I really don’t have anything against Sophie’s speech therapist at school (except her not-super grammar). She’s the one who went to bat for the kids when the topic of the 90 to 1 kindergartener-to-adult ratio at lunch recess came up, and I know she loves Sophie.
But when I emailed her this morning to see how much time we have before Sophie’s IEP expires (in other words, how much time I have to find someone to interpret the draft they want me to sign, meet with the elusive school occupational therapist and otherwise assure myself that Sophie’s at least getting as much as I can hope to get for her without threatening legal action) I almost stuck my hand through my computer monitor when I saw how her response began (and in this exact font/color, which I can’t manage to change here):
Hi Amy,
Sophie’s IEP doesn’t expire until May 5, but we are being pushed by the district to have all IEP reviews completed and turned in to them by May 1st (next Friday). I’d like to have Sophie’s in by then if possible so I can get my “gold star” from the district.

“Take my picture!” Sophie demanded first thing this morning.

I really mean first thing. It was 6. Between the big girl bed and summer’s approach, there will be no more sleeping in — not for a while, at least.

Sophie was sitting on the floor next to Rosy, thumb in her mouth, rubbing the dog’s fur. She clearly thought she looked cute and I agreed and thought, I better take pictures now, while I can, so I grabbed the phone to snap one.

Rosy is 14. As I write this, the vet is at the house (bless Dr. Kennaway, our mobile vet) to give Jack his last puppy shots, and also to take a look at Rosy.

Rosy pooped on the kitchen floor this morning. That’s not unusual and I can’t blame her. When I’m her age (what is that in dog years? 98?) I expect I’ll poop on the kitchen floor, too. I also plan to eat whatever the hell I want, which is why I’ve taken to sneaking Rosy lots of baloney and other people food. Rosy is arthritic and Dr. Kennaway gives her pills that control the pain and make it a little easier to get around, but still, she has accidents.

We have some very old pets. Izzy the Cornish Rex (the almost hairless, scary looking, rat-like white cat Ray absolutely adores and to be fair, even I consider her a member of the family) is 15 and for a few weeks not long ago, she peed by the kitchen sink several times a day. Rosy’s once-black muzzle is quickly going gray. She’s pretty deaf. At some point, quality of life will diminish enough that It Will Be Time.

I can’t think about it. Ray is right when he says that I don’t spend enough quality time with Rosy; to be honest, I never have, and that dropped dramatically after the kids were born. I won’t pretend that I’ve been a Good Dog Mom. But I love Rosy, she’s my first child in that way that dogs are your kids before you have kids, and I named her after my most sacred possesion, Rosie the Blanket. (Note the different spellings.) We have spent our share of time hanging out together.

Now, Sophie’s the only one in the house with a really serious sensory thing going on (one of the things to be addressed with the elusive occupational therapist at school) and she’s pretty obsessive about rubbing her fingers over her bangs, Piglet’s ear, or the bristles of a paintbrush. We call it softing.

But the term “softing” predates Sophie. It even predates Annabelle (she’s a big softer herself) though I’m fairly certain that before the kids I never uttered the word, only thought it to myself, as in “softing Rosie”.

If you have a blanket (and more of you do than will admit it, I know from the number of you who do admit it) then you know what softing is. My college friend Heather perfected it with a pillow to which she’s still particularly attached. (And she’s a successful LA lawyer with two kids and a cute husband, fully functioning.)

I don’t bring Rosie to work and Heather doesn’t bring Petty with her, either, though I believe Petty still travels. (Rosie’s just a crumb, as I’ve written before, so she stays in Tempe.)

And then there’s Rosy the Dog. For years, the springer spaniel and golden retriever in her made Rosy extremely rambunctious. It feels like she left puppyhood for senior citizendom overnight. She’ll still get excited for a treat, but mostly she’s on the floor, relaxing. Enjoying her later years, Annabelle and I decided last night. (As much as Jack will let her; he wants to play ALL THE TIME. Hard to blame him.)

All that is to say that Rosy is perfect for softing. Sophie found a good spot, sighed, and settled in for a good cuddle. Not a bad way to start the day.

Sophie’s annual IEP meeting was this morning.

For once, I was at school early, which wasn’t hard, since Ray had to get the girls to school. I even made it to Starbucks first, and chuckled to myself that really, all we needed to write in Sophie’s IEP plan was that school should prepare her to someday have the wherewithall to order Ms. X’s standard drink:

Venti iced Americano, lots of ice, extra cream and 2 Splendas.

I know I can never remember it.

For anyone not familiar with the initials, an IEP is an “Individualized Education Plan,” created for a child with some type of special needs (everything from an isolated speech impediment to more global issues, like, say, those associated with Down syndrome) and implemented by the public schools.  

Federal law governs the implementation of IEPs. I haven’t studied the law as carefully as I know I should, but let’s just say I’m quite certain there are some gaps when it comes Sophie’s services.

I blame myself for not pushing harder, but one thing I’ve learned in this whole process is that pushing might get you what you think you want — like full implementation of the law, meaning additional services, an aide in the classroom, etc. – but won’t get you what you really want. Like a school community that welcomes and embraces your special needs child.  

And that we have. At least, it seemed that way, during Sophie’s IEP meeting this morning. I usually get weepy or yell (or both) during these meetings, but today’s went pretty smoothly.

Mainly that’s because I wasn’t asking for anything — at least, not for anything they weren’t already offering. Also because we all spent the whole hour anxiously watching the clock (an hour isn’t enough time to conduct the annual IEP meeting that will set your child’s agenda for an entire year). And because the occupational therapist wasn’t there.

The occupational therapist had jury duty this morning. I didn’t learn that until the rest of us (Ms. X, two special education teachers including Ms. Y, the adapative PE teacher, two physical therapists including Dorcas, the speech therapist and even the principal — who at least did not leave early for a meeting about a golf tournament this time and only looked at her Blackberry a few times) were gathered around the table.

If I’d known that, I would have asked to reschedule the meeting.

At this point, anyway, Sophie’s occupational therapy (fine motor skills, like writing) needs are greater than her other needs, and we had a lot of decisions to make about adaptive materials and other issues. Long story short, the meeting was a bit of a wash, without the OT. (I wasn’t all that surprised; she hasn’t made it to a single meeting all year. I met her for the first time just a couple of weeks ago.)

So we covered some ground, but we’ll still need to have another meeting with the OT. Or try, anyway.

A lot is up in the air, and not just regarding OT. Yes, Sophie will go to First Grade next year. (Gulp.) And the principal, without making any promises, indicated that she’ll have Ms. Y. (Yay!)

But although you’re only really supposed to get one IEP meeting a year, I asked to meet sooner – starting with the first week of school, to review safety concerns. The students will move into a new school in August. I’m told the new building will be much more secure, but I asked that several of us take a walking tour with Sophie before deciding any course of action regarding safety.

Now, the course of action regarding safety this year — at the admittedly unsafe school — was basically NOTHING, so I’m not holding my breath. But the principal seemed more amenable this morning to finding accomodations for Sophie.

At the last meeting of the IEP team, in September, I asked that someone on staff walk Sophie to the playground from the cafeteria each day, so she wouldn’t take a wrong turn and wind up literally in the street. The principal winced dramatically and told me (not for the first time) that if Sophie can’t act like a typical kid, she can’t go to the school with the typical kids — and if I needed special accomodations I’d need to explore options elsewhere in the district.

This school, our neighborhood school, is the school that houses the magnet program for kids with autism. If Sophie was autistic, cool. But the mentally retarded kids are to go to another school in the district. (Not an “excelling” school, like this one, and not the school where Annabelle goes.) Since Sophie’s not technically MR, I think I’d have a good argument for keeping her at her home school.

But okay, fine, for kindergarten, at least, we pretty much acted like Sophie was typical. Still, that leaves a few loose strings, like lunch recess. (I did come up with a plan this year that’s worked; that I had to do on my own, though. The principal’s not bothered by it, which I think is why she was friendlier this time around. Clearly, Sophie — and I — weren’t as big a bother as she’d anticipated. So far, so good. Maybe we’ll get a little help next year.)

The IEP team agreed to meet the first week of school regarding safety and the fourth week to talk about academics, and in the end I asked the team leader to stop rushing — she was trying to read me an entire page of small type and get me to agree to dozens of points, as the clock ticked down the last remaining seconds before the bell rang and school began — and explained that I wasn’t signing anything today, particularly without the occupational therapist present.

She politely said she understood. (The team leader is the speech therapist, and she always seems flustered. I’m not sure if that accounts for her somewhat poor grammar, which I try to overlook but find troubling since, after all, she’s the freaking speech therapist!)

I walked out of the meeting feeling pretty good, but now that I’ve written this, I’m glum, thinking about how much is still unresolved and ultimately, how wimpy I am.

And, as I said to the IEP team, I’m thinking about how when we have her tested again this summer, Sophie’s IQ will need to have dropped 14 points in the past year to qualify her to keep her state services (which are all far superior and more comprehensive than the speech, occpational and physical therapy she receives at school).

“Wish us luck failing that IQ test this summer!” I told them, then gave Ms. X a faux dirty look. We all laughed. Ms. X had just gotten done reviewing all of Sophie’s academic successes: as of yesterday she could count to 65; knows all her shapes, numbers to 20 and all sounds; and recognized 24 of the 100 sight words the kids are supposed to recognize by the end of first grade.

True, we also reviewed the fact that she isn’t interested in catching a ball and talked about her math challenges, but I can live with that (after all, that’s ME) if Sophie really and truly can learn how to read. Few troubles in life can’t be solved by escaping in a good book.

That does cheer me up a little.

In case you didn’t waste enough time on Facebook today, check out this craft porn graciously shared by Georganne at Frances:

www.juniorsociety.com

(I tried to buy the URL www.craftporn.com the other day — hey, why not, it can gather dust with www.martharexia.com — but someone already nabbed it and parked at as a wordpress blog. Smarty.)

This past Friday night, a group of mostly middle-aged women gathered to play poker.

For most of us, it was the first time.

So what do mostly middle-aged women talk about over poker chips, cream puffs and blood orange martinis? From what I recall, facial hair. Other things, too, I’m sure, but the two champagne margaritas (can you believe there’s such a thing? I’m in awe and headed back to that wine bar as soon as possible — Amano, 16th Street and Baseline) wiped it out.

I do recall looking around the table and having a deja vu moment, then realizing that these women — their humor, their friendship, their bawdiness — remind me of my closest college girlfriends.

The highest compliment I can bestow.

The funniest moment (again, that I can remember) was toward the end of the evening, when half of us had run out of chips. We weren’t playing for money, but some of us were taking the game seriously — which I didn’t realize til we noticed that one player wasn’t sharing her chips with the losers.

“Hey, kindergarten teachers don’t share!” Ms. X blurted out between giggles.

Don’t hate me because I play poker with my kid’s kindergarten teacher. (I’m sure you will — I got jealous protests after announcing we’d been out for coffee. I don’t blame you; I’d hate me, too.)

Instead, hate me because I had coffee for two hours Sunday morning with Ms. Y, the woman I desperately hope will be Sophie’s first grade teacher.

Ms. Y rocks. I knew that before she offered to crawl out of bed early on the teacher’s most sacred of days, a Sunday, but I know it even more after chatting over non-fat lattes. She’s smart and cool and even knows the book “Little Pea”. She says “oy”. She once rearranged her students so they were sitting in compatible spots according to their Zodiac signs.

And she “gets” Sophie. Most recently, she’s been teaching special ed, so she’s gotten to know Sophie a bit (even though Sophie hasn’t officially been allowed special ed services because she “doesn’t qualify”. Ms. Y agrees that’s bunk).

Ms. Y, like Ms. X and Annabelle’s Mrs. Z, is a reminder that it’s really all about the teacher.

Today we turn in the teacher request forms for next year, so I’ll cross every digit and try to smile at the principal as much as possible, even at Sophie’s IEP, which is, gulp, tomorrow.

It will be stressful (though I don’t expect to get much — I’m going to make some demands related to safety at the new school they’re building next to our current school, that’s about it) but I know how I’ll calm myself down.

I’ll just picture everyone around the table with a big pile of chips and a hand of cards, old school 70s music blaring in the background. At least Ms. X will be there, for security blanket purposes if nothing else. Ms. Y will be there, too.

I didn’t do so badly in Friday night’s game. Maybe it’s because I have more experience than I thought. As I write this, I realize that I’ve already been playing poker for quite a while — 6 years on May 21, to be exact.

At the moment, I”ve got quite a pile of chips. But I know the stakes will only get higher as Sophie gets older. Maybe I need a weekend in Vegas with the girls to sharpen my skills….

It’s past time to rearrange Sophie’s room, mix things up a bit.  I’ve got a conundrum. Do I get rid of the changing table?

I love Sophie’s changing table. It isn’t really a changing table, it’s a wooden chest with a changing pad screwed on, one of those clever ideas you get out of a magazine that work maybe 5 percent of the time. This idea worked well for both Annabelle and Sophie. I particularly love Sophie’s turquoise blue chest with its lavendar pad that (by accident) perfectly matches the walls in her tiny room. (Tiny is why I really do need to consider the move.)

When Annabelle was three, and potty trained, I took the pad off the chest, moved the chest to the dining room, and stored my wedding dishes in it. It’s got a TV on top of it now, instead of a bare-butted baby. It looks great.

When Sophie was three, I unwrapped a new terry cloth cover for her changing pad; she’d worn out the old one.

Maybe it’s because I’ve had Sophie’s literally twice as long that I can’t bear the thought of moving it out. Silly, I know I shouldn’t get emotional over a changing table. It’s not like we use it all that much anymore. Sophie’s been potty trained for more than a year. I do put her on it most every night, to help her get PJs on and put on a nghttime diaper. She usually sits on it when I’m combing her hair after a bath.

We’ve ditched the diapers (during the day) and the crib and the high chair and the potty chair. Sophie can sit at the dining room table without a booster seat. And though it will be a while til the car seat has to go (I should really replace that, too, according to safety standards), that’s about it. That makes me sad. I have to admit that maybe I’ve gotten a little attached to the trappings of babydom.

No reason to keep it in her too-small room, I think. Then I recall one of our favorite bathtime rituals. I grab Sophie out of the tub and wrap her in a towel without letting her feet touch the ground, then whisk her to the changing table, where I dry her off and — before doing anything else, like picking the pajama top, bottom and diaper (she has to be presented with choices in each category) I kiss her feet.

That’s right. I take each one in my hand, very slowly lift it to my face, watching the espression on hers, and kiss the instep of each clean, pruney foot.

“Kiss my feet! Kiss my feet!” Sophie yells.

And we both crack up. The changing table is the perfect height for this tete a tete, and the place where it’s happened dozens of times.

So yeah, I think we’ll keep the changing table around for a while longer.

Nerd alert!

I think the Book Character Parade might be my favorite annual event at school, and I’m guessing  that after this morning, Annabelle and Sophie agree.

It took four separate shopping stops and a lot of planning to secure the materials, but I think we did a fine job among the three of us of executing the girls’ visions for their costumes.

Annabelle was Little Pea. You have not likely heard of “Little Pea,” a book by Amy Krause Rosenthal. I highly recommend it. I hate to give anything away, but what the heck. (Spoiler alert! I’ve always wanted to write that.)

Little Pea is a (you guessed it) little pea who has a great life except when it comes to mealtime. He hates to eat dinner, which for this little vegetable consists of candy. He longs for dessert — spinach.

Cute, huh? And with a good message. Annabelle didn’t care that no one recognized the book. She was one proud pea!

Sophie was, you guessed it, Junie B. Jones. (No bad grammar was used in the creation of the costume!) Not everyone figured that out, either. A mom friend of mine hustled her daughter into class a few minutes late this morning and emerged chuckling.

“Hey, Sophie’s shirt was all screwed up so I fixed it,” she said.

“No! She’s Junie B. Jones!” I said. “Quick, go back and screw it up again!”

She did. By the time the parade started, Sophie had removed her bow and glasses, and simply looked disheveled. But she was beaming.

It might not be as much fun later today, getting that green face paint off Annabelle.

Annabelle and I were at the coffee shop next to the dance studio this past Saturday morning, having our usual bagel with the other moms and  daughters, when my friend Betsy’s little girl asked Annabelle a question.

She had just bitten into a bagel smeared with cream cheese, so Annabelle’s mouth was full when she answered the question, which I didn’t hear but assume was something along the lines of, “Hey, aren’t you Jewish? Why are you eating bread on Passover?”

“Oh, I’m not very Jewish,” Annabelle answered through the cream cheese. She stopped and swallowed, then announced, “I’m only Jewish-ish.”

I have to say, my personal comedy routine didn’t sound as funny, delivered by my 7 year old. 

Now, it’s true. We’re not very Jewish. Sophie wasn’t at the coffee shop with Annabelle and me this particular Saturday morning because she was already done with her ballet class, so my not-very-Jewish-mother took her to the not-very-Jewish country club for a not-very-Jewish Easter party.

It might be true, but I didn’t like hearing my kid say it, and I felt like what I’ve been feeling like a lot lately: a self-loathing Jew.

Could it be (and bear with me here, I smell a tangent coming) that I prefer Easter to Passover simply because Easter offers the forbidden fruit? The idea that whatever’s on someone else’s plate is sure to be tastier, that the grass is always greener, the — you know what I mean.

Thinking about this, I had deja vu, and realized my self-loathing Jew thing is not that different from my Phoenix inferiority complex. Do I hate Phoenix because it’s legitimately loathesome (no culture, too hot, too far from anything remotely worthwhile) or simply because I was born here?

(And here I’m talking strictly about culture, although we could have a big discussion about politics. This place is disgusting! Did you see the story on the front page of the Sunday New York Times, all about states cutting vital services to vulnerable populations, including people with Down syndrome? Did you notice where it was datelined? PHOENIX. That’s right. An entire country, and that story came out of Phoenix. The other news last week: Notre Dame is giving President Obama an honorary degree when he gives the university’s commencement address this spring, but Arizona State University — where Obama’s also schedule to speak — doesn’t think he deserves one. True, I was raised by University of Arizona Wildcats to be rabidly anti-ASU so I wouldn’t take a degree from that place on a bet, but seriously? No honorary degree for Obama? He hasn’t accomplished enough? This place is a hell hole!)  

OK, back to culture. Today, driving to lunch, my colleagues and I were commenting on a new, very large public art installation in downtown Phoenix. I try to be a champion of the local arts scene (which has gotten downright easy — there’s a lot to love), but I had to admit that I think the installation’s pretty ugly.

“Then again,” I added, “if I saw that thing in San Francisco, I know I’d want to know why we didn’t have something so cool in Phoenix.”

(I explored this idea ad naseum in a cover story for Phoenix New Times a while back, http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2005-05-12/news/phoenix-has-an-inferiority-complex/)

I love San Franciso. I love Easter. To be fair, both are undeniably lovable. But both are also undeniably unattainable. I won’t move to San Francisco (can you imagine trying to drive there? and the earthquakes!) any sooner than I’ll convert to Christianity.

So here I am, a self-loathing Jew in a self-loathing town, ashamed by my bad attitude.

Funny, when I look at my kids, the whole self-loathing thing goes away. I am so freaking proud of myself for creating these two amazing, gorgeous little human beings. I stare at them when they are asleep and (when they let me) when they are awake and applaud myself (and Ray, he gets credit, too) heartily.

I’m not sure why my self-loathing doesn’t transfer in that direction, but I’m definitely grateful for it. Now the key is to figure out how to keep Annabelle and Sophie from falling into my self-loathing trap. 

Number One, stop complaining about being Jewish. Number Two, stop complaining about being from Phoenix.

I think I can handle the first. The second will be tougher. But I’m on the right path, I know. (And hold on, here comes another tangent.)

Yesterday afternoon I paid a visit to one of my favorite Phoenicians, Georganne, who runs one of my favorite retail shops in Phoenix (and on the planet).

The store is called Frances — named for Georganne’s grandmother, not the badger, but it’s a lovely coincidence, don’t you think? If you live in Phoenix, visit Frances in the inside-out strip mall on the northwest corner of Central and Camelback. Otherwise, head to the web: www.francesvintage.com

I’m quite certain I’ve already written about Georganne and her fabulous “Love Phoenix or Leave Phoenix” bumper stickers.  She’s from here, too, but she loves it and with her store, she’s making Phoenix a place for other people to love.

I do love Phoenix when I’m at Frances. Or maybe I just love Frances. In any case, take a peek at what I bought on the 50% off, post-Easter sale table, and tell me it’s not some sort of a sign:

A sign of what, I’m not 100 percent sure. But tonight I’ll pack up the Easter/Passover Rubbermaid and carefully tuck away the Easter Chick in a Party Hat and the singing matzoh man my mom brought to the seder.

That’s the last holiday Rubbermaid til Halloween, which makes me sad. And maybe a little relieved.

In any case, there are birthday parties to be planned.

Tonight at dinner, Annabelle informed us that she’s starting a band called “The Bubble Gums.” She’ll play keyboard, and she’s chosen three of her friends to be singer, drummer and guitarist.

“I tried to think about what each one is good at,” she explained, listing her choices. (Apparently no one else knows about this yet.) We discussed costumes (pink, of course, with several different options she’ll design, Annabelle says) and as I type, she’s “composing” on the keyboard. She’s already written the lyrics for a song she’s calling “Skateboard.”

Sophie fell asleep in the car on the way home. As I was helping her into her pajamas, she drowsily informed me that she and I are starting a band. It will be called “The Piglets.”

I texted Ms. X this afternoon.

“Is there an Easter Junie B.?”

She shot back, “Yes. Junie B. First Grader Dumb Bunny!”

 Then she called to say she’d seen it at Target. I didn’t find it there, but they had it at Barnes and Noble. As I was checking out, the young saleswoman commented on my other purchase, “A Birthday for Frances.”

“Is that the one with the blue and white tea set?” she asked.

“Oh no, that’s `A Bargain for Frances,’” I replied automatically.

Frances is my all-time favorite, a 1960s (or so) era hedgehog (whoops! badger!) with a mom and a dad and a little brother, and if you’ve never read Russell Hoban’s books about her, you must run out and get them immediately, regardless of the ages of your kids or whether you have kids at all. I’m quite sure I’ve already waxed dreamily here about “Bread and Jam for Frances,” which is about school lunch.

Frances is most definitely a badger in a party hat. Love her love her love her.

I love Junie B., too, but I have to admit that the relationship’s more complicated. “Yeah,” the saleswoman said after we’d shared our mutual affection for Frances, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Her grammar’s really bad.”

It is. A lot of people don’t like the Junie B. Jones chapter books because the main character’s a bit of a brat, but what drives me nuts about her is definitely her grammar. She uses “ain’t” — and worse.

I’d tell you the rules she breaks, but here’s a true confession: I’m a newspaper editor who spends her days (and nights) fixing grammatical errors, but I can’t tell you the rules my writers are breaking.

That’s an embarrassing admission. I know I’m supposed to be able to identify a dangling participle and diagram a sentence, but to be honest, I wasn’t paying attention that month in seventh grade English. Thanks to my maternal grandmother’s good word sense and the desire to pick a paragraph clean the way a mama monkey picks nits off her babies, I can make your copy look pretty good.

I’m pretty sure that’s my one and only marketable skill, by the way. And I’m not going to tell you here that I never make mistakes — grammatical or otherwise — in this blog and elsewhere. But I don’t use crappy English on purpose, particularly not around young children, and that’s exactly my problem with Junie B.

She talks like a kindergartener. Or so I’m told.

Ms. X. adores Junie B. As soon as the spring semester starts, she stops reading picture books to her class each day after lunch and starts reading Junie B. Jones books.

Annabelle fell hard for Junie B. two years ago in Ms. X’s kindergarten. I’d never heard of her. (As I’ve learned, there are now more than two dozen in the Junie B. series — they’re wildly successful. The first was published in 1992. Thanks, Wikipedia!)

I did some asking around and the consensus among smart kid experts was, “Not to worry. The kids get that it’s a character speaking. The most important thing is that they love Junie B. and they love her books and this will instill a lifelong love of reading.”

(I wanted to ask the author, Barbara Park, about it, too. Turns out she lives here in metropolitan Phoenix, and I thought she’d make a good profile subject for my paper. Also turns out she’s a recluse. I stalked her at a rare public appearance and left her a package with a heartfelt letter and examples of my work, but I never heard back. Darn. I love recluses almost as much as I love hoarders. But that’s a different blog post.)

Annabelle already loved books, but I figured another reason to love them wouldn’t hurt, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard her say “ain’t,” so no harm done. When I read the books aloud to her, I do correct the grammar as I go. I can’t help myself. But she’s been reading them on her own for years, now.

So I didn’t think much of it when, the first week after Christmas vacation, Sophie came home and dug around in Annabelle’s room and emerged with a pile of Junie B. books. Now it’s early April and she’s downright obsessed. She can’t read the books, per se, but she carries them around and turns the pages (licking her finger first, just like Ms. X) and tells stories. She won’t get in the car without one. It’s sweet.

And harmless, right? Right?

It wasn’t til I was walking out of Barnes and Noble with my Easter-themed Junie B. Jones and thinking how clever I was to come up with such a cute idea for Sophie’s basket that it suddenly dawned on me.

Sophie’s not like Annabelle. She’s speaking wonderfully, amazing all her therapists and doing so well for a kid with Down syndrome, but the truth is that her grammar is terrible. In fact, in a list of goals the speech therapist sent me last week, the two main focuses are grammar and learning how to chew gum. (So the Easter bunny’s going to leave some Orbit, too.)

Now I don’t know what to do. I guess I better email the speech therapist and ask her if Sophie’s allowed Junie B. I’m already feeling sorry for myself because we spent a hunk of the girls’ day off yesterday picking up Sophie’s new orthotics. Despite promises from the physical therapist, the new ones look a lot like the old ones and the guy who fitted her for them told me to make sure to get her some sturdy new shoes to wear with them.

So Sophie will be wearing dorky sneakers and reading straight-laced kid fiction. It’s not fair.

The Easter Bunny just might have to be a little naughty.