I feel dirty.

I sat here for a while this afternoon and contemplated writing about the Elmo show we took Sophie to this weekend, or the craft documentary Annabelle and I saw, but I couldn’t get going on either. My “to do” list was tugging at me.

I often write “to do” at the top of the lists I’m constantly making, but this morning I wrote “TODAY” at the top of the page, hoping it would push me to get to the bottom of the list by day’s end. There’s lots of stuff on it that’s overdue — checks to deposit, bills to pay, end of the year thank you gifts to buy. An IEP to turn in. And doctor appointments to make. (Not to mention all the actual work I need to do for my job — which winds up being 24/7 because of days like this one. There’s a separate “to do” list for work. It’s too long to list here.)

I furrowed my brow and picked up the phone and — like ripping off a Band Aid — quickly scheduled an overdue thyroid test for Sophie and well check visits for both girls. Then I looked up the number for Dr. Death.

That’s not her real name, of course. I first heard about this psychologist — and her nickname — several years ago, when I was writing a story about autism, namely about how tough it is to have a diagnosis dependent on so many variables, as opposed to one like Down syndrome, which is neatly diagnosed with a blood test. (You can read that story here: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2006-12-07/news/the-scarlet-letter/)

At the time, people told me about this psychologist in town who would pretty much give you whatever diagnosis you needed, in order to get services. She’s legendary, but when it came time last summer to get Sophie’s IQ tested (for the second time; the first time, the school said she was not mentally retarded, meaning we would soon lose state services — and please, I know, the whole IQ thing is totally bogus, particularly at Sophie’s age, but we don’t have a choice if we want the services) I didn’t even think of calling her. Somehow, it seemed like cheating.  

And so I searched high and low for the best, most caring, qualified psychologist. We spent much of last summer with the woman I found – she interviewed Sophie several times before she even started testing, to be sure Sophie was comfortable with her and her office. She did the tests in very small bits, always first thing in the morning, to be sure Sophie wasn’t too tired.

Sophie’s IQ went up three points from the school’s results.

So now Sophie’s IQ needs to go down 14 points, or she loses it all — two hours a week of physical therapy, and one each of speech, occupational and music, and respite care. (Apologies if you’ve read this litany before — several times.)

I asked Sophie’s pediatrician if he could just write a prescription for the physical, speech and occupational therapies. No, he said, but if I needed to get Sophie’s IQ tested, he could refer us to a good psychologist.

I looked at the name he scribbed on a prescription pad, and looked at him. He wasn’t winking, there was no knowing glance. The pediatrician’s a straight shooter; I couldn’t ask him if he knew this woman’s nickname was Dr. Death.

Either way, I figured, it was a sign. And I put “call Dr. Death” on my “to do” list.

I didn’t tell the receptionist at Dr. Death’s office much. I just told her — in a small voice, that’s all I could muster — that Sophie has Down syndrome and needs to have her IQ tested when she turns 6, to see if she still qualifies for state services.

The receptionist was polite, but not chatty. She took down some basic information, informed me that her office does not accept our insurance, asked me to send copies of Sophie’s IEP and previous test results, and scheduled the IQ test for 1 pm on a Tuesday in July.

“That’s the only appointment?” I asked.

“Yes, the doctor will do all the testing in one afternoon,” the receptionist replied.

Of course she will, I thought. “Okay,” I said. “See you then.”

Fingers crossed. But for what?

Ms. X has a reputation among parents as a real hard-ass. I attribute this in large part to the fact that so many parents can’t manage to get their kids to school on time. I am often late to a lot of things in life, but one non-negotiable is school. Sure, we’ve had the occasional late slip, but I try to keep it very occasional. Others, not so much. And it drives Ms. X nuts for what I think are extremely valid reasons.

The parents get to see her reaction. But many aren’t in the classroom much beyond that. (Myself included, I admit.) Friday I happened to be there when she did carpet time and gave the kids some last minute instructions before Dibels testing. Dibels tests literacy, and it’s a biggie. Ms. X wrote words and letters (just examples, she wasn’t giving anything away!) on her dry erase board and reminded the kids what the test entails.

But that’s not what got me teary. It was the pep talk.

Ms. X leaned over from her rocking chair and caught the eyes of 20 kindergarteners, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Don’t get nervous,” she said, shaking her hands as an example. “Don’t get all” (more hand shaking and some grunting) “and give up.”

She spoke in her best Kindergarten Teacher voice, forceful but kind. “YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU KNOW THIS. YOU ARE A GREAT CLASS OF READERS, THE BEST I’VE SEEN! YOU ARE AWESOME!”

You could feel the positive energy jump from Ms. X to the students, like magic. It was really something. Each kid was called out individually, and each time, Ms. X stopped the class to offer her encouragement: “Rosie, you go, girl! You can do it! You are great!” And so on.

I wish every parent at the school could have seen it. Some of the teachers, too, for that matter.

Sophie’s sold on Ms. X’s magic. She wants to be a teacher. I snapped her picture the other day in Ms. X’s rocker; she was pretending to teach. Sophie’s big on pretend play these days, which pleases me greatly. And I love that her play world involves academics. A nice coincidence! Or is it one? The “I Play Teacher” started in Ms. X’s class. (The sad part: It’s hard to imagine that I’ll have the first child with Down syndrome who becomes a bona fide kindergarten teacher.)

The girls and I were winding down on the couch tonight when a headline on cover of the Sunday New York Times magazine — still unread, waiting on the coffee table — caught my eye. Peggy Orenstein wrote a piece about academics in kindergarten. Too strenuous, she says; she wants the old days of all-play back. She mentions Dibels and all the other testing and the fact that many kindergarteners get homework. (Not her daughter; she’s at a school that won’t give homework til fourth grade. The piece is at: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/03/magazine/03wwln-lede-t.html)

I see Orenstein’s point. I grappled with the homework thing, too, more with Annabelle since she started school first and it was all new then. (I also remember how excited I was in third grade, when I finally got homework myself. That lasted, oh, about a day.) But a couple years into elementary school with my kids, I think homework is a good thing. Granted, there’s a little too much math in second grade, and I know it’s because Annabelle’s being prepared for tests, which frustrates me. (And hey, someday can we please have an art program in school?!)

But as a busy working parent, I have come to really appreciate homework. If nothing else, it forces us all to sit at the kitchen table and focus on the same thing (I struggle with that second grade more than Annabelle does, I admit) and in kindergarten, at least, the homework is far from onerous. On the days Ms. X has reading groups, she sends home a very short book, which Sophie is to read to us. We all love it. It lets me know what both girls are working on and how they are doing.

Maybe Orenstein is referring to a far more strenuous regimen, because it’s hard to imagine her finding fault with the nightly book in kindergarten, and the accompanying sheet Ray or I must sign to acknowledge Sophie did her work. I know this will sound horribly judgemental, but since I started off by judging the parents who can’t get their kids to school on time, I’ll continue on with the parents who don’t know what their kids are up to at school and I’ll just say it: Homework in kindergarten is for the parent, not the kid. It creates a pattern, some learned behavior — responsibility. (Like the damn library books I start to stress over as soon as I see one floating around the house.)

I closed the magazine and put it back on the table, and Sophie picked it up and tenderly kissed the photo of Barack Obama on the cover. (That’s a whole other story. I LOVE that the girls love him. Ray thinks it’s a sign of the brainwashing of American children by the liberal media. Whatever.) Annabelle made a comment about how Obama doesn’t look very happy in the photo.

“Do you think you’d ever want to be president?” I asked her.

She immediately answered no.

“Why?”

“You have to be too serious all the time.”

Hey, let a kid be a kid. Maybe Orenstein has a point. I just wish her daughter could have Ms. X for kindergarten.

This morning I was cleaning out the girls’ school folders, part of my daily, desperate attempt to get organized — or at least find the surface of the dining room table.

I love those folders. You never know what you’ll find. Confetti, sometimes, or a note about the swine flu, but this morning, a small jackpot: Annabelle’s weather folder.

They must have just finished up a unit on weather in her class; the folder’s packed with worksheets. I’m sure she learned all sorts of important scientific stuff, I’ll look through it later, but my favorite part is the cover.

“I know this is silly but I like rainy days when I’m sad,” a little girl in the lower left corner says. I asked Annabelle how she thought of that and she just smiled and shrugged and stretched , then settled back into her favorite corner of the couch, where she’s watching Noggin and waiting for Ray and Sophie to come home with bagels. She beamed when I told her I loved her cover so much I had to take a picture. Here it is, in part:

It’s official. We’re in the home stretch.

“Do you know what today is?” I asked Sophie, when she showed up in my bed this morning. “Today is May.”

“MY BIRFDAY!!!!!!!!!”

“Well, today is not your birthday, but it is now May, your birthday month.”

Big smiles all around. Plans are already underway for the birthday party. Invitations went out, RSVPs are coming in. I must find a Piglet pinata. (Not so hard in Phoenix, I’ll give you the info on the store if I score big.)

And I’m already teary, anticipating the last day of school — May 21, which also happens to be Sophie’s 6th birthday.

We got to school today and I performed my second Junior Achievement task, which this time did involve money. (It was a bust, the kids already know how to identify coins.) Everyone — me included — was much more interested in the butterflies.

Did I mention that Sophie named her caterpillar “Soph-A-Loaf?” When I asked her a couple weeks back about the “pet” she got at school, she struggled to remember what it’s called and finally announced, “A raccon!”

I got it. Sounds just like cocoon.

By this morning, the kindergarteners had lost track of whose butterfly has emerged. The net cage is crowded with discarded cocoons and flapping Monarchs (just a few fatalities and a lot of red liquid — looks like blood; Ms. X says it’s dye that makes the wings a bright orange-red).

At carpet time, Ms. X announced that this afternoon, the class will set the butterflies free.

I can’t think of a better way to welcome May.

CORRECTION: MS. X JUST INFORMED ME THAT INSTEAD OF MONARCHS, THESE ARE “PAINTED LADY BUTTERFLIES”. AND THEY EMERGE FROM A CHRYSALIS, NOT A COCOON. SO I’M NOT SURE WHERE THE RACCOON THING CAME FROM. GIRLINAPARTYHAT REGRETS THE ERRORS!

This morning, as with many mornings since we ushered in era of the Big Girl Bed, I had some time to lounge in bed and think. I had to stay perfectly still. Sophie comes to our room at dawn (literally) and while Ray can roll noisily out of bed and start his day, for some reason as soon as I move even slightly, she pops up like a jack in the box.

I wanted her to get some extra sleep this morning; night before last she barely slept a wink (I have a hunch she’s a very light sleeper in general, but that night she was out of bed several times) and had a couple of meltdowns and a nap at school yesterday.

So this morning, I watched her sleep for a while. Not a bad gig. Actually, it’s the best.

Finally, though, it was time to get up or risk a late slip, so I carefully tugged my arm from under her neck. She snapped to attention. “Wait for me, Mommy!” she squealed, trailing me to the bathroom.

We headed into the kitchen, where Ray was making lattes. (Yes, I’m that lucky. I don’t even know how to turn on the espresso machine.) Sophie got excited. She has several little tasks — I wouldn’t quite call them chores — she loves to perform, like waiting for me to finish a shower then racing to the bathroom to hand me my towel, or holding the porch door open for the rest of us as we trudge to the car to head for school.

And she always pats down the coffee in the little espresso holder (I don’t know the proper terminology) when Ray’s making lattes.

This morning I watched her from across the kitchen and thought, “Hmmm. Future barista?”

I do that from time to time, imagine professions for Sophie. It’s so unfair. I certainly aim higher than coffee shop girl when I conjure careers for Annabelle — fashion designer, artist, writer. With Sophie it’s so different. The world tells us the sky’s the limit for Annabelle; for Sophie, not so much.

Really, I try to aim high in my dreams for Sophie, too. You could also just say I’m a snob. I don’t want her bagging groceries, and I’m not down with anything involving widgets. I’m thinking she might want to work with kids.

In any case, that’s for her to decide and it’s way too early to think about. We’ve got to get through first grade. Just last night, in fact, Sophie told me she thinks first grade will be “tricky.”

I snapped a picture of Sophie the Barista and went on with the day, not even making the connection to what was coming next — my first Junior Achievement presentation in her classroom.

Junior Achievement is a non-profit program designed to teach kids the value of work, business and money. That’s fine, I suppose, although with pre-arranged programs like this I’m always looking for some offensive reference to the evils of socialism or a nudge toward religion, buried in the lesson plan. I can’t find fault with the kindergarten curriculum, at least not so far. (To be honest, I haven’t read ahead.)

Today’s lesson involved explaining what a volunteer is, reading a story about some kids who visit a family member’s farm and having the students draw pictures of their favorite animals.

I guess we’ll get to the money part in a later lesson.

We went around the room at Ms. X’s behest, and each kid explained what their father and/or mother did for a living. That was pretty risky, I thought, given the current economic climate; but Ms. X knows these kids and their families well.

Given that we live in a pretty diverse neighborhood, there was quite a mix. My favorite juxtaposition came from the first three girls:

“My Dad works with dirt;” “My Dad works in a liquor store;” “My parents are architects.”

(Dirt Dad is actually a soil scientist.)

With a little prompting, Sophie told the group that her mom and dad work at the paper.

I’m not saying it’s right but it’s true: So much of our self-worth as people is rooted in our jobs — our titles, how much we make, how much respect we command, the work we produce. And so I do wonder what sort of job Sophie will have. Not some kind of smoke and mirrors faux job, I hope, not just busy work. I will aim high in my dreams, but I hope I’ll be okay — and more important, I hope Sophie will be okay — even if her achievements are just junior achievements. Something where she can have some small successes and make a difference in the world, even if it’s just by making someone a darn good coffee drink.

Sophie’s smart enough to know if someone’s shining her on, so I hope that if Starbucks (or a groovy indie coffee house)  does give her a job as a barista, they really let her make the lattes herself. Even if she does get burned once in a while.

Some days, with both my girls, it feels like I’m watching Polaroid film develop before my eyes.

(I’ve used this analogy before with downtown Phoenix, but I think it applies even better here, so I’ll recycle. Hey, I’m green!)

It’s amazing to see bits and pieces come into focus. Annabelle’s image is clearer, I’ll admit — partly because she’s in second grade, the first year of my own life I remember vividly, so I see the parallels and differences developing and relive certain moments through her, like last week’s Field Day, when she cried because she didn’t want to go. “Oh, Annabelle, I have to tell you that I always hated Field Day, too,” I admitted, offering an extra tight hug before sending her on her way. As with many of our not-so-shared experiences, she rose to the occasion where I never did, and had a fantastic time. The way she walks, the way she talks, dances, draws, sleeps, smooths her unruly hair, the way she started riding her bike a week ago without training wheels — it’s all developing, making her picture.

But there’s also the Down syndrome thing. Sophie’s picture is developing more slowly, no doubt about it. At the risk of sounding crass (but hey, there’s that whole Holland versus France thing that I HATE — and I’m not sure this is much worse), it’s as though Sophie’s a piece of Polaroid film that went a little wrong, chemically. Have you ever had one of those?  It comes out of the pack with the rest of that super-expensive, individually-wrapped film, and it just goes funny — the colors are off, maybe the picture’s never quite as clear as the others from the pack. But sometimes the hues are much brighter, the image different in an unexpected, beautiful way that alters your thinking.

(This is making me want to dig out the Polaroid camera and see if I can order film for it, but Sophie’s holding a toy Mickey Mouse phone to my ear, insisting that I call Mickey. So I’m a little distracted at the moment.)

Good stuff’s emerging on the piece of Polaroid film that is Sophie, for sure. The other day she wrote “Gaga” and turned to my mom and said, “G A, G A, that’s a pattern!” My mom’s been telling the story for days. Yesterday Ms. X called to report that Sophie played “go fish” with some classmates. (Won’t be long til she joins the poker game.) And there’s the reading and the talking and the way she’s right now taking pictures on my iPhone. (Only distraction that works; she’s got expensive taste. She just told me not to smile, to type — she wanted to capture me naturally, I guess. Oof, can’t wait to see that one.)

I got to thinking about this whole Polaroid thing after talking to Sally Ann yesterday. I write a lot about Dorcas the Great Physical Therapist but I don’t often mention Sally Ann, the Equally Amazing Occupational Therapist. Dorcas was at the IEP meeting last week, so I already knew she was cool with things, but I wanted Sophie’s other therapists to sign off on the report before I agreed to the terms that will govern Sophie’s public education for the next year.

Sally Ann’s really one to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, so I was concerned about her reaction. She was thrilled — surprised at how much we managed to get for Sophie. (I had a last minute burst of requests, including some actual special ed resource room time for writing instruction, which the team agreed to.) She called to talk about it yesterday, and as always happens in a conversation with Sally Ann, a very spirited, faux-proper (in a good way) Brit, we veered all over the place — discussing birthday present ideas for Sophie (maybe a Wii), her cutting skills (she can’t manage a circle yet) and particular IEP goals (Sally Ann wants Sophie to get keyboarding instruction; the rest of us are on the fence). In the course of the discussion, she mentioned something I had never heard or at least had never heard and processed. 

“People with Down syndrome have a very limited sense of touch,” Sally Ann said. “It feels to them as though they are wearing gloves all the time.”

I’ve thought about that ever since she said it, about what that means for Sophie at any given moment. It made me a little sad, but also, frankly, it’s fascinating. All part of the Polaroid picture.

I think I’ll dig for that camera. It’s old school, to be sure, and I do love the iPhone camera, but there’s something so satisfying about watching a Polaroid develop, don’t you think?

There was the Summer of Margaritas and the Summer I Swore Not to Complain about the Heat. Summers spent in other cities. Summers spent in the pool with Sun In, baby oil and tinfoil. (Those summers were in high school. OK, maybe a couple in college, too.)

There was the Summer I Stood Pregnant in the Pool, Waiting for Annabelle. And the Summer of Sophie’s Feeding Tube.

Tonight I decided that this will be the Summer of Champagne. I decided this after a particularly delicious champagne cocktail a new(ish) bar downtown. The “Retro Cooler” has champagne (or sparkling wine, at least), lemon juice, soda and something called St. Germaine.

The economy’s collapsing, a pandemic is in the offing, Sophie’s birthday party is less than three weeks away, and I’ve finally given in — as soon as I find the time this week, I’m (shudder) joining Twitter.

The other day, in a discussion about our mutual reluctance to tweet (or whatever the hell you’re supposed to call it) in particular and social media in general, my dear and wise friend Deborah commented, “I am afraid that we’re going to disappear up our own assholes.”

She’s so totally right, but that is not what someone who already blogs and spends entirely too much on Facebook (not to mention talking about Facebook when she’s not actually on it) wants to hear. Not sober, anyway.

It seems like a good time to break out the champagne. And that includes kid birthday parties. Just for the parents, don’t worry. And I know just what to serve: Francis Ford Coppola’s pink sparkling wine, named for his movie maker daughter — Sofia.

Friday night was star-kissed, and not in the tuna kind of way. We were invited to a Diamondbacks game with the staff of Sophie’s pre-school. Sophie was thrilled. She melted into Ms. Janice, her pre-school teacher, and while none of us paid much attention to the baseball game, we all enjoyed an unseasonably cool night, which ended with fireworks.

I thought about chatting up the pre-school principal — a nice but firm woman who all but insisted it was a mistake for Sophie to attend the school she’s now at; the principal wanted her in the special needs program — but let Ms. Janice take her over to say hello, instead. Sophie and the principal had a nice long chat. (Hmph! I hope Sophie used of her big words.)

Sophie got ahold of Ray’s iPhone and snapped some shots, including one of her mom and dad.

We  had a milestone yesterday. Sophie punctuated for the first time.

I’m so proud. I’m a big fan of punctuation (part of the whole Nerd Alert thing). I spend my days changing commas to dashes, debating the overuse of the parenthetical reference (I’m a big offender myself), putting writers on semi-colon diets and yelling at freelancers for not knowing the its/it’s rule.

I’m not saying I always use it properly myself, but I spend a lot of time thinking about punctuation. Thus, my excitement.

This week in kindergarten, the kids made a book devoted to the word “at.” You probably wouldn’t be able to tell, but I could decipher “I was at Disney on Ice” from one of Sophie’s pages. Each page has an accompanying drawing. Cute, and a good way to master sight words and the way they work. I still can’t believe that Sophie is able to write a sentence, even with assistance.

Yesterday, Ms. X reported that Sophie wrote, “I am at Gaga’s” then paused and turned ot Ms. X.

“I’m excited!” she announced, then drew an exclamation point at the end of the sentence.

“I put on an exciting mark!” she told Ms. X.

That’s what all the kindergarteners call it, Ms. X explained. “Exclamation” is an awfully big word for them.

“I’m so proud,” I said. “Her first punctuation!”

As a rule, I’m not a huge fan of the exclamation mark. (Something else I overuse and yell at others for abusing.)

But in this case, bring it on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!