this case.

Nothing was going to help.

Sophie was doomed. And it was all my fault.

Three days earlier (with the blessings of the festival chairperson, but still) I’d backed out of my obligation to plan the little kids’ haunted house at the fall festival. It’s a long, boring story (trust me, you don’t want to know) that involves $50 worth of glow-in-the-dark crap purchased from the Oriental Trading Company and a large pile of cardboard from Ikea (anyone want any?) and ended with me arriving at the festival guilt-ridden and obligation-free.

And having completely forgotten I’d promised to bake a cake for the cake walk. The least I could have done.

What’s the karmic revenge for that kind of indiscretion? I can tell you. Your kid will never, ever win a cake at the fall festival cake walk.

It’s not like we needed a cake at home or even as though Sophie would have eaten it (she’s an ice cream girl) but with ever fiber of her being, she wanted to WIN.

After a couple dozen determined turns, I think even Sophie realized it wasn’t meant to be. We stood next to the circle and her lip quivered. I offered a hot dog, the bouncy house, face painting. A donut eating contest.

“I want to go home,” she said, eyes welling up.

In the end, we didn’t go home. But we did give up on the cake walk. Sophie wound up having a good time. In fact, it was the best fall festival I’ve ever been to at the school.

As we were leaving, we passed the PTA president, a friend of mine. “Great festival!” I said.

“Ah shucks,” he demured. “I didn’t have a thing to do with it!”

No, I thought to myself, that was me.

On my “to do” list: write the PTA a check. How much do you think a karma scrub will cost?

Funny how things happen. I wrote that last post before I took a good look at the fridge.

Sophie’s third grade teacher does something that I absolultely love. She has a pouch on the wall and slips of paper on a shelf beneath. Students are asked to fill one out in honor of a classmate who has displayed exemplary behavior.

You would think someone gave Sophie an Academy Award, she was that excited when she told me about how the teacher emptied the pouch and pulled out a slip (she called it a “certificate”) with her name on it.

And for being responsible, of all things! How about that?

I’m not sure what “resposid” means, but I’ll take it.

1. Annabelle got her ears pierced.

I wasn’t so sure it would ever happen. We promised her she could do it when she turned 10 (only because that’s the age my mother chose for me, and it seemed as good as any) but she didn’t seem too interested — for 10 years and, oh, about a month. Then she was hot on the idea, but afraid. We made more than one trip to Claire’s to scout the landscape this past week, walking out unpierced and petrified. I assured Annabelle it was just fine with me if she never got it done, but she was determined. Still, I wasn’t sure it would ever happen.

I think the difference this time was Sophie. I know it was. Sophie came along yesterday. We marched in to Claire’s and I announced with conviction, “We’re here to get some ears pierced!” (That helped, too.)

Sophie was such a good sport. She didn’t ask to get hers done (though she did try to talk me down to 9). My favorite part: When Annabelle announced that she wanted Sophie to hold both her hands, Sophie stepped forward and announced, “It’s my lucky day!”

And in the end, when Annabelle changed her mind and asked for me to hold one hand and Sophie the other, Sophie graciously let go.

As soon as the deed was done, Annabelle announced, “I will NEVER do anything like THAT again!” — likely to the chagrin of the rhinestone-pocked girls manning the piercing guns. I was very pleased.

We left Claire’s and headed for lunch. On the way, we passed a particularly provocative underwear display in the window at the Gap. (At the Gap — when did that happen?!) Annabelle slowed to take a look, appearing particularly interested in a lacey cream-colored bra.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Here we go. I get her ears pierced, she’s instantly a slut.”

Turns out, she was just stopping to admire her sparkly ears in the window’s reflection. Phew.

And when we got to Justice, the blinged-out tween shopping mecca, she insisted on spending her gift card on a hot pink stuffed monkey instead of leopard print tank tops.

2. Sophie got her reading teacher assignment.

The second piece of breaking news is not good news, not at all.

By all accounts, third grade got off to a good start last week. But last week was Pretend School, learning classroom rules and remembering where the bathrooms are. This week they get down to business, and one of the first orders of the week was reading teacher assignments.

Here’s the thing. Reading is Sophie’s subject. Math is a challenge, for sure, but she reads really well, just about at grade level, and more important she loves to read. I attribute her remarkable progress to every teacher she’s had along the way — people who believe in her, who believe that Sophie is truly smart and capable of achieving, who push her just hard enough and never condescend to her.

I’ve had my doubts over the last three years about Sophie’s safety at this school, doubts that she was too disruptive, doubts that she wasn’t completely accepted socially — but I’ve never doubted that her teachers believed in her.

Now comes the news that Sophie’s reading teacher this year is none other than the sister of the school psychologist, the woman who announced this spring in front of everyone from the principal down at Sophie’s IEP meeting that Sophie, at 8, has the cognitive abilities of a 3-year-old.

Beyond that, I know this teacher personally; she’s never shown an interest in Sophie. Trust me, when you are the mom of a kid with something like Down syndrome, you can sniff that kind of thing out. (Am I being defensive? You bet. But it’s also true.)

I specifically asked that Sophie be kept out of this woman’s class, and she was — for homeroom. I can’t make any more requests. Even I know my limits. If anyone has any suggestions, I’m all ears.  

Today, I fear, is not Sophie’s lucky day.

“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.

Am I ready? That’s a different story. I’m a bit of a wreck.

School starts in a little more than a week. It’s been a good summer, but in the last few days we’ve all noticed that Sophie’s grown antsy, and yesterday when she got a chance to wander the halls at school (totally supervised, don’t worry), she was squealing at the prospect of going back.

We got the teacher we asked for and a classroom aide I’m promised will be wonderful and the email from the principal announcing this only contained two grammatical/punctuation errors.

Why do I care? I know email is casual, but when you are in a position of authority — at a school, for crying out loud — isn’t it important to at least try?

Perhaps my school-year resolution this time ’round should be to cut folks some slack.

But there’s one thing nagging me and I can’t decide if it’s a big deal or a little deal. So I’ll ask you.

Toward the end of the last school year, I noticed more and more that Sophie was cracking her knuckles. She’d lace her fingers together, push her palms away, and cra-a-a-a-ck. I’ve never been a knuckle cracker myself. It seems a little dangerous and it’s really annoying when someone else does it, and it can’t be a good thing for Sophie, given her low muscle tone and difficulty with fine motor skills. Can it?

Finally, one night I asked her, “Where did you learn that?”

No hesitation. “Ms. (INSERT NAME OF SPECIAL ED TEACHER) does it all the time so I do it!” Sophie announced cheerfully.

The special ed teacher? The special ed teacher is teaching Sophie how to crack her knuckles.

That kind of instruction, I wasn’t expecting.

Sophie hasn’t cracked her knuckles all summer, I realized last night when she was telling me how happy she was to see the special teacher at school. She’ll be with her more than ever, this year. I can hear the cracking of teeny tiny bones already….

So what do I do?

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.

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….

But my favorite AB creation of late is one I found last week in her “important papers” folder in her backpack. I don’t know if she wrote it for a school assignment or just because.

friendship

friends are good to have.

friends will keep you

company. friends are nice

to friends.

The girl behind the table just looked me, not comprehending my joy at arriving before the official Late Time of 6 pm. “You’re here to get Annabelle, right?”

I was surprised. They require you to show ID in exchange for the kid, at the afterschool program Annabelle attends. That’s fine with me — I don’t want someone else walking off with her. And I didn’t know this staffer.

“Oh, you look just like her,” she said, smiling at my frown. “Or, I mean, she looks just like you.”

Best compliment ever is when anyone says either of the kids looks like me, considering I could stare at them both for hours on end, marveling at their beauty. (And yet, I look at myself in the mirror and increasingly see my grandfather’s face — not a good look. Go figure.)

That exchange got me thinking. I’ve been computer shopping this week. Well, okay, the truth is that after years of agonizing over the thought of switching from a PC to a Mac, the actual shopping consisted of 18 minutes at the Apple store — where, upon learning that one laptop’s battery will last 7 hours at a time  while the other’s will last just 4, I announced, “Ring it up and give me all the technical support I can buy.”

For the other 17 and a half minutes, I let the hipster in the turquoise tee shirt drone on about operating systems and RAM and memory and “the next generation”. Which is what got me thinking yesterday afternoon, as I watched Annabelle demonstrate her hula hooping skills before agreeing to grab her backpack and head home, that she’s definitely a step above the old system. Like the Mac I’m picking up later today, she’s the new and improved generation.

And yet, there are some system quirks deep in our shared DNA that even Steve Jobs couldn’t upgrade.

I know I’m her mom, but Annabelle’s one cool kid — and in dozens of ways I never was. She’s incredibly kind to her sister, something I didn’t master til my mid-thirties, at least, if ever (that’s up to my sister to determine, of course). Thanks to Ray (with a nod to his mom) Annabelle will eat all sorts of vegetables, and she shows some talent at piano. Shee can draw and dance (thanks to my mom — the talent skipped me, damnit) and she has an ability to make friends that surpasses that of anyone on either side of the family. I watched her on her first day of kindergarten and thought, “She’s not me, thank god.”  

And yet, as the end of that piece I did for the local NPR station reveals, sometimes she totally is me. I had a feeling it would all start to emerge in earnest in third grade — and I was right.

Third grade, as I recall, is when things started getting tough for me. Not impossible, just not impossibly easy. I’ve watched Annabelle sail these last three years of elementary school and wondered when she’d hit the wall. She hasn’t — not yet, and not by a long shot — but I can tell, a week and a half in, that this year won’t going to be easy, either.

Already, Annabelle’s managed to come home without her reading log and to lose her assignment “agenda”. Her teacher is absolutely wonderful — clearly a sweetheart who’s made it clear she likes my kid. But she’s also made it clear that she won’t stand for any shenanigans. Third grade is a big deal.

Annabelle knows it, and she’s flustered. Just like I was — and have been, ever since. The other day before school, as the kids were lining up to head into the building, Annabelle ran up to me in a panic. “I can’t find my Me bag!” she bellowed, the tears starting in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s at the bottom of your backpack.”

“NO IT’S NOT!”

I took the backpack, opened it, and dug out the Me bag — a collection of things from around the house that she was to share with the class.

“OK,” she said, but she didn’t move. The tears started to flow as she looked back toward where her class had been. Luckily her teacher had noticed her leave the line, and was kindly waiting for her. I gave her a tight hug and off she ran.

“She’s so sweet!” the teacher told me the next day, when I stopped to thank her. “It’s so cute, she always comes up to me to make sure she’s doing things right.”

Oh no, I thought. I know exactly how Annabelle feels. To this day, I can remember that panicked feeling (to tell you the truth, I still get it when I have to do something like, oh, learn how to use a new computer) in school, that urge to double check.

I’m glad she double checks, but there’s one habit I’ve got to break Annabelle of, and soon. The other day, again it was at aftercare, I was chatting with a mom, watching the girls run around for a few final minutes. Annabelle decided she wanted another carton of milk, and from the across the room, I noticed her approach one of the aftercare staffers. He was talking to a parent.

Annabelle stood next to him, and when he didn’t immediately notice her, she began gently tapping him on the arm with one finger, hoping he’d look down. I dragged her away, promising milk as soon as we got home, and later at dinner, explained.

“You can’t do that!” I told her. “And here’s why. When I was in fourth grade, I used to do that to my teacher, Mrs. Bigler, and one day she yelled at me to stop. Then I realized I was really bugging her when I did that. She didn’t want to be interrupted.”

I remember her really letting me have it, but the truth is that Mrs. Bigler probably asked me to stop in the gentlest of ways — I can still remember her wrinkly, freckled skin and short sleeved polyester pantsuits and the fact that she was very, very kind. But the admonishment was a hot poker in the psyche — I was that sensitive.

And so is Annabelle. I don’t know how to change that, short of getting her an extra 21st chromosome, because Sophie certainly doesn’t share that quirk with us. The other day she yawned, and looked exactly like Ray. But for the most part, she’s her own person. Not much of her neurotic mom in there.

Which will serve her very well, when she gets to third grade. Or has to learn how to use a new computer.