This morning I snuck (sneaked? snook?) out of bed, leaving both girls snoring.

A real feat, the first time since Sophie’s been in her big girl bed. Every morning, it seems, she comes to us earlier. Ray calls it the “snuffle shuffle” and it’s true, she’s blessed with our noisy sinuses and who can blame her for dragging her feet at 5 a.m.? I know I do. (This morning it was 4:37, for the record.)

Usually the slightest movement from me wakes her and she’ll go instantly from deep sleep to “I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE” at eardrum bursting decibles. A colleague at work said, “It’s like that coyote ugly thing where you wake up the next morning and have to chew your own arm off to get out of bed without that person you slept with noticing.”

That colleague does not have children. Still, I get her point.

I didn’t get the hour alone I’d hoped for, but I did get enough time before Sophie’s head popped up in the kitchen door to read a good book. The title: “My” by Sophie.

With no prompting from her or anyone else, I was able (though to be honest you might not have been) to tell that she wrote about “My family,” “My bed” (why don’t you stay in it if it’s worth writing about, was my thought there) and “My teacher.” Here’s the teacher one:

Not bad, huh?

I had a comment from a reader today who wanted to know why Sophie’s IQ was tested at such a young age.

I did a piece on this last summer for This American Life. (It’s the third piece on this show: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1249)

I think I have a clearer  (still muddled, but less so) answer to the question now, though. Probably the short answer is that I suck as a parent and didn’t fully investigate my legal options before signing the paperwork.

The long answer is two fold. It involves the school system, and also state services. And the option of hiring a lawyer, making  a lot of enemies and enduring a protracted battle (years, maybe) to get what Sophie really needs.

From the school perspective, a year ago when this all came up, I wanted the option of sending Sophie to our neighborhood school, where she could have Ms. X (pictured above, sort of), who had been her older sister Annabelle’s teacher and already knew Sophie and wanted her in her class. But the district was pushing us to send Sophie to a pull-out program for special ed kids, held at another (I’d say inferior, and the stats on the school bear that out — more important, it’s not the village we’ve been building/gathering for our family) school.

In that case, it behooved Sophie to not qualify as mentally retarded. She doesn’t technically qualify for that program. I know, I know, you can make your IEP say whatever you want it to, but not under our principal — and while in the abstract I’d always pictured myself as the parent who would sue, picket, scream, etc., it’s just not the same when your kids are involved. They have to face these people — these people you’ve snarked at, or worse — every day at school without you there.

I’ve had to temper myself. And if you know me, you know that’s not my style. I mean, I take no prisoners when it comes to cab drivers, store clerks, waiters. That’s not to say I’m still not bitchy in IEP meetings. I am. But I try not to, as I’m fond of saying at work, “freak the fuck out” on anyone.

So we wanted Sophie at the neighborhood school, mainstreamed. Yeah, I would have loved to have an aide. (I probably did wimp out too early on that one.)

That’s the school. Now there’s the state. And that’s where we’re really screwed. The state of Arizona has standards for providing services to developmentally disabled children. You have to fall into one of four categories: cerebal palsy, epilepsy, autistim (NOT PDD or Aspergers), or mental retardation.

Having Down syndrome doesn’t qualify a kid as developmentally disabled in the state of Arizona. From what I hear, this has accounted for some nice cost savings for the state and it pisses me off to no end because Sophie desperately needs speech, occupational and physical therapy and I don’t personally see the cognitive link alone on any of those — her other challenges that come from DS account for those needs.

When she was 3, the qualifications were not as stringent; a caseworker screened her quickly and approved her for services. At 6, it’s a higher hurdle. They want an IQ score if there’s any question. I asked the pediatrician, can you just write down that she has DS and is retarded? No. In the end last year, the school psychologist wrote on the paperwork that it was believed Sophie was mildly retarded due to early intervention services, but that won’t work. The  caseworker wants scores.

It could be that this is just the way it was going to be, no matter what we did. Or it could be that I majorly screwed up everything. Lately I’ve been thinking about advertising for a guardian angel for Sophie — she’s got a great teacher, amazing therapists, wonderful friends, good doctors and a family that loves her, but I’m not sure that’s enough. I need someone whispering in my ear, telling me what to do.

If you know one, please send him or her my way.

When I started this blog, I had the idea that I’d immediately open the Down syndrome Box and start writing about the contents.

I think I’ve mentioned it once already a while ago, but briefly, the Down syndrome Box is a big Rubbermaid packed with random references to Down syndrome — mostly books, videos, DVDs and magazines, mainly stuff I scrounged up on eBay in the middle of the night (several nights), a couple summers ago.

I had this idea that I’d gather all the pop culture references to DS I could find. Trouble is, I wasn’t much interested in looking at any of it. Way too close. For someone who considers reading a sport, I’ve been really bad about reading much about Down syndrome — or, for that matter, watching much.

I have read “Expecting Adam” and “The Memory Keeper’s Daughter” (preferred the latter) and a smattering of other things people have given us, including parts of Michael Berube’s excellent book, “Life As We Know It.”

The closest I’d come (til this week) to actually opening the Down syndrome box and taking anything out was when I picked up a VHS copy of the documentary “Educating Peter” that didn’t fit in the box, and thus was sitting on top of it. I watched it. Big mistake.

And then the box sat for months, under some piles. I started thinking about it recently, as May becomes visible on the horizon and I consider that Girl in a Party Hat is really meant to last just a year, which means that if I’m going to write about the contents of that box I better get started.

I had a reason to open the box the other night. Annabelle has changed her science fair project topic from fossils to Down syndrome. Ray’s really skeptical about this; he thinks she’ll ask too many questions and wind up sad. He even tried to tell me that it makes Sophie uncomfortable to hear a lot of talk about Down syndrome. (I just don’t see that.)

He’s always right in the end, so I’ll reserve a final decision, but for now I’m not seeing any harm. Annabelle is really eager to do it — I keep offering her the chance to go back to fossils and she refuses — so I figured we better do some research. I remembered that I’d tossed some kids books about DS in the box, so I opened it (albeit quickly), and fished out three books from near the top.

I don’t recommend any of them, although Annabelle may disagree. The first two are by the same author, Stephanie Stuve-Bodeen: “We’ll Paint the Octopus Red” and “The Best Worst Brother.”

Both of these books get high marks on amazon.com (I looked after we read them) and Annabelle seemed to really dig them — they’re simple stories designed for siblings of kids with DS, explaining basically that yes, these kids are different, but really in the end they can do everything you can do, it’ll just take them longer.

Um, okay, that’s a big fat lie. I hope Annabelle doesn’t come waving “We’ll Paint the Octopus Red” in my face when she’s 16.

Of course, the truth is, I don’t know the first thing about what I should be saying to Annabelle about Sophie — I certainly haven’t broken the news that it’s unlikely Annabelle will ever be an aunt, or catch a ride to the mall from her little sister.

If I have to be brutally honest, I’ll tell you that the thing that bothered me most about those books is not that they’re vague. Goodness knows, I’ve been vague with Annabelle and even with myself.

The real truth is that if these books weren’t about Down syndrome, I’d never, ever give them a second look in a bookstore. The writing’s sappy and dull and — even worse — the illustrations suck. I do hate to say that, because there’s a chance feelings will be hurt, but it raises a bigger point. 

This might be an unpopular opinion, but I have felt strongly since Sophie was a baby that the style challenge for a kid with Down syndrome is even greater than for a typical kid. And if I’m going to hell for saying that, so be it, because I’ll go farther and tell you that I don’t believe kids with developmental disabilities should ever wear overalls or sailor suits, and that’s just the beginning of my list. I even announced this very publicly, at one point:

http://kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200504/overalls

Following from that twisted but I still say solid logic, let’s not put dorky illustrations in kid books about DS. Don’t they have enough challenges as it is?

(To finish the thought, the third book I pulled out of the DS box the other night, “What’s Wrong with Timmy?” was even worse. It’s by Maria Shriver. Annabelle sort of liked the tale of a girl who befriends a boy who’se different, but interestingly, she didn’t like the fact that the words “Down syndrome” were never used. Luckily she lost interest and hopped off the couch before we got to the God part, which I’m not down with. The illustrations in that one, by the way, were also really bad.)

I’ve already gone on way too long for the blogosphere, I know, so I’ll conclude on a high note. There is a kids book at the bottom of the DS box that does Sophie (and all the other kids) justice. It’s called “My Friend Isabelle” and it’s by a woman named Eliza Woloson. I’ve never met her or her daughter, who’s a few years older than Sophie, but I know Isabelle’s aunt. She’s an incredible artist named Angela Ellsworth who happens to live in Phoenix.

Ellsworth’s hard to explain on paper, but let’s just say that her most recent exhibit — her own take on Mormon “sister wives” — involved intricately designed bonnets, hand stitched portraits and a performance piece in which young women dressed as sister wives performed famous pieces by women performance artists through the years, one of which involved a machine gun and another a paint brush held in an, um, indelicate spot.

Check it out: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/slideshow/view/219570

Don’t worry. Eliza Woloson’s book about her daughter is appropriately tame — but it’s also whimsical, funny, beautifully illustrated and a little bit heart breaking — and when Angela gave me a copy, a while back, I read it and loved it and stowed it in the DS box for future reference. 

Tonight I’ll dig it out of the box for Annabelle. And Sophie.

We are big on security blankets in our house. At least, the girls in the house are. (Ray’s was lost at an early age, though he maintains his favorite color, seafoam green, was inspired by none other than his baby blanket.)

Annabelle has a half dozen blankets — including  “Special,” or “Spesh” that she carries around from bed to couch. (Luckily not out of the house.) Sophie’s aren’t blankets, per se, but at least one of her three Piglets is with her at all the times I’ll allow.

And I have Rosie, my security blanket from childhood, just a crumb of her once splendid self but still, a literal comfort.

Both girls are a little obsessed with Rosie. I recently confided in Annabelle that when I was her age, and I was sad about leaving Rosie at home, I’d always promise to bring her back a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’ve since heard Annabelle do the same.  

“I soft Rosie the blanket?” Sophie asks when she arrives at my bedside, much too early these days. (Damn that Big Girl Bed. More on it later.)

So you see, security blankets are big in our house. Can’t rest without ‘em.

This morning I realized I’ve formed another similar attachment, as I sat across the table from her at Starbucks.

I had no idea what Ms. X was going to say. She’d been so mysterious, calling this meeting about Sophie and insisting, “we’ll need coffee”.

Of course, she always needs coffee — me, too — so that could have meant a lot, or nothing at all.

When I arrived, Ms. X was already preparing her oatmeal and complaining bitterly about how Starbucks was out of venti cups. Another scary sign: She was on time. (I, as usual, was a little late. Sophie had required an extra hug as I tried to sneak out the door.)

We chatted about random stuff til I couldn’t stand it anymore, then finally I said, “OK, what about Sophie?”

Ms. X took a deep breath. She admitted that she’d been avoiding me, some, the last few weeks, because she was really thinking hard and doing research and observing Sophie. Also holding back from Sophie herself, to see if Sophie was able to do tasks on her own.

And her conclusion, she said, is that Sophie will be ready for first grade next year.

I was stunned.

Not completely. I had wondered if this would happen, in anticipation of budget cuts and Draconian measures like a possible no-exception rule on no retentions. Yeah, yeah, all that could happen, Ms. X said, but she insisted she wants me to know that she observed Sophie with none of that in mind.

I believe her. I think. (This is where I wish I had a bit more of Sophie in me, and could simply accept good news, which this ultimately was. I think.)

“Don’t decide anything today,” Ms. X said. She explained her thought processes on the whole thing — that Sophie has mastered her academics (knows her letters, numbers sounds) and needs extra help in writing, but is already able to compose simple sentences. (Really?!)

Perhaps even more important, Ms. X added, is the social element. When Sophie began kindergarten, Ms. X expected that if the kids interacted with her, it would be in strictly a caregiver role. That has happened some, but increasingly, she said, Sophie is relating to this group as peers. As friends.

“She leads the kids in `duck, duck, goose’ and they play on the playground together,” Ms. X said. “They aren’t just taking care of her.” (She admitted there’s some of that going on, though less and less.)

“So you don’t think she needs to go to the school for the retarded kids?” I asked (politically incorrect, I know).

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

Ms. X offered to tutor Sophie over the summer — she is worried she’ll regress with out it, and Sophie won’t qualify for summer enrichment. (Damn the school district. Even if she did, it’s a crappy program.)

Next year’s still a wildcard, in a lot of ways, Ms. X said. For all she knows, all-day kindergarten will go away and she’ll get reassigned — to what, she’s not sure. (I’m quite certain from what I know that she’ll have a job at the school, not to worry — too much — there.)

You know, to a person, everyone I’ve talked to (including on this blog) with any knowledge of special education law has been horrified that Sophie’s in this typical kindergarten classroom with 19 other kids, one teacher and no aide. No official extra assistance to speak of at all, really. No attention from the principal, the district special ed folks, nothing.

Maybe it’s just dumb luck or some stupid risk taking, but if you asked me today, I’d tell you that’s the best thing that could have happened to Sophie — so far, at least. She has risen to the challenge. At least, that’s what Ms. X says.

And I trust Ms. X completely.

Like I said yesterday, I wasn’t relishing the thought of Sophie staying back while these other kids — a wonderful bunch, with whom she’s really bonded — moved ahead. But she would have been staying back with Ms. X. And I’ll admit, Ms. X has become my security blanket.

Today she took that away. And replaced it with something much, much better.

What do you say to the person who gives you that gift? I couldn’t think of a thing, so I gave Ms. X a hug, as we got up to leave. And when she noticed they’d finally gotten some venti cups in, I bought her another iced coffee –  to go. It was time for school.

Tomorrow morning — early! — I have a meeting with Ms. X, to discuss….

Well, I’m not exactly sure what we’ll be discussing. Ms. X was uncharacteristically vague. All she said was that we’d be discussing Sophie’s progress, which has been great, and that I’m not to worry.

Of course I’m petrified.

The school year’s rounded the halfway bend, which means the homestretch is well in sight. Funny how it works that way. It’s mid-February, and I’m already behind in signing the girls up for summer activities. (Don’t get me started on that subject vis a vis Sophie — I have no idea what we’ll do.)

And it’s time to think about the next school year.

There’s an argument to be made for holding Sophie back for another year in kindergarten. The prospect makes me sad. I love the kids in her class, and I remember all too well how it felt the last time she was held back (in pre-school) — the embarrassed looks from the other parents, the way the birthday party invites dried up. She never did really get to know the kids in her new grade.

Of course, this would be different, since Sophie’s school goes all the way through fifth grade. But I’m fairly certain she won’t see fifth grade (perhaps not even third or fourth) there and what if Ms. X suggests tomorrow that Sophie go someplace else entirely next year?

It could happen. Sophie might not be at all ready for first grade, and as much as I fear she’ll be held back, I’m terrified they’ll push her forward.

Here’s a familiar refrain: There’s no money. There wasn’t before the economy collapsed, and there certainly isn’t now. The school district we’re in is talking about a host of options: eliminating full-day kindergarten; forcing parents to pay for full-day (that I wouldn’t mind, if I could find the money); cutting teacher pay; and refusing to let kids stay back.

For Sophie, that part will be a challenge no matter what. You’re not supposed to hold special ed kids back. In any case, I know the principal would rather she move to the school with the MR program.

And that, naturally, raises the other issue constant in my mind: Sophie doesn’t qualify as MR. I’ve about given up on trying to find a psychiatrist who will say her IQ’s below 70, when two others have put it above 80. So not only is she not suited for that school program, when she turns six — POOF! — she’ll lose all her state services. (Which are not, as I’ve discussed previously, insignificant — five hours of therapy a week, plus.)

So maybe you can see why I’m nervous about tomorrow morning. Above all, I want my girls at the same school as long as possible. Not because it’s convenient (some days, it’s most certainly not!) but because they — we — are building a community.

On Friday evening, we went through all the valentines the girls had collected, and stuck in Annabelle’s folder was one for Sophie. It didn’t say much, just “To Annabelle’s Sister Sophie,” signed by a kid I’ve never really spoken to (not the mom, either).

But for me, it said it all.

The other night, I attended a dinner party. It was a special occasion: Estelle had the class over.

For several years, I’ve co-taught a little writng workshop called Mothers Who Write. I’ve met a lot of cool women (I learn more than I teach, that’s for sure) but Estelle’s in the hall of fame.

“I’m going home and hanging everything I’ve got on my walls!” another student whispered to me, as we helped ourselves to the pot luck buffet. Just about every surface in the funky, high-ceilinged town house was covered – in a good way. Estelle’s got some serious style. She once owned her own business; her hand-crocheted jackets were sold in the finest boutiques in Scottsdale. She’s also got an amazing family. I think almost every one of her kids, or close, is a doctor, and from what she says they clearly dote on their mother, as much as she’ll let them.

Estelle’s house looks a lot like the jackets on display in the entryway — a mishmash of crazy bright colors you’d never put together yourself but wish you had. I would never dare to paint my kitchen cabinets teal, but for Estelle, it works.

Better still, every piece in the house has a story, and we heard many of them over hot salty nuts and cheese, before settling in at the dining room table. “Great tablecloth! Where’d you get it?” someone asked about the gorgeous tapestry. “My bed,” Estelle answered.

Later in the night, Estelle told me that she’d recently found a copy of the eulogy she’d written for her husband, Martin, who passed away in 1983 but remains (even though companions followed) a central figure in her life. Estelle is amazing. Somewhere in her 80s, she’s totally self-sufficient, even yelled at us when we tried to do the dishes. But she really misses her Martin. He’s the one who hung all the etchings on a high wall in her living room. She couldn’t ever do that kind of thing herself, she said, but after he died, she had to.

She had to do a lot of things.

The eulogy is very short, entitled “Loved Unconditionally.” One thing I love about it is that Estelle’s writing voice today is just as it was 26 years ago. She writes with a lilt, always brutally honest, but like the tide: back and forth — if that makes sense. Here’s how the eulogy ends:

Being loved unconditionally is — being made to feel special — to feel beautiful — to feel wonderful

– is to know that you can do anything — positive or negative — be anything — and still there is someone who will be there at your side who will say “Hey — you’re great!!!

Wasn’t I lucky that Martin came my way? Weren’t we lucky that Martin came our way?

I thought about Estelle and Martin yesterday, on Valentine’s Day. True, the closest many of us ever come to unconditional love is the feeling we get when we look inside our kindergarten valentine bags. Anyhow, when it comes to real love, the proof is in the pudding of every day life, not how you act on special occasions.

Still, a day set aside for love is a good thing.

My gift to Ray was not particularly romantic — he wanted a gel pad for his computer keyboard; his wrists have been aching — but he seemed thrilled. He gave me a kumquat candle from my favorite store, but the card (more often than not, he forgets the card entirely) is what slayed me. I made it the wallpaper for my iPhone.

Sophie made us a book of purple construction paper hearts, with drawings and stickers and her name at the end. It is beautiful. Annabelle made us a book (hers is pink, naturally) as well, complete with a teeny tiny bookmark and a poem:

“Love”

I love you because you are funny.

I love you because you are sweet.

I love you because I have a sister.

I love you because I’m free to walk down the street.

I love you because you are my family.

I love you because I love you.

Talk about hanging it all on the walls. I think Estelle would approve.

I have decided that there is nothing better than watching a kindergartener open a bag of Valentines.

An aside. I came back from my admittedly long lunch (hard to cram two Valentine parties into an hour, including commute) and showed these pictures to my dear friend/colleague Michele, who remarked, “You know, I think elementary school was the last time I really enjoyed Valentine’s Day.”

I know what she means. It’s the Christmas thing. Unreasonable expectations. (And for me, the knowledge that the chocolate I bought for Ray and the girls is currently a pool in my too-warm car. Back to Walgreens….)

I hope Michele has kids someday, if only so she can relive the elementary school Valentine rush. It really is even better as a parent.

This afternoon at school we gave the kids in Sophie’s class their “healthy” snack of low fat ice cream, whole grain Teddy Grahams and sliced bananas, with some chocolate syrup and whipped cream snuck in. Shhh. Don’t tell.

Then, two by two, Ms. X called the kids up to get their full Valentine bags. The best part was watching them thank each other. You’d think they’d given each other gold and diamonds instead of Nerds and Disney pencils.

I had worried that her classmates wouldn’t be able to read her name (she wrote it herself on all 20 cards) but Sophie got her fair share of exuberant thank yous.

Just one thing was missing. I wasn’t able to savor that teary, bittersweet last-kindergarten-Valentine-party feeling, because at this point, we don’t know it will be.

There’s a meeting scheduled for Tuesday morning with Ms. X to talk about Sophie’s progress — and the future.

All week I’ve felt like Charlie Brown, checking the mailbox for valentines. No one sends anyting snail mail any more, it makes me kind of sad.

That’s not to say that there hasn’t been and won’t continue to be all kinds of celebrating. I’m on my way now to the most important event of the holiday – The Class Valentine Parties.

Pizza for Annabelle’s class and low-fat frozen yogurt for Sophie’s. (Seriously. What happened to cupcakes with that horrible/wonderful frosting from Safeway? Totally banned at school. A travesty. We might get busted for the pizza and I was already told no M&M’s for the yogurt sundaes.)

And the highlight, the thing that trumps all treats, the delivery of the valentines.

The other day I heard a mom announce her kid was just signing his name on all of his valentines, rather than putting each kids’ name on them. I looked at her in horror. “I have a boy, okay?” she said, and we both cracked up. (For the record, she’s an awesome mom. And, okay, she might read this. But she really is an awesome mom.)

Yeah, maybe I take these things too seriously.

For better or worse, I’ve handed that down to Annabelle, who not only insisted on writing each kid’s name on a small piece of paper she cut out and glued onto a foam heart (pink cupcake paper for the girls, blue stripes for the boys), she also personalized each with something she likes about every kid in the class.

Teddy is “silly,” Ben F. is “cute,” Nathan’s a “good reader,” Katie’s “very helpful.” Isabelle: “good student.” Emma: “you ‘know’ fashion.”

Ray flipped through them the other night after the girls were asleep, and even he was impressed, though he noticed that several boys did get just “Happy Valentines Day!” when Annabelle was stumped for a descriptor. 

“I’d be crushed if all I got was “Happy Valentine’s Day!” he announced. I have to say that he seemed a little jealous of Ben F.

I’ll be honest. Annabelle’s won’t be the fanciest of the lot. She insisted on writing in pencil, so you can’t see the words very well, and the paper’s not cut neatly. But, as the saying goes, it’s the thought that counts. And so my valentine message to Annabelle is the one she reserved for her BFF’s card:

“You rock!”

Yesterday Sophie left music class and announced to Ms. X that she wants to play the trumpet.

Today I was planning to write about something really sad, the latest funeral I attended.

Instead I think I’ll write about donuts. Specifically, Voodoo Doughnuts. (What IS the correct spelling, anyhow? I prefer donut. The dough thing is somehow TMI.)

Leave it to Portland, Oregon to have a cult following for a shack of a donut shop open 24 hours, featuring a not-extremely-clean-looking revolving case of creations (you can see more pictures at www.voodoodoughnut.com) including one I tried — a glazed-style donut covered in maple icing and topped with bacon.

Yes, bacon. It’s been a couple weeks and I’m still not sure if that was the best thing I’ve ever tasted, or the worst. But I do know I keep thinking about it.

More refined — and about the best damn retail idea I can think of, save the taxidermy/vintage jewelry confab across the street at Flutter (www.flutterclutter.com) — is a shop on Mississippi Avenue called The Meadow (www.atthemeadow.com), a tiny spot packed with salt and chocolate. Gourmet salt (who knew there were hundreds of kinds, from all over the world?) and chocolate, along with wine and fresh flowers.

Add an assortment of vodka and toss in an emergency Diet Coke and as far as I’m concerned, you’re set. With all the stories recently about a piece of high-end chocolate serving as a good small reward in tough times, a place like that might even weather the financial storm, though I personally believe the hard alcohol addition is key.

None of this is very useful, I know, unless you actually happen to live in Portland or plan to visit soon. But my dream (well, one of them) is to open a place like The Meadow and my wish is that you’ll do it for me. I have the perfect place in Phoenix, there’s a spot at Camelback and Central in the inside-out strip mall with Frances and Stinkweeds.

I promise to frequent it.

And if you are going to Portland soon and you need a place to stay, I recommend The Ace (www.acehotel.com/portland), which my super-hip friend Megan (www.megyn.wordpress.com) so kindly suggested. It’s cheap (relatively), funky (photo booth in the lobby, Stumptown coffee next door, Powell’s Books down the street) and a little whimsical, if a chain (ok, small boutique but still) hotel can be.

A good getaway can stay with you for weeks. I know mine has. But we now return to our regularly scheduled reality, no matter how sad it might be. Some things, even a bacon/maple donut can’t fix.

 The discussion about Down syndrome kids as mascots continues, sparked by the Today show clip with the high school kid playing basketball. Maya has a really great take on the whole thing at  http://beneaththewings.blogspot.com and Ricki’s Mom has equally smart things to say at http://everythingforareason-moon.blogspot.com.

But today I’m thinking about penguins. This morning I popped into Sophie’s classroom to help decorate Valentine “mailboxes” (white paper bags with lots of foam stickers) and stopped to examine the latest bulletin board project — a group (gaggle? flock? not sure of the appropriate term) of penguins.

Each kid had made one or two — nothing fancy, your garden variety kindergarten construction paper/glue stick/crayon deal, but what makes it so special, of course, is that each penguin is totally unique.

To put it bluntly, quality varies dramatically.

Walking up to the board, I tried to lower my expectations. What matters is that Sophie made a penguin, not what it looks like. Most of them didn’t have names on the front so I examined them all, then called Ms. X over to offer my guess. This is the one I guessed was Sophie’s:

“No,” Ms. X said matter-of-factly. “Let’s see….This is hers.” And she pointed to this one (Sophie’s is the one on the right):

Sophie cut the shapes out all by herself, Ms. X said quickly, after most of them were drawn for her. Another little girl in the class helped Sophie finish.

“See?” Ms. X asked, pointing. “They wanted them to hold hands.”

(Or wings. Or whatever the heck penguins have.)

After that,  it didn’t matter one bit that in my 30  minute visit to the classroom one kid practically coughed up a lung and announced she has a fever and then another little boy told me he has a staph infection and a fever blister on his lip, which I then realized he’d been touching the whole time (in between handing me stickers for help removing the back).

I’m one to talk — Sophie’s nose has been running for weeks. For once, she fits right in with the crowd.

She’s just another one of the penguins today. And if she needs a little extra help on the march, I need to be okay with that. But I’m still reserving my opinion on the whole prom queen thing.