Sophie takes the AIMS test next month, along with her third grade classmates. There will be some accomodations — more time, some (literal) wiggle room — but she will take the AIMS test.

Let that sink in.

It drives me nuts. I get the argument for standardized tests — I just don’t agree with it, not when I see the results. I don’t mean the test scores, I mean what it’s done to our schools. To my school, anyway. Teachers are paralyzed and pressure-cooked, it’s all about numbers. It’s incredibly depressing. This “teaching to the test” thing is ridiculous, and when you have a kid lagging behind, it’s ridiculous to the nth degree – since every day I think about things Sophie (or any other kid, really) should be learning instead.

“What’s this on her math worksheet?” the babysitter asks about some odd-looking geometry problem. “Oh, I know.” (She graduated with a degree in special ed she refuses to use, she’s that frustrated with the education system around here.) “It’s for AIMS.”

And then there’s the whole matter of Sophie pulling down the school’s average score, a number that matters more, it seems, than anything else in public education today.

Awkward. I’ve been trying not to dwell on it.

Today I had lunch with a lovely woman. We met because we both have kids with Down syndrome, so we have that in common, but let’s just say that when it comes to politics, I’m James Carville to her Mary Matalin.

She’s well-versed in education law, and ran (polite) circles around me over couscous salads on a pretty patio. When I mentioned that Sophie (who’s a few years older than her daughter) would be taking the AIMS test (“Arizona’s Instrument to Measure Standards,” our state’s version of the standardized tests, if that wasn’t already apparent)  next month, she saw the look on my face.

“I know how you feel,” she said. “But let me tell you my AIMS story.”

It goes something like this. This mom met another mom with a kid with Down syndrome. That kid’s older than either of ours, he’s 20 now.

“Make sure your kid takes the AIMS test,” she told my friend. “And make sure it’s the real one.” (Apparently there’s an alternative test they give to really cognitively challenged kids.)

Her reasoning? “Your kid needs to be able to sit still and fill in bubbles on a test sheet, to learn to complete the process. Even if she bombs.”

I couldn’t hide the look on my face. My friend continued.

“The tests will get harder and harder,” this mom told her. “Your kid will do worse and worse. But keep doing it. Your kid will learn to sit still, to fill in bubbles. It’s important.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “WHY?!” I demanded, teeth clenched. My friend shushed me.

“Because someday, your kid will need to sit still to take the SAT test, so she can go to college.”

She sat back with a big smile on her face. For a minute I smiled, too, imagining ivy-covered walls and university sweatshirts. Then my smile was gone.

I thought about saying, “But wait. If Sophie bombs the AIMS test every time, what will happen when she takes the SAT? I still don’t get the point.”

Instead, I changed the subject.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me. — Dorthy Parker

Words to live by. I’ve always believed that. (Second only to Woody Allen’s, “I would never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member.” I actually managed to incorporate that one into my wedding vows.)

But are Parker’s words to tweet by? I’m not so sure. And that applies to Facebook and blogs — anything you can send out into the world instantaneously. I’m beginning to feel like this desire to express every thought we have every moment we are having it is an increasingly dangerous thing. (Apologies to Nora Ephron, that’s a knock-off from “When Harry Met Sally.”)

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to write this blog post, come to think of it.

Take the whole thing to the extreme and it’s like abortion. I want the freedom to do it, don’t get me wrong, but it might be wiser to use contraception (or keep it in your pants) and not get pregnant in the first place.

Sometimes it’s best to keep your opinion to yourself. Do some self-editing. Or — and I get that this is an unpopular thing to admit — often it’s best to simply say it behind someone’s back and leave it at that.

In my book, honesty is not always the best policy. Not the kind of  extreme honesty you see out there on the web, anyway.

I’m seeing it everywhere online. At work, it’s arrived in the form of a gaggle of local foodies (a word I hate, but it applies here, and yeah, I guess I do mean it as an insult) who have taken to commenting on just about every post we put up on New Times’ food blog, Chow Bella. We publish an average of 10 posts a day — that’s a lot of reading, even if you are a bored IT guy or an out-of-work chef or a hungover bartender or Mr. Mom. But these guys (and it’s all guys) have some serious stamina. They pick on Chow Bella in the reader comments section and on Twitter (sometimes literally) all day long.

It’s a little creepy.

For the most part, I do best by ignoring them, or considering it a compliment. Once in a while, I engage with them. Mostly, I’m embarrassed for them — why would you want anyone to know how much time you spend reading a food blog, let alone that you actually have the time to bother to offer your opinion (again) about whether we’ve written too much about cupcakes? Of course we’ve written too much about cupcakes.

Hey, at least I get a salary to read those cupcake posts. You’re reading them for free, dude.

Last week, I admit, I let them get to me, and I entertained thoughts of a post or even a story in the print version of the paper entitled, “The Men Who Love to Hate Chow Bella,” complete with mini-profiles, personal digs and some of their less-scintillating comments.  But to be honest, I can’t be bothered. And there’s no point. Entire articles have been devoted to the topic of how to deal with “trolls,” and the best advice is to ignore them. (Fine — but I won’t be bothered if any of them stumble on this post on my own blog.)

So what does this have to do with Down syndrome? A lot, actually. I teach a class called Mothers Who Write, and I’ve always told my students I love the class because at work I have to be (OK, get to be) a motherfucker, but at Mothers Who Write, I just get to be a mother. (Awwwwww…..)

That’s not the case on the web. It’s ugly everywhere out there, and I’ve seen some seriously nasty blogging in the parenting category, including the special needs parenting category. It comes as no surprise — unlike the Phoenix food scene, this is some truly ugly turf. Parenting is tough; parenting a special needs kid is near impossible some days. People (including me, though lately I’ve become aware of what a cliche this is) are fond of saying quipping, “If only he/she’d come with an instruction manual!”

And that’s so true. But let me tell you, you are sorely mistaken if you think you’ll find that instruction manual online. Because if you’re not careful where you look, you’ll land on some truly angry shit.

When Sophie was born, and the Down syndrome support folks came knocking (for real) I quickly learned that there are not one but two Down syndrome support groups in metropolitan Phoenix. Two Buddy Walks. Two administrations, two newsletters, you get the picture. That’s because a while back, someone couldn’t get along and broke off to form a separate support group.

Warring Down syndrome support groups. I had to laugh. The (reputedly, if you buy the stereotype) nicest people have the meanest parents! Ho ho ho, chortle chortle. Hilarious.

I was reminded of that yesterday when I stumbled upon a long conversation (really long, up to 69 comments when I saw it) on Facebook about Kelle Hampton and her forthcoming book. I wracked my brain and remembered that a couple years ago, there was a buzz on some of the Down syndrome blogs (which I have to admit I’m not as good at keeping up with as I used to be) about this woman Kelle Hampton, who’d had a baby with Down syndrome. Hampton didn’t seem any different from the rest of us, except that she had a super awesome camera (her photos are gorgeous), a very pretty face, and a great desire to market herself and her kid. (Um, guilty as charged over here on number 3, though I hope it’s for a good cause.) Her blog wasn’t really my cup of tea, and I soon forgot about it.

Now Kelle Hampton is back with a book, and a lot of other parents of kids with Down syndrome are pissed about it. It hasn’t been released yet, and I haven’t read it (I don’t plan to) but I was so taken aback by the nastiness of the debate about this woman and her book on Facebook (moderated nicely by my Facebook friend who started the string) that I googled her:

“Kelle Hampton” “Down syndrome”

Immediately, even before results came up, Google automatically added another (common) search term:

“annoying”

followed by

“hate”

Whoa. The first thing I did was stop and Google my own name and Down syndrome to make sure Google didn’t offer “annoying” for me, too. (It didn’t; I don’t have much of a following — nothing came up after “Amy Silverman” “Down syndrome”. I’m OK with that.)

I can get nasty with the best of them, I promise, but — ooof. What will happen when we have something truly important to discuss? Will anyone be around to listen?

Seems to me that someone’s devoting an awful lot of time to hating on this Kelle Hampton. I guess this is related to how Hampton is portraying people with Down syndrome for the general population, and I don’t begrudge anyone the right to express a contrary opinion — and maybe Hampton started it herself by doing something truly awful — but really, how productive is it to piss on her? How about you just don’t buy her book?

Or take all that time you’re devoting to ripping apart Kelle Hampton — and your right to rip her apart — and write your own book. For that matter, write your own food blog.

Not as easy as it looks, huh?

Just how seriously should I be taking this Special Olympics thing?

In some ways, it’s quite professional and rigid. Sophie’s first track & field meet is this Saturday, and two weeks ago we were warned not to miss practice; times would be taken and heats arranged. So we were there, and Sophie did her javelin and running events. Even set a personal record in javelin.

Then the roster came home this week, showing her registered for the softball throw, not javelin. She’s never done the softball throw; she’s practiced for months with her PE teacher at school on the javelin. I scanned the document, knowing what I’d see before I saw it.

Yep, they’d swapped Sophie’s name with another little girl’s. This little girl, who is also in third grade at Sophie’s school, is an awesome kid. She and Sophie are nothing alike — and yet, of course, to much of the world, they are. Two girls with glasses and straight brown-ish hair. And Down syndrome.

I fought hard not to think evil thoughts toward the sweet (but a little disorganized — maybe overwhelmed?) Special Olympics coaches. But I couldn’t help it. The other little girl had been practicing the softball throw with her dad at home. She hadn’t been measured at the javelin; so much, I thought for all that professionalism and the fancy track meet talk.

But mostly what bothered me was the feeling that Sophie and the little girl had been confused for one another. Again. It happens all the time at school — where you’d expect it.

You wouldn’t expect — at least, I wouldn’t have expected it — to happen at Special Olympics. Celebration of differences and all that. “Eunice Shriver would be horrified!” a friend (sort of) joked when I told him.

Sophie is two heads shorter than the other little girl. Sophie’s got bangs, the other girl does not. The other little girl is a pro on the monkey bars, which Sophie’s never touched. Sophie is into Olivia the Pig; as far as I know, the other girl could care less about pigs. Both girls do love Justin Bieber. That is true.

Of course, no one at Special Olympics knows all this. They’ve only seen Sophie and the other little girl at practices — by far the two smallest kids there — hanging out together. It makes sense.

I just don’t want it to.

I mentioned the swap as gently as I could in an email to the parks and rec guy and it was (kind of) resolved by day’s end. He was really nice and I managed to keep my inner Dance Mom at bay. I’ve grown up a little in Sophie’s 9 years, I guess. Or maybe I’m just tired.

Sophie was late for school today.

It’s happened before. But today — unlike other days — it wasn’t because I rushed and pushed and skidded to the finish line a few moments late.

It was because I didn’t.

I didn’t rush this morning. School doesn’t start til 9 am and we live all of three minutes away — really, there’s no good excuse to ever be late. But just about every day, it seems, there’s a last minute fight: over the outfit, the shoes, the hair. Then there are  the out-the-door requests for juice or toast or a toy Sophie knows is buried somewhere in the play room. I forget to give Sophie her thyroid medicine, or I can’t find her glasses. Or they’re dirty, or they fall apart as I’m grabbing my purse and keys.

It’s always something, and it’s usually something that leads to a struggle, or even a full-blown battle that leaves both of us whiny and grouchy by the time we pull up to school.

At that point, to be honest, I can’t wait to see Sophie go — that is, til we’ve said our goodbyes and she’s lugging her book bag toward the playground, a good two heads shorter than any other kid around. Then I want to pull the car over and jump out and run and hug her hard. Instead, I pull out of the parking lot, totally exhausted.

This morning was different. Ray and Annabelle left at 7:15, as usual, — and, as usual, Sophie asked to cuddle. I ditched the dirty dishes, grabbed the laptop and joined her on the couch, determined to finish a work assignment before we had to leave. She snuggled up against me — and soon was snoring away. I wasn’t suprised; I know she never sleeps well.

I worked and watched the clock, realizing that if I didn’t nudge her awake soon, we’d never make it in time. And that even if we did, it would be after another epic battle — waking her up, fighting over everything from panties (must be worn) to flip flops (must not).  At 8:30, my inner dialogue began.

How bad would it be if Sophie got a late slip? She’s not late so often — well, sometimes — and they just take attendance those first few minutes, anyway. It’s not like she’d be missing any real learning. How terrible would it be to let her sleep a little longer, to take the time to shower, to not — for once — rush either of us?

And so that’s what I did. When she opened her eyes a few minutes later and asked to look at her birthday party board on Pinterest, I said okay and we giggled for a while over satin purple prom dresses and purple candy displays. When she asked to wear a purple dress to school, I offered options til she picked. I didn’t nag or sigh. I told her to choose shoes, and instead of Crocs or flip flops she found some Toms that actually matched her outfit.

She let me brush her bangs. I let her take a Capri Sun with her. And I took the time to get her new purple calculator out of its wrapper so she could take that, too.

I didn’t nag her to get buckled faster, didn’t grit my teeth at the red light, didn’t freak when I realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses. We pulled into school — a ghost town — and said happy good byes. I watched her hitch her book bag up on her shoulder as she negotiated the heavy door to the school office, on her way to get a late slip.

I wondered what she’d tell the attendance lady when asked why she was late.

I fell asleep after breakfast.

I was on Pinterest.

My mom decided she didn’t really care if I was late this morning.

To be honest, I really didn’t care. I pulled away from the school feeling happy and relaxed and a little naughty. It was all of 9:11.

Tonight in the mail, among the bills and magazine subscription offers, I found a form letter from the school with Sophie’s name filled in.

It has come to our attention that Sophie is having difficulty coming to school on time. To date, your child has been late a total of 15 times.

And so on. I was horrified, then I had to laugh. Fifteen? I guess that is a lot.

OK, so I won’t let Sophie be late again.

Or maybe I will.

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.

The other night I took Sophie and her best friend Sarah to the movies and gave them pennies to toss in the fountain. They decided it’s ok to tell the person who gave you the penny the wish you made.

“I wished that Sophie and I will be BFFs our whole lives,” Sarah told me.

Me too, Sarah. Me too. With tween angst looming, I keep bracing myself for the end. And sure, there are quarrels and hurt feelings and all the usual best friend stuff. But mostly there’s a lot of love.

Look what I found this morning when I put the living room back together after Sarah slept over.

BFFs since kindergarten, the smallest and tallest in their third grade class, they make a funny pair. But like a lot of funny pairs (I’d count my husband and myself among them) — it works. And now I have to go grab toothbrushes, and pajamas, because tonight the sleepover’s at Sarah’s house.

Time for spring cleaning at Girl in a Party Hat; dust was gathering all over this blog. I’m quite sure there’s still some gathered in the corners here and there (time for a new family portrait on the ol’ home page, for example) but I did get a chance this evening to do a little light housekeeping in the blogroll section.

I have hoarding tendencies, so it was tough, but I got rid of the blogs that haven’t been updated in a year, and several whose URLs no longer work. And I added a few really wonderful ones. I was lucky enough to work with Laura Laughlin for a few years a long time ago — she’s a truly gifted writer and reporter, and her blog, View from the Handicapped Spot, is inspired — and an inspiration.

I worked with Megan Irwin much more recently, and miss her all the time. Read her manifesto and I think you’ll see why. This is a young woman who walks the walk — always in the coolest shoes. And she’s obsessed with pie. What’s not to love? Check out Sweat and Sweets.

And then there’s Robrt Pela. We still work together. If you live in Phoenix, the man needs no introduction — you’ve read him forever in New Times, heard him on KJZZ. Either way, you are in luck: Robrt says what you are thinking, only he puts it better than you could ever hope to. I Hate Everything — the title says all you need to know.

Enjoy. I’m off to tackle Sophie’s bedroom next.

It happened again yesterday.  I was having a meeting at work with a brand-new hire, a super-smart guy (way smarter than me, for sure — by the books, anyway) who just finished journalism school. We were going over his job description, and he said it about something, I’m not sure what.

“That’s so retarded!”

Or some variation.

I paused for a minute, thought about it, considered the photos of Sophie all over my office (where we were sitting), wanted desperately to keep going but instead interrupted gently (I hope) to say, “Hey, I have a kid with Down syndrome. Please don’t say use the word `retarded’ around me.”

He was horrified and apologetic, made me promise not to tell one of his professors — a guy, he explained, who also has a kid with Down syndrome and had recently asked the same of him. (I wasn’t surprised; I know the professor. Small town.)

“So,” I told a couple of colleagues a few minutes later as I sat down to a production meeting in another part of the building, “I just had to ask our new hire not to use the word retarded around me.”

The guy sitting next to me put his head in his hands. Just then, the production manager for the paper took his seat. Within three minutes he’d used the word, too.

This time I didn’t say anything. No one else at the table did, either.

It’s too fucking exhausting. And here’s the thing. Part of what irks me here is that instead of simply asking people to stop using “retard” as a slur, instead as a society we are trying to outlaw it. That is dangerous.

Plus I actually LIKE the term mentally retarded — well, as far as such terms go. It’s a medical definition, I like the word “retard” as in, “to slow down” — it just sounds right. Fire retardant. Satisfying, right? As far as I’m concerned, replacing “mentally retarded” with terms like “cognitively disabled” and “intellectually challenged” is just asking for a new slur.

And it won’t stop my colleagues from saying “retard.” It won’t stop it from smarting. What do the lawmakers think, that people like me will say, “Oh, pshaw, go right ahead and call each other retards! My kid’s cognitively disabled!”

That’s not what Sophie will get called behind her back in junior high, no matter what our lawmakers say.

How about we embarrass people who use the word instead? That might not work on junior high kids, but I’ve found it effective with just about everyone else. And I think it could work, at least a little.

Consider:

Not so long ago (not in my memory, not much anyway — thankfully) people used the word “Jew” disaparagingly — constantly. “He Jew’ed me down!” “Don’t be so Jewish, pick up the tab.” And so forth.

No one actually ever banned the word Jew (not that I know of, anyway). They educated people. Today people may still not like Jews, may still think they are cheap, but at least they know it’s not socially acceptable to say so in most situations.

I get the semantics. This is way different. And yet it’s not — on the few occasions someone’s used the word “Jew” around me, I’ve tried to work up the courage (and usually have) to say something. I know others have, top — for decades — and today I don’t have internship candidates from one of the (supposedly) best journalism schools in the country telling me something’s “so Jewish.” But those same kids have no problem using the word “retarded.”

I doubt anyone made a video (or would today) of Jewish people explaining that they aren’t cheap. But I’m to see the awareness campaigns going on around the country vis a vis the word retarded, particularly this past week.

To be honest, though, I don’t think any of it’s working. I hear the word more and more (and more and more and more). But I was touched by the video I’m posting here, and if you’ve read this far, I bet you will be, too. It was made by folks at Marana High School outside of Tucson:

(DARN IT, THIS LINK DOESN’T SEEM TO WORK…. I POSTED THE LINK THAT DOES WORK ON FACEBOOK, YOU CAN CATCH IT THERE — FRIEND ME IF WE’RE NOT ALREADY FRIENDS. XO AMY)

https://fbcdn-video-a.akamaihd.net/cfs-ak-snc6/444044/851/3032944300876_60352.mp4?oh=992b9cdffe8c98c119603c02bec550c1&oe=4F5D2300&__gda__=1331503872_a5a16da3b4fc51f20193255811349569

He stood on the edge of the track, away from everyone else; he’d arrived late and missed most of the stretching exercises.

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.

It came, as most of the hard questions do, from the back seat. This one was, perhaps, the hardest of all.

“Mommy, why do I have Down syndrome?”

Sophie and I had just left Special Olympics practice, so I wasn’t completely surprised that the topic came up — we’re almost never around groups of people with Down syndrome, and there were a dozen or so out for track and field that afternoon. I just expected that when the first questions came, they would be more of the “what” or “who” variety, rather than “why.” I will admit that I was completely unprepared. She’s only 8. I figured I had a few years.

“Uh, um, err–” I sputtered. “I don’t know.”

Before Sophie could protest, I followed up with all I could scrape from my end-of-the-day-tired brain.

“So when you were just becoming a baby, some science happened and it made you have Down syndrome.”

That was terrible, but it seemed to satisfy her.

“Oh, like the science fair!” she said, excited, and quickly changed the subject with a question I honestly can’t recall at the moment, something on her current rotation: “When can I get a Monster High doll?”; “When can I have a sleepover with Gaga?”; “Why isn’t it my spring break yet?”; “How many days til my birthday?”

Back to comfortable (if slightly annoying, after a dozen times) territory. I turned up the Disney channel on the radio and let the whole thing play out in my head, again and again.

“Mommy, why do I have Down syndrome?”

“Well, Sophie, it’s because Mommy was selfish and waited til she was 36 years old to have you. You have an old mom with old eggs.”

“Oh, Sophie, I’ve wondered that myself. Perhaps the universe was trying to punish me tell me something.”

“You see, Sophie, you have a genetic condition called Trisomy 21, in which you have an extra 21st chromosome, which affects just about part of you. If you’ve got an hour, I can start listing the many ways.”

“Fuck if I know, Sophes.”

Annabelle got in the car, and asked her sister how Special Olympics went.

“Good!” Sophie told her.

“Hey, Sophie, did you notice there are a lot of people at Special Olympics with Down syndrome?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you think of that?”

“I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because they are nice.”

Later I told Ray about the conversation.

“You know,” I said, “maybe it’s like meeting someone from your own planet. Maybe she feels really comfortable around them — like they are her people.” Maybe she wonders why life is so hard all the time, why she doesn’t quite get it when she’s around us, her nuclear family. Maybe these people are really her family. Does she think that?

“No,” said Ray, who’s read more (as in, anything) on the subject than I have. He says people with Down syndrome are not really capable of that kind of thinking.

I’m not so sure.