After two tardy slips this week, I was determined to get Sophie to school in plenty of time to make the bell, and in my rush I didn’t notice that she’d left the house in patent leather party shoes and sweatpants.

It wasn’t until she’d leaned over from the backseat for several goodbye kisses, handing me the rest of her cranberry juice and climbing out of the car that I noticed her glasses slipping down her nose or the fact that her Olivia the Pig backpack — the one she dug out and insists on using, even though it was her backpack in first grade, or maybe kindergarten — looked ridiculous on the back of a fifth grader.

Just half an hour earlier, we were giggling and taking photos of today’s outfit, Sophie posing like a fashion model — or what she thinks one looks like — in her silly poodle tee shirt, with our pet poodle on the floor behind her. That was in the bubble of our kitchen.

The school is a bubble, too, a place she feels comfortable, “home” for the last six years. But as I watched Sophie head to the playground, I  cringed. Almost immediately, she bumped into a gaggle of girls, fellow fifth graders, kids she’s been in school with since kindergarten (some even pre-school), girls who used to invite her to their birthday parties.

I watched Sophie stop next to the girls, hesitate, lean in a little. I watched them completely ignore her.

It happened in a matter of seconds. I rolled down my window, wanting to yell to her — but what?

“Hey Sophie, no time to stop. You better rush to class.”

“Hey Sophie, don’t worry about them! Just keep walking! That’s what I did when I was in fifth grade.” 

“Hey Sophie, I love you.” 

In the end, I didn’t say anything. As quickly as I rolled it down, I rolled the window back up, embarrassed. Other cars were waiting. As I pulled away, I saw Sophie hesitate another few seconds, looking hopeful, then she shuffled toward the playground, her party shoes a little too big, hair in her eyes. It was that hope that was so hard to see, hope that by the fifth grade has been beaten out of all the other kids, who have figured out their rankings on the social hierarchy and know better than to cast a wishful gaze in the direction of someone more popular.

Those girls didn’t laugh at Sophie, or say anything mean. They just looked past her as though she wasn’t there. I am guessing if they hadn’t, she would have asked a million questions, invited them all for sleepovers, offered them my cell phone number and a paintbrush from her collection. Too much. I get it.

But what does Sophie get?

It won’t matter next year. All of those girls — a huge percentage of the entire fifth grade, in fact — will be going to the academy across the street, the one the district started to compete with charter schools, the one that requires As and Bs. The one I could sue to get Sophie into — if I wanted. Some days, I want to. Today, pulling away from the school, I did not.

Last night was the regional competition for Special Olympics cheerleading. Sophie’s team was robbed, I tell you. Robbed.

“Tempe’s bringin’ down the house!” the announcer yelled at one point during their routine, and it was true — the entire crowd was rooting for the navy-and-white clad cheerleaders, who had the best moves of the night (no, I’m not one bit biased),  the tiniest one staying on stage a few seconds after everything was over, landing the splits, hating to abandon the limelight. Such as it was in a falling apart, fluorescent-lit rec center in a shitty part of town.

Sophie and her teammates didn’t care; they were thrilled with their silver medals (everyone goes home with either silver or gold; Mesa “beat” them) and a giant cookie. But a lot of the parents looked pissed and I had to laugh.

Ah, the injustice.

The injustice of having a kid with a disability, right? That’s what you’re thinking. That’s what I think — some days. But last night, looking around that gym (before the silver medal fiasco), I felt a strange sense of privilege. It’s an honor to attend these events. I’m sure there are back stories with much different narratives, but to a person, I didn’t see a single member of that audience last night who looked like they felt sorry for themselves. That’s got to be the point of Special Olympics, right? To give not only the participants but those who love them a sense of pride. Some dignity.

I’ve only been to a handful of Special Olympics events so far, and to be honest, the results (and I’m not speaking of Sophie’s athletic prowess) have been mixed. But last night, I got it. I got why they do it, why I do it, why Sophie does it. Looking at these family members and friends looking at their kids dressed in polyester and ribbons, yelling and dancing to the best of their abilities and yes, sometimes looking really goofy doing it, I got it. There were more moments of pure joy in that gymnasium last night than most of us gather in a lifetime.

Today is “Say the Word to End the Word” Day — an awkwardly named but well-meaning attempt to get people to ditch the world retarded for another word, respect. I’ll be spending the evening at a Special Olympics basketball game, watching Sophie and her team cheer at halftime.

Lucky me.

And as for that silver medal? Just wait for the state championships.

“I have something for you,” my dear friend Kim Porter messaged me on Facebook the other night. The next morning, I was holding a tiny brown paper bag.

I gasped when I pulled out the contents: a pendant hanging on a ball chain, fashioned out of an old silver spoon, featuring a bronze cutout of a little girl.

Sophie.

Kim is a very special person in my life. We met when she was cast to play me in a production a group of us put on in Scottsdale almost a decade ago — a series of monologues written by Mothers Who Write students and instructors, put together into a play called “Pearls.”

For as embarrassing as it was to have someone “play” me, it was worse when I realized what a freaking amazing writer Kim is herself. But she was gracious and lovely and said all the right things, and I felt like she truly understood what I was going through as a mom, as Sophie’s mom. Her performance was the definition of transcendent. (Lisa Fogel, who did the role, too, was also amazing.)

And so Kim didn’t need to give me any more gifts, other than the joy of getting to see her perform on stage throughout the subsequent years. Our older children are close in age and go to the same school, so we carpool, and it was Colette who handed me the brown paper bag last Friday.

I immediately put on the pendant, tears in my eyes. Kim couldn’t have known how much I needed armor — Ray and I were scheduled to tour Sophie’s future junior high that very afternoon.

I collect pendants the way other people collect tattoos. I think it goes back to my mom. Superstitious, she never travels without wearing a now-old locket with photos of my dad, sister and me in it; I think the words “My World” are engraved on the front.

When Sophie was a baby, my friend Laurie presented me with two pendants — photos of each of my girls, with their names on the back. (What’s up with writers who take up metalworking? Interesting.) I wear them when I travel, and when I need extra good luck, accompanied by a chain-full of other meaningful charms I’ve picked up along the way.

I make a lot of noise when I walk when I’m wearing them all. And now I make a little more noise, with the addition of Kim’s piece.

She wrote to me later that day:

When I first started making it I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt guided by the sort of woman-like shape of the back of the spoon handle and how I felt a child went there. An alone child. Idiosyncratic, independent, a little vulnerable, but not aware of it. A child who is protected by a somewhat invisible maternal force. It seemed like the woman was always there and strong and invisible to the child who seems to think she’s doing it all on her own, and that must be how the woman wants it, because she never makes herself fully known. I kept thinking about your girl in the party hat picture and feeling like I was making her or even you, I really wasn’t sure what I was doing, I was just guided by a feeling about you, something to do with you. And then as it went on and I actually started shaping her hair and features I realized I was making Sophie. Or more accurately, I was making a child that was both you and Sophie. As I was working on the piece I spent a lot of time thinking about the similarities between you and Sophie. How you are both so social and yet so independent and a little stubborn. How you both have a genius for believing yourself to be tougher or more jaded than you actually are. How you both have strong and ever-present mothers, who guide you in ways that may not always be obvious. And you and/or Sophie have balls in the air, balls you are maybe moving by magic.

It’s funny. I really had never thought of you and Sophie as so much alike until I spent time musing about you as I made the pendant.

See? I told you Kim can write. How lucky am I to have this person in my life?! I read her note and held up the pendant, noticing the balls for the first time.

The meeting at the new school went okay. As well as can be expected, really. I walked out thinking, “That was fucking awesome!” and a week later, I’m not as excited, but I’m okay with it. Earlier this week we had Sophie’s IEP meeting, and that went fine, too. I wore Kim’s pendant. I didn’t cry.

And tonight I’ll stand onstage at Lit Lounge at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art and read a piece about Sophie and puberty. I’ll be wearing all my armor, including my new pendant — and working as hard as I can to channel my inner Kim Porter.

Yesterday afternoon, I snuck out for lunch with someone I met on the Internet.

I didn’t tell my husband about it. I had an awesome time. And you know what? I’ll do it again.

I’m not sure how I met Lisa — maybe on Instagram, or through this blog. But for a while, I’ve been aware of this woman who recently moved to Northern California and has two kids — an older daughter named Annabelle and a younger kid with Down syndrome.

You might think we were first drawn to one another by the DS thing and I suppose that’s got to be how we initially “met.” But really, it was the fact that she had a blonde daughter named Annabelle that tickled me; you don’t see a lot of Annabelles out there. Slowly, we realized that Cooper and Sophie have a lot in common. And that we do, too. So when Lisa had a quick business trip to Phoenix this week, she messaged me that she had a couple extra hours — did I want to have lunch?

I did.

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I thank my lucky stars several times a week that said stars aligned and allowed me to meet Maya, mother to Leo and someone I have a ton in common with beyond that. She’s on my must-see list when I visit New York.

See also: A Life Examined — A Little Bit More

And then there’s Elaine, who has her own Sophie. We met through our blogs and while Sophie doesn’t have Down syndrome, her mother and I both have American Studies degrees — and a lot to talk about. She’s a must-call in San Diego.

See also: A Tempered Response

(And of course there’s the amazing Robert Polk, whom I met when I did a piece for This American Life. He’s been a lifesaver in so many ways, even though he lives in Texas, his son is an adult, and we’ve never met….)

And so when Ray and I decided to take the girls to Washington, D.C. for Spring Break, one of my first thoughts was that I’d have to get ahold of Britt, Heather, Chrystal, Cate and Tricia — all friends I’ve made on Facebook, all moms of kids with DS who live in the area. I envisioned a crazy gathering at a coffee shop (hopefully one that serves cocktails) where all the kids could mix it up.

Ray didn’t like that idea at all.

“What are you doing meeting strangers?” he asked. “That’s weird. I don’t see you meeting moms of kids with Down syndrome here in Phoenix.”

It’s true. With the exception of one of my favorite people in the world, who has a daughter in Sophie’s class, I haven’t really made an effort. Because, while it might be weird to meet strangers, you know what else is weird? Having a kid with Down syndrome. It’s really fucking weird and just because you have one doesn’t mean someone else with one is going to want to be your friend — and you might not want to be theirs.

And so while I met and married Ray at work, the old-fashioned way, long before Internet dating became vogue, I get the appeal. You can test the waters, check the person out. Do they have the same interests, a similar way of looking at the world? Do you like the same books and movies? Does it sound like your kids might get along?

So yes, yesterday I drove over to Lisa’s hotel and picked her up and took her to my favorite restaurant and we had an awesome lunch and even took a selfie in the parking lot to commemorate it. Later in the day, Sophie had Special Olympics — her cheer team performed at a basketball game. I’d been thinking all day about my lunch with Lisa, about why I don’t reach out to people who live here (too close? is that the real truth?) and so at a moment during last night’s game when I’d typically stare at my phone, instead I stuck my hand out and introduced myself to another mom.

She was a nice woman, her daughter is 20 and has DS and is finishing up high school, getting ready to start a work program at a hotel and frankly, the mom seemed pretty depressed about the whole thing. We didn’t get a chance to discuss the last episode of Girls or talk about our jobs and when Sophie approached the woman’s daughter later and asked her for a play date the girl looked at Sophie like she was crazy and I couldn’t blame her — the girl is twice her age.

All they have in common is Down syndrome.

For a long time — longer than I like to admit — I thought of Sophie as my kid who has Down syndrome. Somewhere along the way, that fell aside. And it’s not like I never think about it — I think about it dozens of times a day, I bet — but most of the time, Sophie is just Sophie.

I don’t give the rest of the world as much credit — and maybe I should. Here’s a good example.

Recently, we got the chance to spend the entire day with one of my best friends and her family — her husband and two boys, both in middle school. Annabelle and Sophie love these boys, the husbands have something to say to each other, and it’s always a treat to spend time with my friend. Life is too busy; we don’t get to do it enough.

It was a great day. The worst part was when it came to an end. My friend’s younger son wasn’t happy about that, he wanted us all to come over to his house to see his tortoise. We promised a rain check and headed home after a flurry of hugs and air kisses.

Last night, the phone rang. It was my friend. (And here I’ll paraphrase.)

“So we were talking at dinner about how it’s not appropriate to use the R-word,” she began, “and I said, `You know, Amy and Sophie would be really sad if they ever heard you use that word.’”

At that point, her younger son looked confused, and asked, very sincerely, “Why? Does Amy have a mental disability?”

I laughed till I couldn’t breathe, and my friend was chuckling pretty hard, too.

But after we hung up the phone, I got a little teary, thinking about how awesome it is that this kid — I think he turns 12 next month — only sees Sophie as another little kid, a girl who likes croissants and is always up for a game of Go Fish.

We ate lunch outside the other day as the four kids played tag, and it’s true, Sophie couldn’t quite keep up. But she held her own, and had fun, and it was okay that the other three had to slow down at some points for her. Watching the game was a reminder that as hard as it is, mainstreaming is worth it. Fighting to keep her with her peers in junior high is worth it. And pushing her out there into the world is worth it — and not just for her benefit.

And now if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to climb down from the soap box — and  go back to giggling.

Earlier this week, during the Big Meeting at school, I mentioned to Sophie’s team that she’s been nostalgic lately for pre-school. Several heads around the table nodded. She’s been talking about it at school, too.

It’s pretty clear that Sophie has been thinking about her old school as a way of preparing to go to a new one. I decided a Valentine’s Day visit was in order, so I texted Ms. Janice.

Sophie’s pre-school is a very special place. It’s a public school, run like any other pre-school, except that it’s meant for special needs kids. And their typical peers are welcome.

Because it’s the 3 and 4-year-old set, parents of all kinds of kids embrace this sort of inclusion and it’s pretty much kumbaya 24/7 — for two years.

It’s been six years, but Sophie remembers her classmates, therapists, aides, the hamster (I think it was a guinea pig, actually) and of course, Ms. Janice, her teacher. When we arrived this morning, Ms. Janice was wearing a purple tee shirt and purple Nikes (she and Sophie share a favorite color) and had a bunch of hugs for Sophie, along with a stuffed bear holding a KitKat bar.

We had a lovely visit but I could tell something was bugging Ms. Janice, who admitted she was having a bad week — she didn’t share details but it’s had to do with student placements for next year. A big part of her job is helping to make sure that her students land in the right spots after pre-school.

As Sophie and I have learned, it only gets harder as you advance.

“This is Sophie, she’s in general ed fifth grade,” Janice told a colleague who stopped by her classroom while we were there today, super proud of Sophie’s success.

“And you are the reason that happened,” I reminded her. “You gave me the courage to ask for that.”

She smiled, still a little rueful, then (after a few more hugs) we had to leave because Ms. Janice’s room had filled up for a staff meeting.

Sophie and I went home to finish making valentines, then I dropped her off at school with a big bag of cards and candy and headed to work.

My phone rang. It was the school psychologist, following up on the meeting and the issue over the “verbally or physically aggressive” line.

See also: Taking “Individualized” Out of the IEP — and Inaccurately Labeling My Kid as Physically Aggressive

“You know,” she said toward the end of the conversation, “I have been a psychologist in other districts but this is my first year in Tempe. And I haven’t used that program much and I didn’t really understand what was happening with it until you said, `But you can’t use an automated program, my kid is an individual!”

And then, she said, a lightbulb went off. She said she’s not going to use that program anymore. And she’s in the process right now of re-interviewing the teacher and putting together a new report about Sophie.

“Tell the teacher to be honest, okay?” I asked. “I don’t want her to hold back.”

She promised she would, and thanked me for speaking up.

I thanked her for listening.

I’d known for weeks that I had to attend a meeting to discuss Sophie’s future — but I couldn’t bring myself to open the envelope from the psychologist till I was in the car, headed for the school.

I knew what was inside: All of the testing that has been done on Sophie over the last six years, the standardized tests, the “special” testing and one behavioral analysis after another.

Testing happens all the time, but every three years the law requires a formal re-evaluation for a kid with an IEP, an Individualized Education Plan. Three years ago, as you might recall (because I wrote about it ad naseum at the time and ever since) Sophie didn’t test so well and the school psychologist and I got into it at a meeting and she wound up announcing that Sophie has the “cognitive abilities of a 3 year old” — a line that rings in my head to this day, and probably always will.

So I wasn’t so keen on attending this meeting, and at the same time, I couldn’t wait. New test results! A chance at redemption, even though that psychologist packed her bags and moved on to terrorize kids and parents at another school. Still, I’d know the truth.

Sophie’s lawyer had other plans. “Don’t test her,” she said. “Sophie’s not a set of numbers. There’s more than enough data out there already to demonstrate what she needs moving forward in school.”

Plus, she added, what if she just doesn’t test well? Then there’d be more bad test results on the books — and they’d be more recent.

I agreed. So when I opened that envelope on the way to school, I skimmed it briefly, wincing (see above) but not seeing anything I didn’t already suspect. Of course, the truth is that while I’m an educated adult who regularly reads lots of detailed documents with a critical eye, when I look at something regarding Sophie it tends to morph into a foreign language. Thank goodness for that lawyer. (Seriously. I have her number if you need it.)

“Oh, we need to take all this out,” the lawyer said as soon as the meeting began. Specifically, she was referring to a list of behaviors a few pages in:

*Interactions with other students are inappropriate.
*Is verbally or physically aggressive.
*Is impulsive.

“Wait, what does that say?” I sputtered. “Sophie is physically aggressive? I’ve never heard that bef–”

“Don’t worry about it, all that’s off the report,” the lawyer interrupted, shooting me a look.

The meeting continued — everyone from the principal to the therapists to Sophie’s teacher and aide weighed in on how well she’s doing, where her challenges are, and what she’ll need moving forward; everyone agreed no more testing is needed.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about that now-deleted section — Is verbally or physically aggressive. What was going on? What were they not telling me?

Finally it was my turn to speak again.

“Look,” I said. “I know you all know I tend to beat a dead horse. But I’ve got to know how this happened.”

The new psychologist explained that the teacher had filled out a questionnaire; based on her answers, the psychologist (who I’m pretty sure has never met Sophie — definitely hasn’t interacted much with her) checked certain boxes on an automated computer program that spit out the list of things Sophie could and couldn’t do.

I looked at the list again. Most of it was inaccurate. At best, it told an incomplete story.

“Please be honest,” I said to the teacher and the aide. “Have you known Sophie to be verbally or physically aggressive?”

“NO!” they both insisted. (I asked several more times; they continued to insist no. For that matter, no one ever explained — in the report or in person — how Sophie interacts inappropriately with others or is impulsive, though it’s not a stretch to imagine both. Still, it’s not documented.)

The psychologist directed us to the interview with the teacher, which was included in the report:

General Education teacher stated that Sophie completes classroom work, completes homework, attends to classroom instruction/teacher directions, comes to class with necessary materials, appears to be organized, completes tasks in allotted time, changes to new tasks appropriately, works independently, seeks clarification appropriately when needed, completes work with reasonable accuracy/correctness, enters/exits classroom appropriately, and demonstrates appropriate level of motor activity. Skills reported as lacking are performs adequately on daily quizzes, and performs adequately on major tests.

Sophie is a student in my 5th grade class. She is an extremely confident individual. Her strengths include being very social and artistically inclined. In the classroom we have been working on entering and leaving the classroom appropriately, staying in her seat and being organized and able to get out what she needs to learn. She frequently needs one on one directions and simple reminders to accomplish a task. She has many friends and loves school. She is an important part of our class.

I’m still not sure how that translates to “Is verbally or physically aggressive.” I’ve gone over the 20 page report several times and found no mention of either. (Though it is true that Sophie was in trouble earlier this month for telling a friend she can’t come to her birthday party. That’s not on the report but it did happen.)

In the end, the entire team handed back their copies of the report and the district’s special education director (who attends these meetings — with her own lawyer — because I bring a lawyer) offered to shred all of them.

“Good,” I said, holding onto mine, then asking for more details.

Turns out, Tempe Elementary District — along with several others in metro Phoenix and probably lots all over the country — uses an automated program to complete IEPs called Synergy Special Education, produced by a company called Edupoint. (You can visit their website at edupoint.com.) If a district doesn’t use Edupoint, chances are they use another automated software system.

According the company’s site, the software makes the IEP process 80% faster! “Synergy SE’s robust collaborative environment and customized workflow streamline special education processes, increasing staff efficiency and ensuring compliance to meet state and federal regulations.”

That’s nice. But what if you haven’t happened to hire a lawyer who fine-tooth-combed your kid’s report and knew enough to question it? It’s my fault for not seeing it on there, but even if  I had, for as bitchy as I can get in a meeting, it wouldn’t occurred to me to ask to have it removed; I wouldn’t have though that possible — no one acts like it is. They just keep handing you papers to sign and looking at the clock to hustle things along.

Sophie has enough challenges ahead of her in junior high without her new team seeing “Is verbally or physically aggressive” on a report. And even if a kid were to be verbally or physically aggressive, why on earth would you list those two in the same category?

I’m not sure why any of this surprises me anymore. Somehow I don’t think this is what the lawmakers who passed the federal IDEA intended. Or what anyone intended, really.

By the time you get to my age, you have some hard and fast rules. I will not go up in a hot air balloon or ride in a helicopter or bungee jump. I will never climb on the back of a horse. You’re not going to find me swimming in the ocean or any other body of water I can’t see through.

And I am not interested in using a candy thermometer. Ever.

Way too tricky. I used to feel that way about the Kitchen Aid mixer, but then I was given a hot pink one and it was too much to resist. And so, gingerly, I’ve tested the waters (or rather, the powdered sugar) and found that it’s true that if you keep it on a low speed, you will probably not spray your kitchen with the contents of the bowl of your Kitchen Aid.

I went hard core with the Kitchen Aid the other day, making conversation hearts. This is a candy item that does not require a thermometer and surprisingly, it’s really easy to make them. Time consuming, yes. As in, you better get busy if you want them to be ready for the big day.

I modified the recipe I found a while back on about.com and actually used the mixer this time, which made the process even easier. I made two batches and wound up with a giant pile.

INGREDIENTS
1 packet unflavored gelatin
1/2 c. water
2 t. light corn syrup
2 lbs. powdered sugar plus 1 cup
mint extract
food coloring
edible-ink marker (available in Phoenix at ABC)

Mix the gelatin, water and corn syrup in a bowl till dissolved. (You might need to microwave for 30 seconds if stirring doesn’t dissolve ingredients.)

Add the mixture to the mixer’s bowl. Turn the mixer on THE SLOWEST SPEED and slowly add the powdered sugar. Continue adding slowly till you have all 2 pounds in the bowl. You might need a bit more sugar more to get it to a stiff, doughy consistency. Save some sugar for dusting.

Remove the dough from the bowl (this is the messy part) and roll it into a ball, kneading it till it’s smooth and like Play Doh.

Divide it into balls — one ball for each color you want to make. Taking one ball, make an indentation in it that will make it easier to add the mint extract and knead it into the dough. This will take a while and you want your dough just a tad dry since the extract and coloring will add moisture.

I added about a tablespoon of extract to each ball of dough; three tablespoons for the total recipe. (Well, six since I doubled it.) But really, that’s up to you. The extract wasn’t particularly strong.

Knead till distributed, then make another indentation and add food coloring. Start with three big drops then add more as necessary. Knead till distributed.

Repeat for as many colors as you like. I made pink, yellow, orange, blue, green and purple and although the original recipe recommends using different extracts to match with flavors (like orange with orange) I prefer the taste of the mint throughout.

You don’t need to refrigerate the dough; you can go straight to heart-making. Grab a couple of cookie sheets to hold your finished product. Take a heart shaped cookie cutter (any size you like — the smaller the cuter, I think, but also the harder to write on and I had trouble finding a super-fine tipped pen) and roll out the dough (I used the palm of my hand because I couldn’t find the rolling pin) on the counter and punch away, putting the hearts on the sheet in rows to dry.

Once you are done punching hearts (a nice sentiment, right?) leave your hearts out overnight to dry. I actually flipped mine after 24 hours and left them for another day, as the backs were still a little moist, but I don’t think you have to do that before you write on them — just make sure the fronts are TOTALLY dry.

And — get creative. I was busy writing “love,” “nice” and “cute” when my husband walked by and suggested “LMAO” and “STFU” so we have a few of those in the pile, too.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

The birthday monsters are in town. (Apologies to Sandra Boynton.)

I got an email last week from Sophie’s aide:

[Sophie's teacher] and I wanted to let you know that we had a talk with Sophie today about her birthday. There have been several occasions recently where Sophie has told a student she was not invited to her party. We have used positive reinforcement in trying to resolve this issue but it has not worked. We feel that having a consequence may help this situation. We have told Sophie that if this happens again she will miss her lunch recess and we will be calling you. We think this will help. Let us know if you have any questions or concerns about this.

You need to know two things. First, Sophie’s birthday is not until May 21. Second, this is totally my fault.

I have created a monster. A birthday monster. Sophie is obsessed with her birthday, and I have no one to blame but myself. Birthdays are a huge deal in our house, and the discussion about Sophie’s pretty much starts the day after Christmas. (And the discussion of Christmas begins the day after her birthday — but that’s a different blog post.) Now, that said, I do not condone using a birthday party as an instrument of torture — of course I don’t. And Sophie and I had a Big Talk about that note when she got home from school the day it was sent.

“I’m not allowed to talk about my birthday at school,” she said a little sadly, hanging her head.

“Good,” I replied. “That was really mean. In fact, if you keep doing it, you may not have a birthday party at all!”

Sophie and I both know that will never happen. Neither of us can resist, and sometime soon, we’ll likely come up with theme and create a Pinterest board and start planning that party, as we’ve done in years past. Unlike Sophie (and to be fair, she doesn’t spend all her time uninviting party guests) I have always seen birthday parties as a chance to invite people into Sophie’s life — both those who are already good friends, and those who might like to be included. Play dates are (increasingly) awkward. But who doesn’t like a birthday party?

(Consider the name of this blog.)

This year I think we’ll hold off a few weeks on the Pinterest board and the color theme decision. But first, we have a very important birthday to celebrate today. It’s Sophie’s best friend Sarah’s birthday. She is 11. Sarah loves Neapolitan ice cream — you know, the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry striped kind — so when I saw a Neapolitan cake online, I had to screen grab it. There’s no time to make one from scratch, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Along with getting those layers to stack up and stay put. I’ll spend the morning fighting with three different boxes of cake mix, a lot of frosting and a pile of toothpicks, cursing and making a mess and having a blast.

I can’t wait. And I can’t complain about Sophie’s birthday obsession.

It begins before I’ve opened my eyes in the morning.

“Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY,” Sophie stagewhispers from a few inches away, as she pulls my blanket over herself.

(Unintelligible mumbling from me, something worse from Ray’s side of the bed.)

“Mommy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

As the Meanest Mom in the World, I have banned any and all questions before 8 a.m., but that doesn’t stop them from coming, and even though, invariably, she’s in my bed as she’s asking the question, it’s the number one concern on her mind — even more important than whether she can have Minute Rice with butter for breakfast or if her boobs have grown overnight.

It’s sweet. Sophie is a pack animal, she wants to be with us.

It’s annoying. She kicks, she claws, she pinwheels in the bed.

It’s frustrating. Nothing seems to work — she insists her bed is not comfortable. Even the purchase of a new bed, a fancy trundle, hasn’t changed her unwillingness to be in her room at night. I stare at the open closet door and think of “Bedtime for Frances,” one of my all-time favorites, and try to remember how the hell those badgers convinced Frances there wasn’t a monster inside, that she should sleep in her very own bed. All. Night. Long.

Sophie’s not afraid of monsters. She just wants to cuddle. Even more than that, she just wants what she wants.

The truth is that both Ray and I are easily worn down. (Me more so, I’ll admit.) She’s allowed in several nights a week and when she’s not, I’ll let her sleep on the couch and crawl in with us later.

From time to time my husband and I turn to one another and ask, “Will this be happening when she’s 30?”

Maybe.

This morning I was folding laundry in my bedroom and caught an unguarded glimpse of the bed — Ray and my pillows pushed to the edges, Sophie’s fuzzy Monster High pillow and her stuffed Piglet (and the back-up Piglet) right in the center of the bed.

“Hey,” I thought. “What happened? I’m the queen of the bedroom.”

It might be time to take back the night.