Ms. X called shortly after school let out today, to report that Sophie had a great day. One “time out,” but otherwise pretty darn good.

“And she wrote her name today,” she added.

“She what???”

At all the meetings we had last winter and spring, to determine Sophie’s next step, the one face at the table that was always the dourest belonged to the occupational therapist, who’s in charge of fine motor skills. She made no bones: The OT said point blank that she did not think Sophie could handle kindergarten.

“She may never be able to write her name,” she said at one of the early meetings.

That line has haunted me since. Look, I know we’re just entering the computer age. By the time she’s an adult, Sophie and everyone else will have some sort of computer strapped to them that will probably let them communicate with their eyes, never mind type with fingers. Handwriting will be obsolete.

But to hear that my child may never be able to write her own name?

“Are you sure?” I asked Ms. X. “Really? She did it herself?”

She promised to show me next week, adding that it’s not perfect, but that Sophie absolutely did it herself and you can certainly tell what she wrote: S O P H I E. 

“I have goosebumps!” she said.

Me, too. And in that moment, I understood just why Ms. X teaches kindergarten, and why she’s willing to put up with all of Sophie’s ball buster BS.

Sophie wrote her name today. I can’t think of a better way to end the first week of kindergarten.

Four days in, and Sophie hasn’t been kicked out yet.

The first week of kindergarten is full of growing pains for all the kids, and for Sophie I think it’s been especially hard because of the heat (you try going back to school — and onto the playground — when it’s 111 degrees out, and humid) and the long day. She had long days, the last two years, but as Ms. X pointed out this afternoon, in what’s turning into our daily chat, she only went to a formal pre-school for two hours a day.

The expectations in kindergarten are high. The bedlam on Day One had turned into a pretty darn controlled environment by Day Four. (I told you Ms. X was amazing.) Even Sophie stood patiently the last two mornings, holding her backpack and lunch box, waiting to enter the classroom.

I tried spying, for a while, but that didn’t work, so I fill in the blanks from the accounts of Ms. X, and other adults who are occasionally in the classroom. (From what I can tell, Ms. X is sticking to her solemn promise to not sugarcoat Sophie’s kindergarten experience.)

The week, so far:

Monday was basically nuts for everyone.

Tuesday, Sophie had a dentist appointment, so she wasn’t there much.

Wednesday, she immediately announced she was tired, and refused to sit for carpet time. That afternoon, she zonked out when some of the other kids were resting, and actually slept through music.

But today, our little ball buster appeared.

“Wow, I’ve never seen that,” Ms. X said, sounding downright awestruck, when she called. Sophie was much better this morning (probably thanks in part to an earlier bedtime last night and my parting promise that we’d take Ms. X out for chocolate ice cream if Sophie did well today and tomorrow) but as soon as they got back from the library this afternoon, Sophie was BAD. BAD BAD BAD. Wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t put toys away. No matter what Ms. X asked or tried, she simply refused to listen.

“I told you so!” I said. “See? This is what I’ve been so worried about.”

Bless her, Ms. X sounded completely unruffled (a jaunty attitude I’m sure she’s practiced over the years). We came up with several strategies: a reward chart; time out; and, if nothing else works, time away from the group in a bean bag chair, with some books. I told Ms. X I’m most concerned that Sophie not disrupt the class or keep her from teaching.

We decided it was all workable. I hung up feeling calm; five minutes later, I was freaked. So it goes.

This morning, I told Ray I was worried about Sophie. “Me, too,” he said. “I keep thinking about what that principal at the other school said about her making more friends there.”

There is ANOTHER school, an elementary school in our district with a program for special needs kids. There’s one kid with Down syndrome there, in fourth or fifth grade. If she went there, it’s true, Sophie would get a little more support for part of the day, in a pull-out program.

When I visited, I wasn’t all that impressed. The extra services didn’t seem to outweigh the benefits of having Ms. X (assuming we could nab her as Sophie’s teacher) and having Sophie in a familiar environment.

Plus, the principal said something that day that really pissed me off. She told me there was something special about her kid at her school (even the non-special ones). “I don’t know what it is,” she told me. “There’s just something about this place. At ANOTHER school, the kids might be nice to Sophie, but they wouldn’t be her friends.”

I’d been warned, just before the meeting, by a good friend in the know, that our school — where Annabelle had gone for almost two years — has a bad reputation for being snotty and exclusive. I’d never seen it. I loved the school (still do) and was hurt that this principal would jump to such a nasty conclusion.

Plus — get this — Sophie’s IQ is too high for her to go to the “special” school. She’s not technically “mentally retarded,” so she does not even get services from the special ed teacher at her current school, let alone an entire special program.

In any case, that other principal’s just plain wrong. Sophie may have had her struggles, so far this week, but a lack of friends and people who care about her isn’t one of them.

From the first day, Sophie’s gotten (not just given!) hugs. Friends have wanted their picture taken with her.

The second day of school, when I looked away for a moment, she and Annabelle grabbed the hands of two other little girls — another kindergartener and second grader — and headed out to the playground. When it came time to gather her up for school to start, another two friends urged her in.

The third day, when we parked and got the backpacks out, Annabelle screamed, “I LOVE THIS SCHOOL!” Sophie screamed, “I LOVE ANNABELLE!”

Annabelle explained to me, “That means she loves the school because she loves me.” Makes sense.

And today, I heard that Sophie ate lunch with a group of fourth grade boys.

She’s a freaking rock star. This week, anyway.

“Oh no,” I told Ray. “The friends are why we have to make this work, at this school.”

If only I can figure out how to keep my little ball buster at bay.

Last weekend, we painted Annabelle’s room. It was part of her 7th birthday present.

Here’s the before. (Warning, the colors in these photos are much brighter than the actual paint! Maybe.):

Now that I have a 7-year-old, it occurs to me that most of my childhood memories begin at 7.

I have a few, from before that. I remember peeing my pants the first day of kindergarten (that was fun) and getting upset because I accidentally threw out my lunch bag with the penny change from buying milk in the cafeteria (yes, kids, back in the olden days, a single-serving carton of milk cost 4 cents!) and confessing to my parents. I have some vague memories of the first house my parents owned, but most of those are likely from snapshots.

But everything went technicolor when we moved into our second house, the one I lived in through high school. I was 6-almost-7, entering 2nd grade.

Second grade is where I met Amy Segal, technically my oldest friend. (Our teacher didn’t like our suggested short cut — she made us write our last names out, but to this day we remain Amy Si. and Amy Se.)

I remember losing the school poetry contest to Kari Bookbinder (her poem WAS better) and a lot of things about Hopi Elementary School but mostly, when I think about 2nd grade, I think about my childhood bedroom, the one in our then-new house.

I wanted a pink room. I know that’s nothing original. Every girl goes through a pink phase, right?

I’ve never asked her, but I’m guessing my mother never did. As long as I’ve known her, she’s been all about blue. That’s something I really admire — loyalty to a hue — since my own tastes have wandered over time. I did go through an anti-pink phase for many years, probably associated with my time at a womens college, but in my adult years I’ve embraced it, reclaimed it, celebrated it, sort of like some women like to reclaim the c-word. But not quite.

The truth is, I just like pink. So does Annabelle. So when she wanted to paint her room pink, I said sure.

My mom was horrified. Mainly because she thought it would be hideous. But also, I’m certain, because she remembered refusing my own similar request at the same age.

To be fair, the woman did let me choose my own bat mitzvah outfit, which unfortunately wound up being brown velvet and gray faux silk. It’s not like she didn’t celebrate individuality or creativity. But when it came to something somewhat permanent, like the wall colors in a room in her brand-new house, no way. And I have to give a nod to my mom, then and now — she’s always had the best taste of anyone I know. So I’m certain she was right about the pink then. And now.

Anyhow. Her reaction gave me a flashback to standing in the middle of a store I believe was called Carpet Time. It was run by a guy named Irv, one of my grandfather’s poker buddies (I swear I’m not making this up) and I remember the exact swatch of carpet I wanted — it was your garden-variety middle-shade of pink. My parents said absolutely not, and instead chose a swirly pattern of pale green and white, with a coordinating pale blue and white for my sportier younger sister. (Or it could have been that Jenny was just too young, at 3, to choose, so my mom went to her default. In the end, the dog peed on Jenny’s carpet so much it wound up looking like mine.)

My request for pink walls was also nixed. I got a green accent wall. To this day, I hate the term “accent wall”. My mom did buy me pink flowered bed spreads. It wasn’t a bad room. It just wasn’t pink.

When I was pregnant with Annabelle, I found some super-cute Pottery Barn crib sheets on eBay: hot pink with smiling mermaids and bright green accents. Not thinking about my childhood room, I had the nursery painted green to match the sheets. My mom was nice enough to not say anything, but other people did. Everyone who walked into that room in the 7 years it was green sucked wind; it was pretty bright.

I never did like it, so when Annabelle announced she wanted to paint, I was thrilled. Ray insisted on doing the job himself, so the girls and I were dispatched to Ace Hardware to get supplies.

My mother, who had been lobbying Annabelle for weeks with the term “ballet pink” (figuring she could mitigate damages) desperately wanted to come along, but she wasn’t able to make it on the night we hit the hardware store. She sent me off with all sorts of advice and warnings.

But when we got to Ace, Annabelle announced she did not want ballet pink. She wanted PINK. I pulled a few samples and let her choose.

She chose a shade called “Full Bloom”. We filled our cart. Two days later, I shoved all her junk into the middle of the room, and Annabelle and Ray painted. Sophie wanted to help, but things were getting ugly, so she and I were sent to Target and the grocery store.

Here I will admit that I treat painting the way I treat writing. I go gung-ho, and I don’t like revising. In paint terms, that means I refuse to bring home samples, to make sure that’s really the shade I want. I just go for it.

Maybe that’s not the best idea. There is no equivalent to blogging, in painting. If there is, it happened in Annabelle’s room last weekend.

Halfway through the process, our friend Deborah stopped by. She poked her head in — and back out again.

“WHOA,” was all she said.

“I know,” I whispered. “It’s bilious.”

“Well, that’s not a bad thing,” she said, kindly. When I struggled to name the shade (Full Bloom just wasn’t doing it) Deborah had it: Pepto Bismol. (Again, this photo doesn’t really capture it — really, Mom, I swear.)

But here’s the thing. Annabelle is THRILLED. She loves her new room. So what if it glows? The pink glow is better than the green glow, and we can always repaint — someday.

Sophie’s in line first. At the hardware store, she announced she wants to paint her own room yellow. (Or, as Sophie puts it, “Lellow”.) As soon as she said it, I felt instant empathy for my mother, because I hate yellow. There is no freaking way I’ll ever let a room in my house be painted yellow.

Well, maybe.

I really did feel guilty, asking Ray to take Sophie to her dental appointment this morning.

“No way!” he said. “You need to take her so you can hear the dentist complain about her thumbsucking!”

It’s true. While Ray reprimands Sophie constantly for it, I just never could get too upset about thumbsucking. I sucked my own thumb til one day in first grade, when I decided it was too dirty and quit cold turkey. (I do, however, still sleep with my baby blanket. You’d be surprised to hear how many adults do; there’s a secrety society of us out there.)

I have to say that the movie Thumbsucker, which I couldn’t watch in its entirety, no matter how hip and cool and indie flick it is, turned me off for a while. I kept picturing that big, wet thumb. Gross.

But Sophie’s thumb is tiny and cute, and there are so many things to chastize her for, on a given day. I think self-soothing’s a good thing. And she’ll probably need braces someday, anyhow. It’s a victimless crime.

When Ray called, a few moments ago (he did wind up taking her; I had a work deadline I just couldn’t get out of) I fully expected him to put me on the phone with the dentist, so he could yell.

Instead, both Ray and Sophie were downright giddy.

“Guess what?” he said. “The dentist says that Sophie has special teeth. Not special like Down syndrome special, just special in that the way they’re shaped, she can suck her thumb all she wants and it won’t make a difference.”

“Very funny,” I said. “Put the dentist on so we can get this over with.”

But Ray wasn’t kidding. Sophie is cleared to suck her thumb. I’m not so sure about what her speech therapist will say about that, later today (actually, I know just what she’ll say) but for now, I’m going to celebrate. And so is Sophie.

She also got a cavity-free report and praise for good brushing.

It was a good day.

Not unlike most school days, from our household’s perspective. Despite my best efforts to be in the car by 8:15, it was more like 8:35, and the first bell rings at 8:45. (Well, it’s not like I could skip writing the girls notes for their lunch boxes, or not take pictures, and I had this awful blue nail polish on that I just had to get off before I could leave the house. Plus, Annabelle needed to put on the outfit she made famous on YouTube — minus the skirt, which wound up being several sizes too big. And Sophie had to be dressed just so, in Elmo panties and her First Day of School Outfit — a polkadotted affair from Baby Gap. Size 2T, and at that, it was hanging on her. They both looked beautiful.)

As we pulled up to the first crosswalk, several drops of rain appeared on the windshield. It had been unusually overcast. I don’t know why that was the trigger, but I took one look at that rain and started to cry.

There was little time for sentimentality. We zoomed in just before the bell rang, and a small disaster struck, but not the kid I expected. From the corner of my eye, i saw Mrs. Z on the playground, so I sent Annabelle to her, grabbed Sophie’s hand and went in search of Ms. X. After depositing Sophie in the classroom, I had a bad feeling, so I went looking for Annabelle. I crashed into her classroom, despite the fact that announcements were underway, to give her a hug. She was sniffling a little.

I wanted to say, “Oh, shit, sweetie, I’m terrified that this is the rest of your life — me chasing Sophie, you getting left in the dust.”

Instead, I kissed her and got out of there, amidst profuse apologies to Mrs. Z. Went back to Sophie’s room one more time, kissed her, and got out of there.

It was your typical first day of kindergarten bedlam. Every parent was freaked. Ms. X was zen. Been there, done that. I was happy to hear there were extra adults in the classroom, since Sophie was not the only one who needed, as it was later kindly explained to me, “a little redirection”.

Knowing Sophie wouldn’t behave with me in the vicinity, I retreated to the courtyard — and The Momfia.

I promise an entry devoted solely to this group (if you’ve got a school age kid, you’ve got your own) later. Today, we moms talked about summer vacations and the weather and which kid got which teacher. We inched closer and closer to the edge of campus, intent on leaving but unable to do it, finally hiding behind a wall to peer out and see the younger grades head into the cafeteria for assembly.

I felt like Harriet the Spy (more on her later, too). I caught glimpses of both girls — Sophie was holding a grown up’s hand, Annabelle was smiling – and finally, I was able to pull myself away. It felt like a big magnet was holding me there.

I won’t typically pick the girls up from school — that pesky fulltime job gets in the way, and today was the worst of days, I have a cover story coming out this week — but today was not negotiable. Late again (I swear I left on time, it was that damn construction that’s everywhere in metropolitan Phoenix these days) I skidded to a stop in front of Ms. X’s classroom.

Sophie was inside, with one of our favorite kids, a fourth grade girl. (The village thing worked perfectly — for day one, at least. So many kids already knew Sophie at school, she was a little rock star, finally arrived. Sat in the lap of a favorite second grader during assembly, I later heard.)

She looked up and smiled hugely and made me carry her back pack and lunch box. And then her, for most of the way to the car.

Later, Ms. X called, just to fill me in on the day. I love her. She must have been beyond exhausted, but she called. And get this: She was at WalMart, buying step stools. “Some of the kids can’t reach the sink in my classroom,” she said. Later I realized it’s probably Sophie who can’t reach; I bet the rest do just fine.

Ms. X told me about a little girl in the class who took an instant liking to Sophie, instigating play with her and looking out for her. Ms. X had a hunch, and she checked and was right — it was a child whose parents had written on their teacher-information form that she has an older brother with Down syndrome. This little girl took to Sophie instinctively.

My heart sang.

Ms. X also talked about taking Sophie to the bathroom. (Usually she’ll go to the nurse, but Ms. X wanted to see what would happen, I think.)

Sophie was okay til the end, when she insisted on wetting paper towels and rubbing her face.

“Time to go, Sophie,” Ms. X recalled telling her.

“No!”

“Yes, Sophie, it’s time to put that away and go back to the classroom.”

“No!”

Finally, Ms. X channeled her Inner Kindergarten Teacher — the one I’ve seen on a few occasions, the one that scares me a just a little in a good way — and said, “SOPHIE! TIME TO GO!”

Sophie looked up, put the paper towel down, and complied.

“There’s a new sheriff in town,” I told Ms. X, and we both had a good laugh.

Just hours now, til the first day of school. The girls are asleep — in bed, anyway. Sophie assured me she wasn’t at all scared.

“A little bit?” I asked.

She held two fingers as close together as they’d get with out touching.

“A tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiny bit,” she said, giggling. I’m not sure she knew what I meant, but we had a good laugh over it.

I keep joking to anyone who will listen that Sophie will go to kindergarten — for the first day, at least. That joke’s not funny tonight.

Today when we were getting back-to-school-hair cuts at Lollilocks, the very sweet stylist asked how old Sophie was.

“Sophie, tell the lady how old you are, please,” I said. 

“Five.”

The girl laughed. “How old is she, really?”  she asked.

Tomorrow will be the first in an occasional series of piece I’m doing for KJZZ, the Phoenix NPR affiliate, about Sophie’s kindergarten experience. Could be a very short series.

In any case, here’s the first essay:

kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200808/sophiekindergarten

In February, Sophie’s “team” at her pre-school broke the news that they weren’t so sure she was mentally retarded.

They sent me home with a copy of my parental rights and a pink paper heart that Sophie had cut herself, with minimal assistance. This was huge. She might be relatively smart, but no one can deny this is a kid with challenges.

She didn’t walk til she was 3. Her vocabulary is good, but the low muscle tone associated with Down syndrome makes it almost impossible to understand her. And they aren’t sure she’ll ever be able to write her name.

So cutting out a paper heart is huge.

I left the meeting, got in the car, and immediately e-mailed Trish. Trish is the most maternal person I know, and one of my oldest and dearest friends. She sat up all night with us, the night I had Annabelle. (She didn’t watch the C-section; we’re not THAT close.) When the results of the blood test came back, I called her second, after my mom. You know, I might have actually called her first; I don’t remember.

Her kids Zach and Abbie, now teenagers, are funny and wise, and all my other friends meet them and say, “That’s what I want my kids to be like.”

Me, too.

“Hey, get this,” I pecked on the iphone, that day in the car. “I had a meeting at Sophie’s school today. They do not think she is retarded.”

I knew what Trish would say, and I needed to hear it before I heard Ray’s response, or the babysitter’s. (Several times now, when she’s busted them for using the word retarded, the admonition being, “I thought we weren’t going to use that word because of Sophie,” both of Trish’s kids have told her, “But Mo-om, Sophie’s not retarded.”)

The reply was quick:

“Okay, no duh. The school confirms what Zach and Abie have been saying for years. I am also convinced that when Sophie looks into my eyes, she is looking into my soul (and she doesn’t always like what she sees).”

That is why I love Trish. Also for the panicked phone call I got several days later. “Oh shit,” she said. “I keep thinking about how that response I sent you wasn’t the response you needed to hear. This whole retarded thing is probably full of problems, it probably means she’ll lose her services, right?”

Yes. Well, maybe. The jury’s still out. In the ensuing months, Sophie’s been tested by the school, deemed below average but not retarded, then ultimately labeled mildly mentally retarded when the school officials realized that perhaps she’d lose services because of the lack of the label. (They made me make the call on that one. Fun.)

The school said her IQ is 83; the cut off for MR is 70.

So we’d have all the tools we might need, we had Sophie privately tested this summer. That’s where we went yesterday, to get the results.

I braced myself. I’ve known all along that the “not MR” thing won’t last forever. Soon enough, Sophie will fall behind, as school and life get harder. And I knew that the testing the school did was far from comprehensive, that my little party could end right there on the psychologist’s couch — at my behest, no less. Sort of, at least.

The report was more than 12 pages long, with all sorts of conclusions about behavior and social skills and possible ADHD, but when it came to IQ, the psychologist smiled wryly and said, “I can’t label her mentally retarded.”

Sophie’s IQ, this woman says, is 86.

Three points higher than what they said at school. We all had to laugh, a little.

I know, I know, IQ doesn’t mean anything. But hey, that was better than a kick in the head. I know I still have challenges. And I know I have a smart little girl.

I just wish I could keep up with her.

When we got home, Sophie announced she had to pee. “Well, go to the bathroom,” I said, although I usually accompany her. Maybe I’m holding her back, I thought. She’s smart. I should let her do her own thing. She’ll surprise me.

She did.

Sophie made it to the bathoom, climbed the stool onto the toilet and positioned herself on the Blues Clues seat designed to keep her from falling in.

Then she called to me, because she’d forgotten to take off her panties and shorts when she sat down.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said, as I cleaned her up and got her dry clothes, feeling like I set her up, saying the only thing I could think of.

“Happens to me all the time.”

Before you start pelting rotten eggs at your computer screen, let me explain.

First, “mental retardation” is a medical term. The IQ cut off is 69. Seventy, and you’re not retarded.

Second, I have spent much of the year considering this topic, particularly since Sophie’s IQ clocked in at 83.

(This was the topic of the piece I did for This American Life, which you can find at www.thislife.org — it ran June 30, the social engineering show. Sophie’s about to pop in the room and my blogging time will be over, so I can’t paste the URL in. Sorry!)

Sophie was not even 5 when they tested her, and some smart people discount IQ tests altogether. So take that 83 for what it might or might not be worth. I took it to a professional, since losing the MR status (while super for me, her bragging parent) could be troubling for Sophie: It could mean a loss in services at a crucial time.

There was some doubt about the veracity of the tests she was given this spring, at school.

So today, Ray and I will meet with the psychologist who has spent the summer retesting her. I’ll let you know the results.

I’m sad, in anticipation. And selfish, I know. But wouldn’t you want to have the smartest little kid with Down syndrome, ever?

Either way, I know I do.

(Well, that made for a nice last line, anyway.)

Just the weekend, then it’s kindergarten.

Today was the last day of pre-school. Actually, it wasn’t, because Sophie ditched. Annabelle’s camp was done so I had a sitter anyway, and when I asked, Annabelle said she’d prefer to have Sophie stay home with her.

(INSERT AUDIENCE TRACK: “AHHHHHHH”.)

So we didn’t really say goodbye. That’s okay. I hate goodbyes and I’ve had more than my share, this summer. Leaving this school is cutting the final cord, before kindergarten.

We leave with good memories of the place. Here’s the link to a piece I did about Sophie and her school, a little more than two years ago, for KJZZ, the local NPR affiliate:

http://kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200605/amysilverman

But while I do adore the staff and teachers and director (who accomodated Sophie when they didn’t have to — there’s no mandate at a private pre-school to take a special needs kid, and she was one of only a couple) there was something missing.

In three years, Sophie didn’t make a single friend. Not even an acquaintance, really.

There are lots of reasons for that — ways to justify it — but I think for now I’ll just move on, and hope for friends in kindergarten.

For now, I have a bigger concern: Should I order Safetytats?

I’m oddly fascinating with this product, in a train wreck sort of way. It’s horrifying, that you’d have to tattoo your kid (albeit temporarily) with their name and number. It’s reminiscent of those of kid leashes I hate, of computer chips for your pet, of — dare I say it? — the Holocaust.

Okay, I know that’s a little silly, but that’s what I thought of.

The Safetytat is made for places like amusement parks, but I immediately thought of kindergarten.

One thing I’ll say for the school we left today: Kids don’t get lost. The staff/student ratio is practically one to one. I’ve had interns there tell me they can’t find kids to play with, there are so many adults around. (Perhaps one reason Sophie hasn’t sought out her peers.)

Kindergarten won’t be like that. Kindergarten will be 22 kids to 1 teacher. One very good teacher, but one teacher.

Still, I don’t think I can bring myself to tattoo my child, to keep her safe between the cafeteria to the playground.

Or maybe I can. I’ll hold off on a final decision til after the first week of school.

(NOTE: OK, I’M TAKING MY FRIEND PAM’S ADVICE AND PUTTING “DOWN SYNDROME” IN MY HEADLINES, ALTHOUGH I INSIST IT MAKES THEM CLUNKY AND RIDICULOUS. IT’S AN EXPERIMENT.)

Yesterday was Meet the Teacher Day.

We’d already met the teacher(s), so we just paid a visit. I’d like to report that Sophie was an angel — that she didn’t take off her shoes, rifle other kids’ stuff or try to steal fruit snacks. In fact, Ray reported she’d been in “ball buster” mode all day, repeating everything Annabelle said (don’tcha just hate it when your sibling does that?) and generally causing trouble.

By 4 p.m., napless, she was in fine form. Considering that, she was pretty good, although at one point I did have to pick her up and plop her in the middle of a table in Annabelle’s classroom, to keep her from wreaking any more havoc. (That’s a theme I have going, unfortunately: confinement. Crib, bathtub, car seat, changing table, now a high table in the classroom. I’ve got to work on this. More on that later, I really do promise, starting with The Crib.)

Sophie already knows Ms. X, but they had a lovely tete a tete (several, actually) and while she didn’t tecnically meet any of her classmates, we got to eye them and everyone looks nice, if much,much bigger. Somehow I thought that when Sophie was actually ready for kindergarten, magically she’d be much closer in size to her peers. Uh uh. She’s half the height of some of these kids, or it seems that way at least.

The big calendar on the wall was a particular draw, probably because it looks like the calendars in Sophie’s pre-school classroom. She found the pointer and played teacher, running down the days of the week. I pointed and said, “Hey, Sophie, what does that say?” (Fully expecting a wrong answer, or no answer.)

“August,” she replied, in a “no duh” tone. She then correctly identified “Thursday”.

Maybe we’ll be okay.