Violet Beauregarde, eat your heart out. There’s a new gum champ in town.

It happened in the middle of IKEA, Saturday afternoon. Annabelle blew her first bubble gum bubble.

I was so proud. It hasn’t been a huge focus for her, but from time to time she’s asked me how to blow a bubble, and it’s one of those things that’s so instinctual, you can’t really explain it. At least, I can’t. I showed her how I wad the gum up with my tongue, against the top of my mouth, then poke my tongue through and — well, you know how to blow a bubble gum bubble, I don’t need to tell you.

And now I don’t need to tell Annabelle. She needs some more practice, sure, but after several minutes of focus (literally) in the mirror department, she was a pro by the time we got to the patio furniture.

That’s nothing, I’ve gotta say, compared to the gum milestone Sophie experienced the previous week, when we bought the package of Trident that led to Annabelle’s first bubble.

It was Sophie’s first piece of gum. I hesitated for obvious, myriad reasons. But Annabelle picked out the package of blueberry gum (another nod to Violet, I don’t have the package anymore but it WAS blue so we’ll call it blueberry, it was some kind of berry) and Sophie was right there in the cart with her, begging, so I agreed.

It was a solemn moment. I unwrapped the small piece and handed it over. “Don’t swallow!” Annabelle and I both insisted, loudly and often, as we made our way through the check out aisle and out to the car.

The problem was, Sophie took us too literally. Not only didn’t she swallow the gum, she didn’t swallow any of the accompanying saliva — making it pretty gross when she spit her gum into my hand. And possibly decreasing the enjoyment of chewing a piece of gum.

We’ll work on it.

Most afternoons, the phone rings. Ms. X. swore up and down she’d keep me posted about Sophie’s trials and tribulations this year, and as far as I can tell, she’s kept the promise.

The news varies. Often it involves an indiscretion or safety breach. For example, on Monday, Sophie announced to some other kids (but not the teacher!) that she was going to the bathroom, and took off for the nurse’s office without a “buddy”.

Not good. Sophie has solemnly promised all of us she won’t do that again, and Ms. X. has noticed that she does seem to try things only once, but not again — like yesterday, when she unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. (The nurse was not pleased; I don’t blame her.)

I’m hopeful. We’ll see if she leaves the TP alone from now on.

One piece of news in the past few days made my heart soar, and I thought sharing it would be a good way to end the week.

Ms. X called on Tuesday afternoon. “So I was testing all the kids on their sounds, and I tested Sophie, and she knows all of them,” she told me. “She knew most of them at the beginning of school, but now she knows them all!”

Cool, I thought, having no idea what that really meant, or why Ms. X was so darn excited. The next day I asked her, “You know the sound testing thing? Was Sophie the last kid in the class to get that, or are there others who still haven’t?” (I’m weak; I compare.)

No, I was told. Only one or two other kids in the class have mastered all their sounds.

OH.

Well, how was I supposed to know that? I have no idea what to expect of Sophie. She surprises me every day, and I never know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. (Or what it says about me, which I fear is not good at all.)

I’m not a prayer kind of person, or a god kind of person, but I feel like maybe there should a Serenity Prayer for Parents:

SOMEONE, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change about my kid;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

When I pulled up in front of the school yesterday morning, I noticed the “word of the week,” posted on the school sign, is INITIATIVE.

I had no clue how to apply that. And by the end of the meeting with the principal, my cluelessness was evident. Also my bitchiness.

“Were you raised in New York?” the private psychologist asked me, as we walked outside. 

No, I replied. Why do people always ask me that? (That’s a rhetorical question.)

Maybe it was the full moon. Ms. X said she could feel it in her kids — she called it before she’d even looked at the calendar.

Or maybe I was just doomed. I’m never going to get what I want for Sophie. Clearly bringing the psychologist didn’t do it. Probably the only thing that would work is a lawyer.

The principal DID apologize for abandoning two meetings in a row. She DID acknowledge that I’m not the first parent to complain about playground safety, and teacher/student ratios. But she was quick to tell me her numbers (she says it’s 1 to 88; i’d heard 1 to 92) are perfectly legal.

“I know,” I said. “I researched it. They’re legal because there is no law.”

Whoops. I shouldn’t have said that. She frostily answered that she’s well within the district policy. (So now I need to research THAT.)

She told me that if we write into Sophie’s IEP that someone must walk my child from the cafeteria to the playground each day at lunch, that counts as a personal aide. “And then it wouldn’t be the least restrictive setting for Sophie,” she said, “and you’d need to research other programs in the district.”

(I’m beginning to hate the term “least restrictive setting” as much as I hate the term “retard”.)

I think this is the point in the conversation where I actually used the word bullshit. I saw her literally start to quiver, then stop. I did feel badly, but kept going.

“Look, I KNOW what a personal aide is. You mean to tell me that someone to spend 5 minutes ensuring my kid’s safety is the same as a full time aide in the classroom?”

She claimed that’s how the district sees it. Her suggestion (mandate): Find some sort of solution that doesn’t have to be written into a binding legal document.

Hmmm. Why does that make me nervous?

Everything about this principal makes me nervous. I think about that old neumonic (is that how you spell neumonic? I doubt it) device — “the principal is your pal”. I wish. I’d like to think so. As always, she said all the right things, that she loves Sophie, that she thinks Sophie is in the right place. I feel myself pulled toward her, wanting to like her. But she’s like a boss, and you always have to be careful about getting chummy with the boss.

“Yeah,” I thought, “as long as I don’t ask you for anything.” (At least that one didn’t come out of my mouth.)

And really, the upshot of yesterday’s meeting was that sthe principal took the opportunity to belittle the poor speech therapist who had had the guts to complain to her about the 1 to 92 playground thing. (The speech therapist does duty once a week, so she knows firsthand what it’s like.) Oh, and she was obviously mad at another team member who’d shared information about another kid’s IEP. The principal made it clear she was holding that woman back after the meeting, to let her have it.

I didn’t let anyone have it. Not really. Because I wasn’t sure what to say. If I was writing a story about someone else in this situation, I’d know just what they should say and do, and I know where to go to find the information to make the case. But as such, I’m lost.

Parenting a little girl (that’s all I know about, sorry boys) is such a balancing act, a constant system of checks and balances, and it changes constantly.

TV is bad. Except for Baby Einstein. And the Wiggles and anything on public television, but definitely not Nick Jr. Well, OK, Spongebob once in a while, but no commercials. Whoops. OK, commercials but definitely no “regular” TV. Except for Animal Planet.

Barbies are bad. OK, she can have a Barbie, but not a Bratz doll. That is actually where I have drawn the line and so far managed to stick, but it’s been easy, since Annabelle’s not particularly interested in the slutty side of childhood. (Yes, there is such a thing.) I don’t take credit; I got lucky. This is a kid whose favorite cable channel is Noggin, which bills itself as “pre-school on TV”. She doesn’t notice; she’s in love with a large blue octopus with a top hat jauntily perched on his head. I love Oswald, too. So does Sophie. So it all works out fine, for the moment, anyway. I’m ready for the next adjustment; I tell myself that, at least.

I initially resisted Libby Lu. You can check it out at www.clublibbylu.com — but let me warn you, it looks worse than it actually is. (As long as you stand firm on some limits; we stuck to the “package” I pre-purchased.) For six months, I’d been promising Annabelle and a pal a “raincheck” for a cancelled play date — the whole idea snowballed til I felt like I really had to deliver. So I called Libby Lu.

Libby Lu is a store in what I call the “evil pre-tween” section of the mall, two shops down from Claire’s– culture shock after years on the Baby Gap/Pottery Barn Kids wing. Everything is pink, from the fake plastic cell phones for sale to the creamy bath stuff the girls can scent themselves. (Also for sale.) It’s as close to the spa as my kid will get for a long time.

In the end, turns out Libby Lu is a smart marketing concept that consists of 90 percent glitter and 10 percent cheap plastic crap. Hey, we have plenty of both at home, and “Miss Haley,” the cute high school girl who “did” the girls’ hair (no brushes, just a lot of twisting, bobby pins, and glittered hair spray) and did their makeovers used a lot less pale blue eye shadow on them than even I would have. The girls got bags they filled with bubble bath and hair clips, and silly pink head sets so they looked like Britney Spears, which is fine since they don’t know who she is and their midriffs stayed covered.

I can’t wait to take Sophie there.

“Is everything you own covered in glitter?” I asked Haley, as she dumped half a bottle of something sparkly onto Annabelle’s tiny fingernail, my daughter quivering with excitement.

“Oh yes,” she said, in a deadpan most impressive for a girl her age, particularly one wearing a side braid and a pink tutu over her jeans. “I have Sparkle Vision.”

Late last night, I met a friend to see the movie “Man On Wire”, about a French guy who walked a tight rope between the Twin Towers, shortly after they were built in the 1970s. It was an odd way to honor 9/11, maybe, but somehow fitting — and I was glad for the break from my own tight rope walk.

Sophie’s IEP team met yesterday. Crammed around a small table in a portable classroom were:

Me. The kindergarten teacher, physical therapist, speech therapist, adaptive PE teacher, school psychologist and classroom volunteer. The psychologist who evaluated Sophie this summer made a special trip over. And the principal was there.

We began by reviewing Sophie’s progress in therapy. I brought reports from her outside physical therapist and occupational therapist, and we went over her daily schedule and achievements in class. Everything’s going well, I was assured.

Not long after the meeting began, the principal stepped outside. I know she’s busy; her job is obviously a demanding one and she had been checking her phone while we’d been sitting there (to be honest, I itched to check my own, I left work far earlier than I should have, but I put the thing on silent and left it in my purse).

The principal never said she needed to leave early. I wish she had, because I wouldn’t have saved my most significant concerns for the end. But I was nervous. My main goal with this principal, with this school, has been to avoid rocking the boat. I was worried about sharing my concern, which is about Sophie’s safety.

I first shared this concern at the original IEP meeting we had in the spring, at Sophie’s pre-school. The principal was at that meeting, too, but again, slipped out early without saying anything. And so when we got to the part of the meeting where I announced that I believed Sophie needed a parttime aide for transitions (playground, lunch, that sort of thing — any time she could stray from the group), if only for the first two weeks of school — a safety net, so she could get settled in, considering the front gate on the school is left open all day — the pre-school principal said, “Oh, no, I can’t make that decision. That’s the other principal’s decision, and she isn’t here.”

Oh. Actually, as I gently pointed out, I believe the law states that it’s the IEP team’s decision, not the principal’s. But again, I didn’t want to make trouble, so I signed the IEP anyhow – but only after everyone agreed that the “team” would meet again one month into the school year, to review Sophie’s progress and challenges and make any changes needed to the IEP, a binding legal document.

Yesterday was that meeting. Turns out, my concerns are sadly founded. Sophie has already escaped from recess once, and that was morning recess, where there are several adults present.

Lunch time is the real concern. At lunch time at Sophie’s school, there are 92 kindergarteners on the playground, with one adult to watch them. There is no one to help Sophie make the transition from the lunch room to the playground, and just one person to watch her and 91 other kids.

We scheduled yet another meeting with the principal for next week, to review these concerns. This morning she said she left the IEP meeting early, because she had heard it was just a review session (although I’d made clear it wasn’t, weeks ago) and anyhow, she had another meeting to attend that day.

I hope I’ve calmed down by our next meeting, because ever since I heard why she left Sophie’s IEP, I’ve been, well, let’s just call it unhappy.

The principal left Sophie’s IEP so she could run a meeting about a golf tournament.

That pushed me right off the tight rope. Which might be the best thing that could have happened.

OK, I wrote about her: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2008-09-11/news/as-a-working-mom-with-a-child-with-down-syndrome-sarah-palin-makes-me/

Tomorrow’s a big day. Or not.

Sophie’s IEP team is meeting, to review her first month of kindergarten.

When we were putting the finishing touches on Sophie’s IEP (Individualized Education Program, the document that prescribes her school situation, from what therapies she gets to where she pees) I insisted we reassemble the team (everyone from principal to teacher to therapists to parents) a month into kindergarten, to see how Sophie was doing.

I could feel some internal eye rolling; IEP’s are a huge pain in the butt, if only for how hard it is to get all those people in the room at the same time. But at the time I signed the IEP, I had real doubts — mainly about Sophie’s safety at a “big kids” school. Why not get together to see how things are going, and make changes if necessary?

OK. It was agreed. When the speech therapist — a lovely woman who’s new to the school, if not the profession — suggested we meet September 11, I bristled. School started August 4th. That’s NOT a month. It’s five weeks. But I kept my mouth shut. I have learned to do that, in such situations. The ballbuster me (gee, wonder where Sophie gets THAT?) has learned to make way for the sweet-as-pie-mother-of-a-special-needs-kid me. Well, sometimes the ballbuster gets in the way. We’ll see tomorrow. But for now, I’ve been fairly sweet, if I do say so myself.

I didn’t say anything about the date, but when the speech therapist then emailed to confirm this would just be a “get to know each other” session, I freaked a little. Um, no, I replied. This is an IEP meeting. There might be changes necessary.

I hear the speech therapist is freaked, too. Apparently she IS rather new, and she’s used to dealing with kids with speech delays, rather than global disabilities. And here it gets a little confusing: Sophie has the “mild retardation” label but her IQ is so high (and yes, I know, IQ tests are bullshit, but hey, better high than low, I always say, to paraphrase Shrek) she doesn’t qualify for services from the special education teacher, who would typically lead the team.

In any case, I am approaching this meeting with trepidation. I already know that I won’t get what I want, which is a parttime aide to keep Sophie safe on the playground and at lunch. And I know (after a conversation with the school psychologist yesterday) that I better brace myself for the advice (yet again) that really, Sophie might be better off in a “pull out” program, the one where the other “special” kids go.

But because of her aforementioned IQ, she doesn’t qualify for that “special” program. She belongs where she is. But she needs to be safe. Between this and Sarah Palin, I really do wonder — AM I ON AN EPISODE OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE???

Part of my coping mechanism — when faced with tough kid challenges and fear of the future of America — is to organize. Well, to try. I’ve already shown you pictures of my playroom, so I can’t pretend. I’ve had the stamp pad out a lot. I figure anything that can go in a Rubbermaid from Target is, somehow, containable and doable. I made a new bin for Sophie’s paperwork — and that’s just the stuff from the last couple months that needs to be filed.

So we’ll have this meeting tomorrow (which will generate even more paper for the SOPHIE PAPER bin) and we’ll talk about a lot of things and I’ll bring  up the aide and I’ll get shot down and that will pretty much be that, unless I decide to go all ball buster on them and I really don’t want to do that. I wish I believed in God so I could pray for Sophie’s safety, because at this point that’s my best bet.

And here’s the kicker: My ace in the hole did not pan out. A few weeks ago, I talked to a rather zealous but well-meaning former state legislator, who was horrified Sophie doesn’t get an aide. She insisted that Sophie’s got state dollars attached directly to her, because of her diagnosis, and that I simply need to play that card in the IEP meeting, to tell the group that I know how much extra money they’re getting for Sophie, and that they better spend it on her.

So I made the calls and the preliminary figures are in. I’m double checking, since this sounds so ridiculous even for the painfully backward state of Arizona, but if I’m right, here’s the extra amount of money dedicated to a kid like Sophie (a kid who qualifies as “mildly retarded,” boy I hate that term, I think I hate the word mild even more than the word retarded!), each year of public school:

Nine dollars.

That won’t even buy my Starbucks for a week.

Yesterday was a big deal. Sophie’s first day of ballet.

For years now, friends have kindly murmured things meant to be nice — things like, “Maybe there’s something else Sophie can do for a hobby. She doesn’t have to do everything Annabelle does.” Ray told me I was ridiculous to push it. And I have to admit that when we found out Sophie had Down syndrome, one of my pat lines was, “Well, she can take modern dance instead of ballet.”

But as with so many things in her life, Sophie made her own mind up about ballet — and the rest of us had to scamper to catch up. She’s been trying to break into the classrooms at my mom’s studio (yes, for those coming late to the party, my mother’s a ballerina; runs her own childrens academy) since she could army-crawl.

Yesterday was the beginning of Annabelle’s fifth year of instruction, and Sophie’s first class. We were unusually early (for us), both girls in the dark blue leotards prescribed by the studio, hair slicked back neatly (for us), excitement brimming in the back seat of the station wagon. And some trepidation up front.

Turns out, Sophie blended in nicely with the 3 and 4-year-old beginners — still the smallest kid in the class, despite her age. She only tried to escape the room twice (I was glad we’d hired an extra aide to keep an eye on her, from afar) and that was when she caught a glimpse of me through the window.

But my mom and I did get a few minutes watching in before Sophie noticed me. And we both had a nice little cry.

Sophie, on the other hand, was all smiles.

It’s hard to make out the writing, given the pale pink, but the above is Tabitha Fairchild’s new stationery — card on top, envelope with seal on the bottom. I think it turned out rather nicely, which is why I wanted to give a shout out to the etsy.com seller, lepapierdesigns.etsy.com, who made it for me. (And shipped it so promptly it made it here in time for Annabelle’s fourth tooth, even though I don’t think anyone had ever asked the chick to make stationery for a tooth fairy before. I was shocked. Good business idea.)

I got writer’s cramp tonight. The questions, this time:

What is your pet bunny’s name? (Trixie Fairchild)

Do you paint your finger- and toenails? (Yes, the palest shade of sparkly pink)

Are you small, or my size? (Rather small)

What do you eat? (Milk and apples but I do like the occasional fancy tea party)

Where do you live, in a castle? (Yes, in an undisclosed location)

How do you get into my house? (A different way each time)

And finally, what do you do with my teeth? (That will be revealed when the last baby tooth falls out)

That gives me a while to come up with an answer. “They wind up in your mother’s underwear drawer” clearly isn’t good enough.

This morning, Sophie discovered a new way to multi-task: Play the piano with your feet, and your hands are free to read a book. Gets a little noisy.