Pretty much ever since Sophie was born, I’ve kept a running list in my head of clothing items people with Down syndrome should avoid at all costs. These include but are not limited to: top hats, bow ties and overalls. Look, I get that that’s not a particularly politically correct thing to say. But we live in a mean world, people. You’ve got to look your best.

Yesterday I added another item to the list: the track suit.

I don’t even know where Annabelle located a matching pair of pants and jacket in our house, let alone a matching track suit. Yesterday afternoon she and Sophie disappeared and emerged into the kitchen a while later, announcing that Sophie was ready for her very first Special Olympics practice in track and field. (I never did get her signed up for cheerleading; more on that in an upcoming post, I promise.)

I guess Annabelle heard “track and field” and immediately thought “track suit.” Makes sense. I didn’t know til Sophie burst through the door, super excited, that this is not a good look. This was exacerbated by the fact that she was wearing a shirt that said supercalifragilisticexpialidocious on it, along with a pair of purple/black patent leather sneakers. The worst part was her hair, which was (and this is entirely my fault) tangled and greasy and (this she and Annabelle did) stuck half up/half down with about a dozen bobby pins hanging all over her head. Top that off with the smudged Down syndrome-standard-issue glasses, and there you’ve got it. Not Sophie’s best fashion statement.

WHO CARES?! you are no doubt yelling at your computer screen, along with unmentionable labels for me. Before you get too mad, you need to know that I did let Sophie out the door that way. She and Annabelle were really pleased (later Annabelle assured me that she’d put Sophie in a sports bra, just in case) and really excited for Special Olympics.

I was excited, too. And freaked out. Totally freaked out. If you have a special needs kid you might relate to the fact that ever since Sophie was born, not only have I been avoiding fashion mistakes on her part (when let’s face it, I should probably have focused more on my own) I have been thinking about Special Olympics. There aren’t many 100 percent super terrific things about having a special needs kid, but this is definitely one of them. If only, I’ve thought many times, there had been a Special Olympics for me. Alas, being a neurotic sufferer of hay fever and a diet soda addict does not qualify.

But having Down syndrome does, so off we went to a high school track near our house to sign up.

“I just wish Sophie looked cuter,” I thought to myself as we pulled out of the driveway. “Or at least cleaner.”

Really, if there’s one place where it doesn’t matter if your special needs kid is spit-shined it’s Special Olympics, right? Oh but it’s so much more complicated than that, particularly for those of us who are not joiners — the ones who don’t go to the support groups, who mainstream perhaps a bit too much.

Sophie was registering for Special Olympics yesterday, but I was the one being admitted into the club.

The hardest part’s over. We’re in. Sophie had a ball, can’t wait to go back next week. And I’ll get used to what you see at a typical Special Olympics track and field practice, right?

In any case, I’ll get over myself. But I’m hiding that damn track suit, I can tell you that. I’ve pretty much traced all of my clothing-for-developmentally-disabled-people phobias to the movies — “Of Mice and Men,” for example, is the source of my problem with overalls. I’m not sure exactly where the track suit thing comes in. The only movie I can think of in which matched track suits appear is “The Royal Tennenbaums.”

Come to think of it, we could all do worse than to dress like someone in a Wes Anderson movie.

I spent much of the last week in search of a lactating goat. It seemed vital that Sophie actually witness an animal being milked, as part of her science fair project: learning how to make butter.

I always lose my mind at science fair time. Last year a friend helped Sophie build a carousel out of rubber bands and styrofoam; another time Annabelle taught her classmates about Down syndrome, no small task. There’s no way to do the science fair thing (particularly with Sophie) without putting in some parental blood, sweat and tears, but I figure as long as the kid is engaged and actually learns something, that’s okay. (And it makes up for the fact that I’m really crappy about doing Sophie’s regular homework with her.)

“This is hard work!” Sophie exclaimed this afternoon, as we neared the end.

Indeed. Not counting the wild goat chase (I never did locate one), we did research on YouTube, visited a farmers market and a restaurant (none other than FnB, home to the amazing chef Charleen Badman, who was sweet enough to take the time to show Sophie her way around a KitchenAid), and expended plenty of elbow grease shaking a bottle of cream til it (really and truly!) became butter. Then came the logbook, the report and the backboard with photos and captions.

I’d do it again in a flash and I know Sophie would, too. She’s really proud of her finished product. Here is her report, which she dictated (almost entirely).

She chose the title: “Sophie and Her Mom Making Butter”

PROBLEM STATEMENT: HOW TO MAKE BUTTER?

What is butter made out of? I wanted to know. My mom said that to me that butter is made out of milk.

My cat Lulu, I felt her stomach, and it felt like pimples and then my mom told me that that’s where milk comes from.

And then we went to the farmers market and we see baby goats that aren’t having babies yet and when they have babies the mama gives milk to them with her nipples.

So then we went on YouTube and then this farmer squeezed this cow’s udder and it made milk.

Cream is a thick form of milk. You make butter out of cream.

And then we went to a restaurant called FnB and Charleen the chef – I said hi to her and we came into the kitchen and she gave me my very own apron and then she maked the butter. I helped, too.

First, I poured in the cream in the Kitchenator (KitchenAid) and then I turned it on and it was spinning like this for an hour (a few minutes, actually) and then when it’s ready we took it out and it stirred some more another hour (another few minutes) and then I ate it on a crouton. I loved it.

The cream was liquid and the butter was mushy. Charleen told me that when you mix it, it changes colors and makes butter.

My mom wanted to know who first made butter. She learned at FnB that it happened when a horse was pulling the wagon (with milk in it) and shaked the whole thing and it turned butter.

We went to the store and we got some paintbrushes for Sophie and cream. And then we came home and unloaded the groceries. Then took a bottle. We put the cream in and we shooked it a lot (from 2:53 to 3:08). I did, then Mom did, then Annabelle (my sister). And then after that we took it out and then we took a piece of bread and put on butter, it’s orange butter (because my mom used a Vitamin Water bottle) and then I tried a piece of bread and it was all buttery and it was all fun and then the end and that’s how you make butter.

THE END

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. Interview with Mom regarding cat, Lulu.
2. Visit to Old Town Scottsdale Farmers Market, interview with goat lotion purveyor.
3. YouTube, http://www.monkeysee.com/play/3274-how-to-milk-a-cow.
4. Interview and demonstration with Charleen Badman, chef at FnB restuaurant, Scottsdale.

You might find this hard to believe, but we actually made it through the entire play date and I still have no idea whether the kid’s mom knows Sophie has Down syndrome.

And that is because I never actually met the mom; and she never met Sophie, either.

To be fair, I’m pretty sure Sophie’s friend has older siblings (or maybe just one) and I’ve found that parents tend to relax more after the first kid. (I didn’t, but I’m neurotic; and our situation is a little different.)

In any case, here’s (pretty much all of) what happened.

The friend’s mom arrived half an hour early for the playdate (even beat me to my house, we were driving home from ballet) and when we pulled up, the kid ran out of a minivan and across our rather large front lawn to Sophie. I started to cross the lawn to meet the mom and invite her in, but she just smiled and waved me away.

“Call when you’re ready to come home,” she told her daughter.

“4:30, please!” I called out, and she nodded, then disappeared.

At 4:30, I called to check in (we had dinner plans and a tight schedule) and the mom explained that she had taken the light rail downtown for the first time, and hadn’t planned well. She was still downtown, probably an hour away; could the kid stay with us a while longer?

I said I wished she could (and I did — it had been a very nice playdate) but we had to get going. Could I maybe get in the car and start driving toward downtown? (I was kind of at a loss….)

The mom offered to have a friend pick the daughter up and (after a delay — turns out the friend was grocery shopping) that’s what happened.

So I never met the mom and she never saw Sophie — except from afar.

To be honest, the whole thing struck me as a little odd, but hey, different strokes, right? I’ll tell you one thing: When all was said and done I had to laugh at myself for being worried that this woman would think it was weird that her kid had a play date with a kid with Down syndrome. Or that she’d be horrified that my house was a mess.

I’m just disappointed that I bothered to straighten up.

Sophie has a playdate with a new friend today. This is incredibly nerve wracking.

Not for Sophie. She’s over the moon. She popped up this morning before sunrise and announced, “Today’s my playdate!”

“Good,” I said, covering my head with the blankets. “Go clean your room to get ready.”

And for the first time in almost 9 years, she actually did.

Sophie’s thrilled and I’m a bit of a wreck. Ah, the new play date. The scourge of the parent.  Of this one, anyway.

Why can’t she stick with her old friends, the ones whose parents I know? (Ditto for Annabelle, while we’re at it.) Sophie might need more friends — but I don’t. And yet here I am, making awkward conversation on the phone with a woman I don’t know, worrying for days when she promises to call back but doesn’t, wondering if I’ll freak her out by calling again to make sure that the tentative playdate Sophie’s been talking about non-stop is going to happen.

“Ali’s been bugging me for days,” her mother said when I finally reached her. OK, phew. Everyone’s on board.

So these new people are coming to our house this afternoon, and I’ve spent the morning shoving piles everywhere you can shove piles (don’t dare open a cabinet in my house today) and the place is still a mess.

Some things you just can’t hide. Or announce ahead of time. Maybe I could text it to this woman along with our address:

So looking forward to meeting you later today! Please don’t mind the fact that we’re slobs. Oh, and just in case no one’s mentioned it, my daughter has Down syndrome. Tootle-oo!”

Sophie crash landed on my bed 10 minutes later, announcing her room was “all clean,” and snuggled in for one last (still way too) early morning cuddle. I stroked her hair and had a thought.

“Hey, Sophie, have you ever met Ali’s mom?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

So does this woman know? I’m pretty sure no one ever mentions the whole Down syndrome thing at school. I had thought maybe this woman was avoiding me all week because Sophie has Down syndrome, but now I realized something worse. She might have no idea. This won’t be my finest moment, but I will go ahead and admit it: If I took my kid to a playdate and the other kid had a (let’s face it, fairly significant) um, issue, I’d be thrown a little.

Annabelle’s on the couch with me as I’m typing this, so I asked her.

“What if Ali’s mom has no idea Sophie has Down syndrome? Do you think she’ll think that’s weird?”

Annabelle, who just yesterday drew a lovely portrait of her sister as the first woman president, shot me a look.

“No. I don’t think anybody thinks it’s weird,” she said.

I guess we’ll find out at 1:30 this afternoon.

The other day I kissed Sophie and said, “I love you.”

She kissed me back. Right on the lips, the type of kiss I’m normally opposed to unless it’s from someone to whom I’m married.

“I love you, too, Mommy,” she said, and hugged me hard. She leaned back and looked at me, like she was trying to remember something she’d been taught.

“Why I no can marry you?” she asked.

So much love. People grouse about Valentine’s Day being silly and commercial and fake and I guess I used to be one of those people, but probably not since I met Ray and definitely not since I had Sophie. This holiday was made for her — not only is it a celebration of love for a kid exploding with it but it’s a celebration of the heart for a kid whose own blood-pumper has been pulled twice from her chest for repairs.

And so I heart you, Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it. Nor can I help getting downright ridiculous on the whole topic. Last night I was up til 2 making valentines for Sophie’s class, and today I snuck out of work to make heart-shaped goggles with her class, dropped cards at Annabelle’s school, baked red heart-shaped whoopie pies for my co-workers and now I have to run home to get the heart-shaped pasta in the water for a special valentine dinner at home. Typically I care if Ray acknowledges a holiday (he’s really good about it) but today I don’t much care whether he got me anything. I bought a little bunch of hot pink carnations for the family the other day; they’re perfect.

Silly? Sure. Commercial? In spades. Fake? I suppose. But there are worse things than a day dripping with sugar. If Valentine’s Day can make any of us feel — even for a few minutes, even with the aid of chocolate and commerce — the way Sophie feels on a regular basis, more power to it. We can all detox tomorrow.

There are some battles I’m just not ready to wage before 7 a.m. Particularly when my opponent is an 8-year-old armed with an iPad loaded with images of Elmo birthday cakes.

“Ray,” I called from the kitchen this morning, as he hustled to get ready for the day, “will you please explain to Sophie why she can’t have an Elmo-themed birthday party?”

“Sophie, it’s way too early to plan your birthday,” her father replied.

“But Daddy, it’s only three months away!”

Months ago (like, the day after her 8th birthday party) I gave up that fight. Sophie loves talking about her birthday, and really, for me, that’s a victimless crime. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been planning her 9th birthday party — which will take place at the end of May — for a while now myself. I even have a Pinterest board devoted to “Sophie’s Purple Pajama Party.” Weeks ago, she agreed to a purple-themed party. Cute, creative, appropriate for all ages. Most, anyway. Phew. Time to look for purple cocktail ideas.

But today Sophie wants an Elmo party.

“I loooooooooooove Elmo!” she said, (literally) stamping her foot and holding up the iPad to show off a beach-themed Elmo cake. This Elmo was on a surfboard, wishing someone named “Katie” a happy birthday.

I bet that Katie was turning 2, tops. But you can’t tell Sophie that. We’ve been having this battle (again, literally) for years. And I’ve grappled with it even longer. I remember throwing Sophie’s Elmo-themed third birthday party and feeling sorry for myself as I perused the offerings on amazon.com and noted that most Elmo birthdays are planned for 1-year-olds.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re all about immature television choices in our family. As I love to remind her, my sister watched Sesame Street til she was 11. Annabelle (almost 11 herself) only recently stopped watching Oswald the octopus on Nick Jr. I fell asleep on the couch last night watching the Disney Channel’s “Shake It Up” — and don’t get me started on some of Ray’s television favorites.

But Annabelle’s not asking for a Backyardigans birthday party. I’m not looking to shake it up for my 46th. Sophie loves Elmo and she has no concept of why her friends might not.

“I’m going to go to school today and tell Sarah I’m having an Elmo birthday party!” she said.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” I begged. Just the other day I wrote about how well Sophie’s school sticker chart was working, and a couple days later I bragged that she gets along well with her peers. Two days later (of course) the sticker chart came home sticker-less, reporting that Sophie had hit friends at lunch. (!!!!) Yesterday she missed a sticker during math; turns out she locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. None of this is easy and as I’ve written many times, I’m wont to focus on something silly — like the request for an Elmo birthday party — rather than the bigger, impossible-to-solve with retail therapy problem.

I adore my Girl in a Party Hat. I just need to convince her to ditch Elmo. I think I can do it. I’ve got three months, after all.

Field Notes: Red Blooded from Coudal Partners on Vimeo.

This is an ad for notebooks, yes, but someone inadvertently nailed it — except for the part about the scooters, every detail fits Ray and me. Even the number of years they’ve been together and the number they’ve been married. I wonder if he’ll mind receiving someone else’s Valentine this year? Or perhaps it should inspire my own….

Just finished this year’s Valentine, and I had to share early. Annabelle drew the image of the two girls (this is the third year) and I stitched it. (Our friend Claire designed the card.) Next year we will get Sophie in on the action. It’s a nice tradition, I think.

I have to admit that I think Sophie’s pretty cool, but I worry all the time that you might not agree.

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

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

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

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

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

All dry, he assured me. All dry.