If you have not seen this instructional video — made by Disney in 1946 — it’s worth 10 minutes of your time. I have heard that it was banned, but I haven’t been able to verify that. Apparently it won the “Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval” and was shown to tens of millions of high school students. You can read a whole lot more about it here.

I much prefer it to “Pink Slip,” which I’ve been writing about for the last few days. You can decide for yourself.

See also: Judy Blume, Where Are You?

About halfway through the “how to teach your child with Down syndrome about puberty” seminar this past weekend, it dawned on me that everything I learned from puberty came from Judy Blume.

Okay, if we’re going to get technical, you can throw in a reel-to-reel film they showed in third grade and a pair of books called “Where Did I Come From?” and “What’s Happening to Me?” — but really, aside from the mind-searing revelation from the school nurse that when she was a teen, they wore rags instead of pads — all the important stuff came from Judy Blume.

Sophie loves Judy Blume. She’s got all the Fudge books and the rest of them are floating around the house, too, but somehow I don’t think she’s quite ready for “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.”

And I’m not certain she was ready for this seminar we went to, either. When the topic of masturbation came up at the pre-seminar Friday night, Ray and I both got nervous. It didn’t seem like such a good idea to teach her about that. I brought her on Saturday, anyway. Still nervous.

Before the seminar started, the instructor walked over to let me know she would not be showing “Pink Slip,” or whatever the official title is. “Don’t let me stop you,” I said, worried I’d over-stepped my boundaries. She mumbled something about finding a different video.

My Pink Slip Arrives

Earlier that morning, I’d pulled “Pink Slip” up on YouTube for both girls to watch, figuring Sophie might as well see what she was in for. Annabelle held the phone, mouth agape, until the part where Susie pulls down her pants to show her younger sister Jill her own pad/blood.

“I’m out,” Annabelle said, handing me the phone. Sophie just made a face.

The other video was a little better, designed to instruct girls with autism about their periods. Lots of pads and blood but no sing-songy, out-dated narrative.

In fact, the whole seminar was a little ho-hum. Except for my daughter.

About a dozen girls and their moms (and one brave dad) gathered in a conference room, and the instructor began with a lesson in Public vs. Private.

“Can anyone tell me a public place?” she asked.

One girl raised her hand. “McDonald’s.”

Another: “Dairy Queen.”

And Sophie: “San Diego.”

Well, yes, the instructor said, San Diego is a public place.

“Can you be more specific?” she asked.

“La Jolla.”

A little later, it was time to explain puberty. Puberty takes a long time, the instructor said.

“Can anyone think of something else that takes a long time?” she asked. “Yes, Sophie?”

“My dad reading in the bathroom.”

Turns out, I have the Sarah Silverman of the tween DS set. A little comic relief never hurt anyone, I figure, and Sophie’s timing is impeccable. Right as the conversation slid into what I knew was going to be mastubration territory, Sophie announced she had to go to the bathroom.

Bullet dodged.

After two hours, I was exhausted, and beginning to worry that Sophie was only just getting warmed up. She announced that a bra is so that “your breasts don’t fly” and announced that her mother needs zit cream.

We watched another video entitled, “Growing Up Is an Exciting Time; You Will Be Just Fine” and I was amazed at the narrator’s optimism.

I needed a cocktail. When the instructor announced that it was time to play “Puberty Bingo,” I gathered my purse and my kid and headed for the door, mumbling under my breath, “I’m out.”

I neglected to mention the other day that I haven’t had the nerve to actually watch “Pink Slip” — the decades-old instructional video about menstruation created for girls with developmental disabilities that we used to show at parties for laughs — since Sophie was born.

Here’s my post from the other day about Down syndrome and Puberty.

Apparently I’ll have my chance today.

Yesterday Ray and I attended Part One of a seminar about how to teach your kid with Down syndrome about puberty (and beyond — but we were just there for the puberty part). The instructor — who was very good — gave a general overview and then explained what she’d be teaching our kids the next day. Repetition is key, she said. Repetition and images.

When she got to the part about how she’d be showing an instructional video about how to take a shower, I raised my hand.

“By any chance will you be showing the girls a video about periods?” I asked.

Yes, she said. “Boy, wait til you see it! It’s really old and –”

“I’ve seen it,” I interrupted, while the other parents stared. “Pink Slip.”

“No,” she said, and offered a long and perfectly acceptable name I can’t recall now. (I should have known that was not its real name.) “This one is about a sister –”

“It’s about a girl named Jill,” I said, interrupting again. It’s been 15 years since I’ve seen “Pink Slip,” but it’s burned in my head forever.

The woman stared. Ray turned and and stared. “How do you know about this video?” she asked.

I just stared back. For years, I’ve joked that someday I’d have to show Sophie Pink Slip. I never thought it would actually happen — and at the hands of one of the leading sex educators in the country.

I get it, Universe. I get it.

Note: Apparently the link in this post to Pink Slip is broken. Here’s one that works for part one and one for part two. 

Sophie’s bra collection is far more extensive than my own — a fact that will likely make you smile, if you’ve met both of us.

As of this morning when I dropped her off in the carpool lane at school, she had not developed a bit.

That’s fine with me. But Sophie can’t wait. She waves her bare chest in the air, but so far the only thing sticking out is the bump of bone over the scars from two open heart surgeries. The boob thing’s been going on for a while, and she’s been demanding her own stick of deodorant for years (when I run out I always know to look in Sophie’s room — she hoards it).

Then this summer she upped the ante by announcing she had armpit hair.

I held my breath and looked carefully, ultimately announcing (to great protest) that all I could see was shadows. Someday, though, Sophie will get armpit hair. And boobs. And all the rest.

And so when I got an email from a local Down syndrome support group advertising a seminar called, “Bodies, Boundaries and Puberty,” I forwarded it to Ray.

I figured he’d say it was way too soon. Instead he said, “Let’s sign up.”

And so tomorrow at 4, Ray and I will go to a seminar “designed to help parents and/or professionals become more comfortable and confident addressing sexuality issues across a variety of ages and stages.”

Now is where I admit that I have never, once, in 10 years, attended a Down syndrome support group seminar of any kind. Not that I couldn’t have benefitted, I just didn’t feel comfortable. But in this case, the subject matter trumps comfort.

Gulp. Sexuality. From the time she was born, I’ve quipped that I want Sophie to grow up and have great sex. But that was just a quip. Now it’s real life. Well, not for a while. But still. This is the beginning. Almost the beginning.

And we’re one step closer to “Pink Slip.” I’ve mentioned it here before — it’s an instructional video about how to teach a developmentally disabled girl about her period, made and shown in schools several decades ago. Back in my carefree, kid-free, un-P.C. days, a friend found it in a video store in L.A. (this was long before YouTube) and showed it at parties. I always laughed the longest and hardest.

“Remember who never did think ‘Pink Slip’ was funny?” Ray asked the other night.

So my husband (then future husband) was (okay, is) far more evolved. In any case, now it’s time for karmic payback, since Part Two of the sexuality seminar is a mother/daughter workshop on Saturday “designed to help pre-adolescent students who experience cognitive disabilities learn about how their bodies will grow and change during puberty and how to manage these changes.”

So forgive my black mood this week. Yes, I’m struggling to finish “Best of Phoenix” — the bane of my professional existence and always completed in the hot end days of summer (forecast for today: 109 degrees) — and trying to figure out what the “D” in math on Sophie’s mid-quarter “progress report” means and trying to avoid carbs while editing a food blog.

But really, what’s got me down is Down — and the next chapter.

“What are we doing this weekend?” Annabelle asked when I picked her up from school yesterday.

I ticked off the events — First Friday art walk, dance class, Sunday dinner with my parents. “Oh, and Sophie and I are going to a seminar about Down syndrome and puberty on Saturday,” I said.

“Why?” Annabelle asked. “Is puberty different when you have Down syndrome?”

Good question, I thought, wondering if she imagined green menstrual fluid and odd-shaped boobs.

“No,” I said. “It’s just that it’ll be harder to explain it to her than it was to you.”

“Yeah,” Annabelle said. “Boobs and armpit hair are a lot easier to understand than periods.”

Yeah. I’m thinking I might have to have “Pink Slip” on hand as a back-up plan.

I think I am being tested.

The meeting last week with Sophie’s team went well, I guess. I shouldn’t say that — it definitely went well, in the way that those meetings often do. Everyone goes around the table and talks about how wonderful Sophie is, lists ways to make her even better, and I leave on a cloud — puffed up with expectations and compliments and attention.

This time I left feeling a little deflated, despite the platitudes and promises. The principal said all the right things — he took responsibility for Sophie’s aide being away from her for a week (at least a week, I didn’t poke for details) and held out a hand-written schedule; they’d worked up exactly what the aide would do with Sophie all day, every school day, to meet the exact amount of time mandated by her IEP and, therefore, by law.

“We’re 15 minutes short on Fridays,” the principal admitted, cringing, everyone around the table watching me for a reaction. I brushed it off, feeling a little embarrassed, muttering something under my breath about how it was okay.

“We want to earn your trust back,” the principal said, and I smiled and brushed that off, too. I hugged him after the meeting — I think he’s great. So is Sophie’s fifth grade teacher, the resource teacher, her therapists, the amazing aide.

I left the building with a thought — a thought I’ve had for the last week (and to varying extents for the last 10 years) — that I’m the one who’s not that great.

The truth is that even though I make requests and suggestions during these meetings, I really don’t know what to ask for, when it comes to Sophie. I don’t know what to expect from her or what to expect from the people around her. More and more, I can’t fake that. And it’s getting more important every day.

“This is the make it or break it year,” Sophie’s long-time physical therapist cautioned me, the day before the meeting, ticking off the things that Sophie needs to be able to do, but can’t do. I walked around for the next day with my stomach in knots.

I don’t know how to ensure that Sophie makes it, whatever that means.

I do know how to love her. Funny, if you’d asked me a decade ago, I would have told you that I’d be a pro at advocating for my child, for making sure she got the right schooling and all that. But if I was being honest, I would have hesitated on the love part.

Turns out, that’s not the case. I breath her in, soak her in, in a way I never have with any other human being. I think it’s because she’s so amazingly open to it, open to me. I’ve had insomnia the last few nights; the only time I can sleep is with Sophie slumped on me — early in the evening on the couch when we both shut our eyes, lulled to sleep by the Disney channel.

Sophie is obsessed with my C-section scar. I showed her once, and she asks all the time to see it again.

“Why do you want to see it again?” I ask, a little annoyed.

“I just want to see where I came out of.”

(Thank goodness I had a C-section.)

It’s a mindless act, loving Sophie, and for someone who thinks too much, it’s a gigantic relief for me. And by mindless I don’t mean to belittle that love; in many ways it was harder fought and won — and kept — than what I instinctively felt (and feel) for Annabelle from the moment she was born.

So imagine that you love this child a lot. And she’s getting older, but unlike her sister, still needs so much. Needs just the right advocate. And not a lawyer or someone from an agency, although that can help sometimes. Not a therapist or a well-educated friend or any sort of professional. No, she needs me. And her dad, too, of course, and he’s awesome, but I’m the control freak who insists on going to the meetings.

At the end of last week’s meeting, the principal looked down at a pile of papers and announced that Sophie is due to for her three-year reassessment in January. It was my turn to cringe. The last time she was tested, the school psychologist and I got into it at that very table, in that same conference room, and when I challenged some numbers she threw up her ands and announced, “Sophie has the cognitive abilities of a 3 year old.”

Sophie was 7 then. I can’t hear that again — not about my 10 year old — I told the group. Everyone (even the adaptive PE teacher who keeps insisting Sophie will someday live on her own and have a real job) looked at their laps.

It’s just numbers, just tests, someone said quietly. It doesn’t define Sophie.

“It didn’t til that woman said it,” I said, struggling to explain. “It’s like someone threw this big `cognitive-abilities-of-a-3-year-old” sheet over Sophie’s head. It defines her now. I think about it almost every day.”

More lap-gazing. The resource teacher said something about choosing the tests Sophies takes, and I know it will be a better experience next time; that psychologist no longer works at the school. Anyhow, I don’t have a choice. If I want Sophie to be taken seriously in junior high, I have to let them retest her, with the hope she’ll do better.

Don’t I?

I’m being tested, and there are no right or wrong answers and no retakes. It’s exhausting. I think I’ll go home and crawl into bed next to Sophie and try to get some rest.

Sophie wet her pants at school on the first day of the second week of fifth grade.

“Well, accidents happen,” I said to the school nurse when she called to explain why Sophie would be coming home in different clothes. I wasn’t so concerned at first; Sophie almost never wets her pants (I think maybe once in the last two or three years) but it’s true that people with Down syndrome tend to have low muscle tone that makes it hard to discern the urge — til it’s almost too late. Or worse.

Plus, Sophie really likes what she calls “nurse panties.”

But as I thought about it, driving home, I began to wonder: “Where was Mrs. A.?” That’s Sophie’s aide (I’m not using her name or even her initial here). She’s been with Sophie for more than two years. Doesn’t she know to remind her to use the bathroom?

“Where was Mrs. A. today?” I asked casually, later that evening.

“DIBELS,” Sophie said. DIBELS is a standardized test given several times a year; it requires one on one testing. Oh, I thought, they must have gotten Sophie a sub and pulled Mrs. A. to help for an afternoon. No biggie.

On Wednesday, Sophie didn’t have homework written down, and when I asked her about her day, she told me she’d started science and social studies, which is a big deal — new teachers, up a big flight of stairs from her homeroom class. “Sarah was my helper!” she said, referring to her best friend and fellow fifth grader.

“Where was Mrs. A.?” I asked.

“DIBELS.”

By Friday morning I had written the principal a concerned email. Friday night, I asked Sophie if she’d seen Mrs. A. that day.

“Yes!” she said. “She gave me my DIBELS testing today.”

By Monday afternoon, the principal had investigated and Mrs. A. was back with Sophie. But I was left with questions, namely: How did this happen when Sophie’s IEP (a supposedly binding legal document) specifies that she have an aide?

Good timing: Sophie’s team was already scheduled to meet tomorrow after school. Here’s an edited version of the note I sent them last night:

First, please let me begin by saying how much we love and appreciate this school, and everything everyone has done and is doing for Sophie. She seems happy so far this year.

I believe I expressed to all of you before school started that I wasn’t in the least bit concerned about how fifth grade would go for Sophie — that my focus is already on sixth grade and finding her a fit as good as this one as she moves into junior high.

I probably should have made it clear that a huge part of why I was feeling that way is Mrs. A. Fifth grade is going to be hard and different for Sophie, and on top of that she has a new resource teacher. But I felt very confident that Mrs. A. would be a terrific bridge and a help in getting Sophie comfortable working with both the fifth grade teachers and the resource teacher.

Mrs. A. is truly amazing and has a wonderful way with Sophie; I didn’t have a care in the world, knowing she’d be with Sophie in fifth grade and I know we lucked out in getting her.

We waited several years before finally deciding to fight to get Sophie a aide at school, and it wasn’t a decision made lightly. But after a fairly serious bullying incident that jeopardized both her emotional and physical safety, it was clear that for Sophie to continue to thrive and be safe at the school, that’s what she needed. It happened, and was written into her IEP.

I knew that the school (like all schools these days) is short staffed and that Sophie would not need Mrs. A.’s direct attention 100 percent of the time.

But you can imagine my dismay when I realized that Sophie was completely without Mrs. A. — or any other aide — for an entire week, and not just any week but the second week of this school year. (And possibly more, I have frankly been afraid to ask.)

Sophie is not a 100 percent reliable narrator (although always an entertaining one) and so I was not convinced when she told me on several occasions last week that Mrs. A. was not with her because she was doing DIBELS testing.

I now understand that a reading specialist pulled Mrs. A. to do the testing. But what I don’t understand is how that happened, given that Sophie has an IEP. I don’t see how that honors either the letter of the law or the spirit. I considered not saying anything but I decided I had to for two reasons:

First, because of several incidents last week. Sophie wet her pants last Monday afternoon at school, something that has only happened once or twice in recent years. She came home several days last week without any homework written down. She told us that Sarah (her best friend, a fellow fifth grader) was her helper in science and social studies in lieu of Mrs. A. Her iPad went missing.

Now, those are things that could have happened with a personal/instructional aide present — but I doubt they would have. I am concerned because it was only the second week of school. I am concerned because the IEP team felt there was a real need for Sophie to have an aide, and yet no one mentioned it to me when that aide disappeared for a week. I am concerned because clearly I have no idea what goes on while Sophie is at school. I don’t know what else happened last week. Or what could have happened last week.

Which leads to my second reason for saying something. I feel very strongly that there’s been a breach of trust here. I do understand that there are hundreds of kids at this school, and limited resources. Every parent who drops their kid with you each morning is doing so with an understanding that certain things will take place throughout the day to ensure safety and the delivery of a good education. It’s true that in Sophie’s case it’s a a much longer list. And I’m grateful to have her at the school. But now I have strong doubts about what’s going on at school. Is this the first time Mrs. A. has been pulled for a week to do testing? What other times has she been pulled and who helped Sophie in her place? I am told that in order to perform DIBELS testing, one must be trained for several days. When did that happen?

Has Mrs. A. been with Sophie at all so far this year? I’m told that she will be, moving forward, and I want that to be enough, but it isn’t.

I really really hate that I am asking these questions, even in my head, let alone of you. I know you all love Sophie and the other kids at the school and are doing your best to deliver services to all. But more than a legal no-no, this was a violation of the trust of a family. It’s going to be a long time, if ever, til we will drop Sophie off at school in the morning and drive away without wondering what’s going to happen that day. And it’s not simply because Mrs. A. wasn’t with her; it’s because we had to hear that from Sophie herself. Nothing truly bad happened last week. No harm no foul, right? But it could have. Why does a reading specialist — whether at the school or district level — have the authority to violate the terms of an IEP? And how do I know that that — or something similar — won’t happen again? Not only was it not fair to Sophie, it was not fair to the personnel who had to pick up the slack in Mrs. A.’s absence.

That’s what I need to discuss on Wednesday: a protocol for how the aide provision in Sophie’s IEP will be delivered. I won’t be unreasonable; I just want to be informed.

I’d also like to discuss making sure Sophie’s math homework is enlarged on the copy machine; making sure her homework assignments are written down each day and easy for us to interpret; making sure there is a plan in place for typing or writing assignments; whether it would be possible to incorporate a goal in her IEP that will allow everyone to work on discouraging her from sucking her thumb. I’m not sure where that can be categorized in the goals, but I’m sure you will know. I’ll look forward to hearing what you have in mind, as well.

Thanks for reading this.

Amy

I don’t know why I did it. Usually I fall all over myself in my rush to announce that Sophie has Down syndrome. But even though I’ve yet to really toss myself in the deep end when it comes to finding her a junior high option, I’m already feeling myself drowning.

Yesterday I found myself home from vacation and without any more good excuses for putting this off. So I looked up the first school on my list — ASU Prep, a charter school in downtown Phoenix — and fired off an email to the director:

Mr. Lebowitz — My daughter Sophie is entering 5th grade…and my husband and I are looking for middle school options. I’d love to learn more about your middle school program in Phoenix — could I get a tour?

Thanks in advance!

Amy Silverman

I had a personal response by last night:

Hi Amy.  Thanks for contacting me, and I am glad you are interested in ASU
Prep.  We are very proud of our school and our students, and we would be happy to give you a tour and tell you about our school.  We are preparing now for the new school year and our students start back on July 31.  I would give us a couple of weeks after that before we schedule a tour of the school so you can see real kids and teachers in their classrooms.  We also will be having prospective student/family orientations starting in October. Those will be advertised on our website.

Let me know what works for you.  I have included our academic counselor, Ms. Moreno, on this e-mail as she will help coordinate your tour.  I look forward to meeting you and your daughter.

Of course, Sophie is Greek for wisdom, so ASU Prep would be the perfect place for her.

Art Lebowitz
Director of Secondary Learning
ASU Preparatory Academy, Phoenix

Oh fuck, I thought as I read that lovely note. This is really awkward. Do I immediately reply and say, “Well, um, actually, there’s something I forgot to mention?” Do I go ahead and schedule the tour, and not say anything — yet? Do I move onto my next option?

For such a pushy person, I’m just not very good at how hard to push when it comes to Sophie. Or, in this case, where to push.

By the way, I already knew Sophie was Greek for wisdom. I knew it when we named her, which was before she was born, before we “knew,” if you know what I mean. I have a vague memory of saying to someone (Ray? my mom?) at the time of her diagnosis, “Maybe we should consider a different name, since, you know….”

There was a general wincing at the fact that I’d even mention such a thing, and Sophie stuck. Last night, I read the prep school director’s email, then looked up the word “wisdom” in the dictionary. From Merriam-Webster:

wis·dom noun \ˈwiz-dəm\
a : accumulated philosophic or scientific learning
b : ability to discern inner qualities and relationships
c : good sense

I’m not sure about a and c, but Sophie’s definitely got b going on — in spades. Still, I’m not sure that’s what Mr. Lebowitz meant. I think I need to keep looking.

One night last week,  we were up late watching TV and one of those lawyer ads came on. This one was looking for people who can’t work because they are mentally or physically disabled — talked about compensation from the government. It was one of those ads I don’t process, the stuff that slides off the top of my head.

“Is that ever going to happen to Sophie?” Annabelle asked. I looked up at the TV, then down at Annabelle, who was curled up next to me. Sophie was brushing her teeth.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not. I think Sophie will have a job one day. Don’t you?”

“I do,” Annabelle said, examining her ballet-hardened toes. “I think she’ll be a journalist.”

My inner dialogue:

Um, what the fuck, Annabelle? You know that’s what Daddy and I both do. Does it look easy? Of all the jobs out there, that’s the one you pick, the one you think she could do? What sort of sadistic, insulting comment is that? And while we’re at it, I’ve never heard you say you want to be a journalist, Annabelle. Not good enough for you?

My response:

“Well, yeah, maybe. Um, why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I just think she’d be good at that. It’s creative. I think she’ll be a writer.”

I mulled it over for several days, not sure what to think — mostly feeling horrified at my reaction — and not hitting publish on this blog post, which is not like me.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. We were driving home from Los Angeles and talk turned to Annabelle’s first car. She’s almost 12, so I suppose it’s time to start planning. Ray insisted she’ll get his gigantic pick up truck. Horrified, she announced, “No way! I’m taking Mommy’s car instead!”

Sophie chimed in, insisting that no, she wanted my car. For a moment I was pleased that they’d argue over my vehicle (a not very exciting crossover) but when the argument persisted, I got confused.

Annabelle was fighting hard, convinced that she, as the eldest, gets the car of her choice. It didn’t seem to occur to her that it’s highly unlikely that Sophie will ever drive.

This morning, another discussion took place in the back seat, this one soft — almost whispered:

Annabelle: “You’re going to have children, right, Sophie?”

Sophie: “Yes.”

Annabelle: “Okay. Well, when we have them, our kids will be cousins, and we have to make sure that they are really close to each other, the way we are to our cousins now. Okay? Promise?”

Sophie promised.

I felt so sad, staring straight ahead at the road. Sophie has even less of a chance of having a kid than she does of driving. Then — without missing a beat — Annabelle informed me that Sophie told her she knows what part of the body babies come out of. I did the mature thing, and turned the radio up really loud. Conversations over.

To be continued. All of it. Of course.

As much as I worry about how the future will impact Sophie, I worry almost as much — today a little more — about how it will affect Annabelle.

We went to a giant water park on the west side of Phoenix yesterday. That’s not typically my idea of a good time, but it was Father’s Day and Ray was so excited I couldn’t say no. He can’t manage that kind of outing solo. Annabelle will go on all the slides with him — but Sophie’s a wimp, like her mother. We work well that way, as a foursome, and once in a while Sophie will give something a try.

Not me. I am staunchly anti-slide. Didn’t get wet above my knees yesterday. But to my surprise, I sort of enjoyed myself. The park was relatively clean and there were lots of lifeguards, but the part that really made me happy was the people watching. Holy crap, there were people there in all shapes and sizes and the one thing that united them was their total lack of modesty — that and a love of tattoos. I felt the sweat dripping down the back of my cover-up as I watched them frolic.

The day was half over when it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a single person with Down syndrome. Water parks, amusement parks, the mall — these are the places I see people with DS, where I grab sideways glances since 10 years in I still have trouble, sometimes, with the head-on stuff.

Then I saw him, in the shallow end of the wave pool. Funny, I thought, these days I can tell in a snap from the back — just from the shape of the head and the curve of the neck — but I had no idea the day Sophie was born. On her 10th birthday last month, Ray emailed me a photo marked nothing but “5-21-03.” It was Sophie, just a few minutes old, still in the delivery room.

Looking at that photo now, I think, “Fuck yeah, she has Down syndrome!” Anyone could tell. Right? Yet the pediatrician didn’t think so; our families didn’t suspect til the test results came back and we told them. It wouldn’t have occurred to me if Ray hadn’t noticed that Sophie didn’t much like Annabelle did when she was born.

“Hey Sophie,” I said, leaning down to whisper in her ear over the loud waves,” look at that guy. He has Down syndrome, too.”

She looked.

“I know him,” she said. “He’s in Special Olympics.”

Yeah right, I thought. We’re across town, there’s no way. To me, this young man (late teens, maybe in his 20s?) looked like just about every other young man I’d see with Down syndrome.

Sophie walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. They hugged and exchanged a few words, and his caregiver confirmed that the boy is on Sophie’s track team.

“Where’s your mom?” Sophie asked.

“School.”

“Where’s your dad?” I don’t know why, but I got a bad feeling.

“Died,” he said softly.

Happy Father’s Day, I thought to myself, wincing.

Sophie hugged him again, then we left the young man, moved across the wave pool, getting a little deeper. I picked her up, pulling her face to mine, under my straw hat.

“What do you think of that, seeing other people with Down syndrome?” I asked. “How do you feel these days about having Down syndrome?”

We hadn’t talked about that much in a while.

“I don’t want to have Down syndrome,” she said. “I want to be like other people. I don’t want to have special needs.”

I hugged her close.

“Oh Sophie,” I said, “we all have special needs! I have special needs.”

She shook her head. “Gracie said I have special needs in my face,” she said.

In your face?! I thought. Wow. Gracie is one of Sophie’s oldest and best friends. It seemed odd she’d comment on Sophie’s physical appearance.

“When did she say that?” I asked. “Where?”

“At school. On a Monday. She said it in my face!”

“Oh. You mean she told you that you have special needs.”

“Yes! Right in my face!”

Better than behind your back, I thought, wincing.