“5:30 is the new 7:30!” Ray announced cheerfully yesterday morning, as the entire family skittered through the house, getting ready for Annabelle’s first day of school.

Ouch. The old school started at 8:50 (9 this year!) and we live, oh, about 30 seconds away. The new school starts at 7:45 — across town.

Yesterday morning was okay, I think we were all running on adrenaline. And Sophie’s always ready to get up, no matter what time it is. Today was a little tougher; reality is setting in.

The reality is that I’ve got a fifth grader. How did this happen? Just yesterday, I was on amazon.com, searching for a book I saw in Annabelle’s kindergarten teacher’s room called, appropriately, “Annabelle Swift, Kindergartener.” As books tend to in our house, that one surfaced in the bathroom the other day, and I stood at the counter and flipped through it, remembering my tiny, fuzzy-headed kindergartener.

Swift, indeed.

Annabelle was absolutely terrified to go to elementary school, sobbed when she got close to some big boys playing kickball against the office wall as we walked in to register for kindergarten.  Fifth grade boys.

Annabelle’s not scared of big kids anymore, even though she’s likely the shortest student at her new school, which begins in fifth grade and will take her (thankfully) through high school. She’s got the typical set of 10-year-old concerns. One afternoon last week we were getting out of the car at the mall for a rare day alone together when she told me she’s jealous of Sophie because Sophie doesn’t ever care what other people think of her.

I hope that’s always the case, I thought to myself, keeping my mouth shut to see what Annabelle would say next.

“I don’t care about everything they think about me,” she continued. “Like I don’t care what people think about my freckles. But I do care about what they think about what I wear.”

And so I was curious to see what she’d choose yesterday. Plain khaki shorts, plain blue Converse, hot pink tee shirt with a black cat on it, not-so-fuzzy-anymore hair pulled into a plain low ponytail with a tiny pink flower barrette. She whined, kicked and screamed over going to school, but when it came time to walk in, Annabelle was cucumber-cool; I was the one in tears as her math teacher closed the door.

I walked to the car — past older kids in purple knit caps, long skirts with strands of beads, dorky black-framed glasses — and wondered how Annabelle will dress in high school, after she’s been at this arts school for a while. I think at the core, she’ll stay the same girl: sweet, smart, a little neurotic, with a tendency toward plain clothes. But with a flourish or two.

Who knows. High school is a long way away. At this point, Friday seems like an eternity. And yet I know I’ll blink, and it’ll be Saturday; again, and she’ll be off to college like the kids we’ve been driving past on our way each morning to school.  

Way, way too early in the morning.

Two bits of breaking news.

1. Annabelle got her ears pierced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Sophie got her reading teacher assignment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think we’re doing enough to make Sophie feel like it’s a special day?” Ray asked as he grabbed his stuff and headed out the door to work yesterday morning.

It was a good question. Ray wasn’t sticking around for The First Day of School. But he’d taken most of last week off to spend with the girls, so it wasn’t fair to nag him back into the house. And Annabelle had just refused to come along to drop her little sister off; she was sad (understatement) — she’s not going to this school any more, and her new school doesn’t start for two weeks. I figured she was more than entitled to a pout on the couch.

But that left just me, and usually there’s a lot more First Day hoopla than that.

We didn’t do much at all this year, come to think of it. My sister took the girls back to school shopping when she was here last week to help my mom with her hip and I had slipped back to work. After cleaning up over the weekend and realizing Sophie  already has a half dozen barely-touched backpacks, I skipped that trip to Target and told her to choose. (She chose her backpack from pre-school and I must say, it’s perfect.)

I didn’t bother with a new lunch box, either, after Sophie announced she would be buying her lunch at school this year.

Yesterday morning, as I scurried around to get ready in time to snap a couple photos in the front yard (can’t skip every tradition!) Sophie wandered in the kitchen and asked, “Where’s my lunch box?!”

I explained that I didn’t get her one (or anything to put in it) since she would be buying lunch.

“But I need it!” she said. “I need it so you can write me a note with stickers on it that says, “Good luck in third grade, Sophie! Love, Mommy and Daddy.”

Crap. How could I have forgotten that tradition, too? Just the other day, I was finally putting away the boxes labelled “Annabelle, Fourth Grade” and “Sophie, Second Grade” and found the cards I’d left in their lunches last year — carefully drawn with Sharpies, covered with sparkly star stickers.

“Oh, um, make sure you check your pencil box when you get to school!” I said, calling Annabelle in for a distraction as I tore the kitchen apart til I found an Olivia sticker and a purple marker.

Done.

Then Sophie realized Annabelle would not be coming along to school. She sobbed, Annabelle refused to budge, the clock ticked. I hadn’t showered.

“How about if Annabelle does your hair?” I asked, desperate.

First Day of School Miracle: The tears stopped, the big sister grabbed a hair brush, I jumped in the shower.

And that’s how Sophie came to wear a gigantic bow from the gift wrap cabinet in her hair to school yesterday. A bow I never would have allowed under ordinary circumstances, but which I had to admit looked pretty cute.

The drop off was blissfully uneventful (we’d spent extra time in Sophie’s new teacher’s room last week, getting acquainted, and I feel much better now that the classroom aide is in place) and I headed home to pick Annabelle up and take her to the mall.

On the way, I called my mom to tell her about Sophie and the card in the lunch box. So cute that she remembered that from a whole year ago! And then a voice came from the back seat, a warning that I better not be getting any stickers and Sharpies out for someone else’s first day of school.

“NO CARD,” Annabelle announced.

Fifth grade just might be a lot tougher than third.

Ah, the wonders of modern medicine — not to mention modern mothers.

My mother had her hip replaced last week. The surgeon came out of the operating room and announced that she has the tissue of a “very muscular man.” When my father made a face, the surgeon amended that to “the tissue of a 39-year-old.”

That made everyone happy, particularly my mother.

As expected, the recovery has been lightning fast. She was standing up three (or so) hours after surgery; walked to the bathroom not long after that; and last night scared the crap out of my sister by tossing her walker into the air when something (probably a small child) got in her way.

But she’s not quite as self-sufficient as usual, so we’ve (okay, I’ve) been hovering — more than she’d like — nagging her to take painkillers, change her socks, get some rest, eat. I’m to the point where I’m annoying even myself, to be honest. For days, I’ve been scolding Sophie to keep her distance, terrified she’ll accidentally bang into my mom’s bad hip, knock her over, disturb her.

Turns out, the best caregiver in the family is Sophie.

Sophie doesn’t ask permission, she simply tends to her Gaga’s needs. At 4 the other morning (when I was asleep and not able to shoo her off) she woke up, noticed my mom was awake, went to the freezer and brought her a new ice pack. Then she talked her way onto Gaga’s lap (her good side), carefully positioned herself, and they both fell back to sleep.

But Sophie’s not content with her role as nursemaid. The other day she told my mother she was going to be something that “begins with a D and ends with an R” when she grows up.

“Dancer?” my mom guessed. “Designer?”

“Doctor!” Sophie said. “Then when you need another new hip, I’ll fix it.”

I wish. Sort of.

There was (yet another) story in the New York Times Magazine this weekend about brain-boosting drugs for people with Down syndrome. Ray and I talked about it a bit, about whether or not that would really be a cure. I said no, that Sophie would still have low muscle tone, straight hair, funny looking toes. She’d still be Sophie (and I’m glad).

“Do you think it would change her personality?” I asked him. Ray’s way better at science than me. “What if Sophie’s IQ was 50 points higher, but she was just as kind?”

Would she deliver icepacks and find her way onto laps, or offer careful air kisses like the other grandkids?

He didn’t know. In any case, I like imagining a surgeon with Sophie’s personality.

Actually, come to think of it, I’ve known one:  the guy who did Sophie’s second open-heart surgery, his name is Michael Teodori and he’s practicing in Tucson now if you ever need him.

The surgeon who did my mom’s surgery last week was very polite and professional, but he was quite obviously (and rightly) proud of his work, and reminded me of a joke one of my favorite writing students and friends, Noan, used in a piece recently:

Q: What’s the difference between God and a surgeon?
A: God doesn’t think he’s a surgeon.

Being really smart doesn’t always make you smug. In my experience, it’s more apt to make you unhappy. Or at least a little neurotic.

If we were presented with that magic pill, what would we do? I wonder.

Sophie is ready for third grade. So ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That kind of instruction, I wasn’t expecting.

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

So what do I do?

“So this is like a blind date?” my sister asked, not entirely kindly, smoothing on another layer of sunscreen.

“No,” I said, adjusting my sun hat a little nervously. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Okay, sort of.”

This was embarrassing. One of the completely unexpected things about writing this blog is the friends I’ve made through it. I’m not one for virtual friendship, really; I don’t have enough time to see the brick-and-mortar friends I’ve got here in Phoenix. But Girl in a Party Hat has been a terrific way to create my own little Down syndrome support group at arm’s length — right where I’m comfortable keeping it.

Elaine’s different. She doesn’t have a kid with Down syndrome. The only thing we have in common is that we both have daughters named Sophie. And blogs about those daughters, which is how she stumbled on mine.

Her Sophie is exactly half the age of my Sophie. I’ve written about Elaine before, about what a gift her insights are to me, since I’d always hoped with this blog to reach people who don’t have kids with Down syndrome. People like me, before I had my Sophie.

Elaine is an American Studies professor in Southern California and she’s wicked smart and for years now we’ve sworn that we’ll get together when my extended fam makes our annual trek to the beach. This year it happened; Elaine and Sophie schlepped over and I was honored, particularly since Elaine’s Sophie will soon have a little brother.

After five minutes, my entire family was enchanted by Elaine (including my sister), and the Sophies were fast friends — though my Sophie was, perhaps, a bit quick on the draw (and a little huggy) for her new young friend.

Right away we noticed that the two girls are exactly the same height.

It was a sweet visit, and too soon, it was time to go. Elaine packed up her beach gear, stuck Sophie’s shoes on her feet and they were off, amidst promises that we’d meet next time at Elaine’s favorite taco shop.

I wasn’t surprised that my Sophie spent the rest of the week begging for her new friend, but I wasn’t sure how Elaine’s Sophie felt about the encounter. Apparently, my Sophie made an impression, as well. The day after the visit, I got this note on Facebook from Elaine:

My Sophie is pretending that two of her Lego people have Down Syndrome. At least, I think that’s what she is pretending.

She told me, “They are like Sophie, the Other Sophie from the beach. When they were in their mommy’s tummy, they missed something, and now, even though they’re eight-year-olds, they’re not as big as an eight-year-old. And they really love to hug. And they’re very happy.”

These two Lego people also happen to be astronauts.

Update: Elaine’s lovely post on the same topic.

The physical therapist is here. She and Sophie are in Sophie’s room, working hard.

But not without a prelude — never without a prelude. Several, sometimes.

This morning (not an unusual one) involved Sophie running out the back door to greet Dorcas; refusing to come inside; coming inside but refusing to take her thyroid pill (with peach yogurt, NOT BBQ sauce this morning) til Dorcas had admired the picture of her on the roller coaster at Sea World; and then holding the kitchen door shut til Dorcas said the magic words (Olivia the Pig) and pretended to ring the doorbell.

As Dorcas was finally granted access, I looked at her and asked, “Will Sophie be doing this when she’s 30?”

Dorcas (who has worked with Sophie since she was 4 months old and is one of the wisest people I know) didn’t skip a beat.

“Not if you don’t let her,” she said.

There once was a babe from Tempe,
Whose parents called her Anna B.
‘Cause they just couldn’t tell
If the name Annabelle
Would fit their girl quite perfectly.

With that name, see, they took quite a risk,
For they knew other parents would tsk.
It would be hers for life,
Would it bring joy or strife?
Would dismissal as trite be quite brisk?

The name Annabelle seemed quite pretentious.
Old enough, would the kid be contentious?
Mad at having a tag
That a princess might drag
Round her life — such things can tend to fence us.

But it turned out to be just as well,
That they named this young girl Annabelle.
Her blonde hair it curled,
Her charm it unfurled.
And she had a sweet story to tell.

She climbed, pirouetted and swam.
Played piano — she was quite a ham.
Liked to take to the stage,
Gobbled books by the page.
And loved to hang out with her fam.

This girl, she was charmed from day one,
To dance and to sing and have fun.
She has friends out the door,
Draws cartoons and what’s more,
Her fashions are second to none.

On the tenth of July she turns ten.
All grown up for one minute, and then
She’ll watch little kid shows,
Ella, Spesh by her nose,
And make us remember her when.

She thinks about what she will be.
A decision that proves quite tricky.
All those choices to make,
Science, art, should she bake?
Or couch-surf and just learn to “be”.

Whatever she does, I can tell
This sweet girl — she’ll do it quite well.
With her wit and her wile,
She’ll do it in style.
And she’ll always be our Annabelle.

I wish you could see Sophie swim. Truth is, you might be terrified — she pretty much always looks like she’s about to drown. But she’s not!

In this dusty, overheated hell hole we call home, you have no choice. You must swim. And now Sophie can. At least, she’s well on her way.

Yesterday, Sophie got her medal at swim class for jumping in, turning around, swimming to the wall and touching it. Your kid probably did that when she was 3, or younger. I can’t recall how old Annabelle was, it was that long ago.

Umpteen swim schools and lessons later, Sophie did it. She passed the next level and got to participate in SwimKids cute little “Olympic” ceremony. She called me at work and I rushed down the hall to Ray’s office so she could tell him, too: “I got a medal!”

Now we really need a pool. And Special Olympics swimming sign ups are next month. I wonder if she’s ready for that? For the moment I think we’ll just revel a bit.

At dinner last night, Sophie said something I didn’t quite catch. I asked her to repeat it, but I still couldn’t understand.

“You want to put your medal on a shelf?” I asked, confused.

“No!” Annabelle said, playing with her peas, looking a little disgusted. (By peas or me, not sure.)

“She said, `I’m so proud of myself.’”

What better way to start a hot, dusty summer day than with a good poem? Actually, I’m not much of a poetry person. But from time to time I try, and I’ve had my eye on this beauty by Billy Collins for years — waiting for the right time. The time my oldest daughter turns 10.

I’m working on my own poem (well, sort of) for Annabelle’s birthday, which is Sunday. I hope it’s a poem she’ll appreciate at 10 — whereas this poem, one might argue, is better appreciated from several decades away.

So lovely. Check it out.

On Turning Ten
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.