I was right. Sophie is okay.

More than okay. She called me after school on Thursday — she’d learned that morning that she didn’t make the freshman cheer line — and before I could ask about that, she launched into a story about a boy she’s got a crush on. Over the weekend she showed off her dance moves on the beach, played with her cousins, ordered too much sushi, and quarreled with her big sister in the back of the car on the long drive home. Teenage girl stuff.

Once or twice she mentioned something about trying out for cheer again next year and instead of saying, “No fucking way,” I smiled and said nothing and waited for her to change the subject. Ditto for when she pulled up photos on her phone of cheerleader costumes for Halloween. Mature mom stuff.

Not that I’m much of a grown up. I’m still plenty pissed, mostly at myself — for thinking that Sophie would make cheer, for tossing her in to compete against her typical peers. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to share with you some of the incredibly insightful things other people have had to say in the last few days about competition, friendship, acceptance, and inclusion.

Typically, I don’t recommend reading the comments on anything. But I learned a lot from these. Mainly, how many of my friends on social media also tried out for cheer and failed. But other things, too. Including that there are lots of different perspectives on how inclusion should go down; that it’s not just kids with identifiable disabilities who are getting left out; and that maybe sometimes failure should be an option.

Some days, we’ve got to sit with the fact that we don’t have all the answers. Those are the toughest days. Which is why it’s nice to have so many smart friends.  Here’s what a few people had to say (feel free to visit my Facebook pages to read more –there are good comments on previous posts here on Girl in a Party Hat, too) when I posted about Sophie not making cheer and my feelings about that.

From Lisa, mom of Cooper, who is a sophomore in high school and has Down syndrome: 

I think for those of us with disabilities and raising kids with disabilities, it’s just a bummer that everything that provides good opportunities for socialization, exercise, teaming up, etc has to be competitive. It’s almost impossible to find inclusive opportunities once we or our kids reach high school – we can’t just play for the love of sport, unless we are segregated into disability-only programs.

….Another lingering thought…our kids are BRAVE. By definition, having a physical or intellectual disability means trying and failing pretty much every day, at every stage in life. People with disabilities have to give twice the effort and still don’t “measure up” to nondisabled peers. So the idea that failure is good for us/them doesn’t take into account the real and persistent inequities – big and small – that make up the human experience when your body or your brain work differently.

From Rachel, who is a special education teacher and Sophie’s beloved jazz teacher: 

Okay, don’t jump all over me for this, people, but is it possible that inclusion also includes being given the opportunity to fail? If this was a situation in which Sophie was the only girl who didn’t make cheer, I would be all over it, and I’m sure you would be too, Amy. But… wouldn’t we be just as upset if they put her on the team as their “Special Education mascot?” Wouldn’t that be infuriating, too? Just putting it out there. You know she’s one of my favorite humans on the planet. 

From Janee:

I’ve been thinking about this all night. I think when we talk about inclusion and inclusive practices its hard to imagine, but it’s so much easier when our kids are young. The heartbreak is not that [Sophie] didn’t make a team, but that as she gets older built in opportunities for inclusion get fewer and farther between. I have had this feeling of doors closing when our local softball teams got better and Ruby couldn’t keep up, when theater practice became too loud for her, when Girl Scouts became more mature. It’s hard for us moms to see how they will be included as this gap gets bigger. Just my thoughts. Big hug to you and Sophie!

From Laura:

My oldest has Muscular Dystrophy and tried out for cheer in 8th grade. She can’t jump, run, climb stairs and can’t raise her arms. My career was social service and had been “trained” in dignity of risk. I was gutted throughout the process regardless. (And many times before and since) It tears you up inside yet you smile and cheer those little ‘do anything’ spirits on. Cry in the closet later.

These experiences, for me, seemed unmanageable and yet here we are now, that little warrior and me, no regrets, battle scarred, powerful, experienced. We still run in heart first into adventures cuz we know we will survive whatever the outcome.

Jennifer, founder of our local Gigi’s Playhouse and mom of Kaitlyn, who has Down syndrome and recently graduated high school:

I have so many things to say about this. Kaitlyn didn’t have to try out…I made a phone call to the coach, asked if she would consider the possibility of having Kaitlyn on her team, we met and Kate was a JV cheerleader! Her sophomore year the Varsity coach wanted her….I was hesitant because she loved coach Jane…but Coach Dwayne was adamant. The next 3 years were amazing. For Kate, for her team, for the fans in the stands…it was inspiring. It was humanity at its best. It was young women learning how to hone their empathy and parents giving up the perfect image of what a cheer line should be and accepting it as something even more beautiful than they could have ever imagined. We traveled with the team to Worlds in Orlando and when the team sang “Lean on Me” before their performance they looked for Kate, called her over and held her in the circle. She rarely went to all practices…and sometimes only stayed for half the game. You wanna know who was more impressed than anyone though?!! Me! This was inclusion at its finest. It was leveling the playing field for someone who didn’t choose her diagnosis but wanted a chance to participate. It was coaches and admin bending to meet her halfway. It was young girls who instead of being bullies put their arms around her and chose her when they otherwise might not have had the opportunity….[So many people] changed our lives in ways that made me a stronger mother. That strength led me to open GiGi’s Playhouse [in Scottsdale]. I know you have had so many amazing experiences with Sophie. She is an incredible young lady. She did everything right…now we just need the world to respond accordingly. Love you both–hoping they change their minds. They have no idea what they are missing.

As I responded to Jennifer, I am not going to ask the cheer coaches to reconsider. No way. But I do kind of hope someone shows them — and every other coach out there — what she wrote.

The conversation about inclusion isn’t over. We can’t let it be. My friends won’t let it be. And neither will Sophie.

Sophie is trying out for freshman cheer.

Sitting under the fluorescent lights of a big public high school gym for two hours yesterday afternoon, my thoughts veered wildly — from total disgust with our society for condoning (no, make that celebrating) the idea that it’s cool for girls to put on skimpy outfits and jump around with pom poms, encouraging boys to smash their heads into the ground and each other in order to get an oddly-shaped ball over a line, to the extreme envy I’ve felt my entire life, any time I’ve seen a cheerleader.

But mostly I thought about Sophie, and how she’s the bravest person I know.

There are maybe 50 girls trying out  – the gym was packed — and Sophie’s the only one with Down syndrome. (She appeared yesterday to me to be the only one with any sort of disability.) Before they gathered in the gym, the girls met at the track, where they ran a mile. Not every girl made it around four times, but most did. Except for the first few yards, where she sprinted ahead — a tiny dervish in a tank top and brightly-patterned leggings — Sophie was at the very back of the pack. She ran maybe half a lap before stopping to walk, and then trying to stop altogether, before the coaches urged some sweet girls to gently encourage her on.

It was 103 degrees at 5:15 yesterday afternoon in Tempe, and I was a little concerned, particularly when Sophie’s face remained flushed for most of the rest of the evening, even once the girls were sitting in the air conditioned gym and the rest of them seemed fine.

Although she’s very flexible and can do the splits like nobody’s business (thanks to hypertonia, a condition often associated with Down syndrome), Sophie couldn’t do the stretches the other girls did. In the car after practice, she rubbed the spot on her chest where the surgeons sawed her chest open twice many years ago to fix her heart, and said, “The stretching hurt my scar.” But she didn’t complain for the whole two hours. And I only noticed her stick her thumb in her mouth once.

She asked more questions than the others, but for the most part, Sophie was just another girl trying out for cheer. Watching her go through the paces (again, and again, and again — they all had to), her brow furrowed in concentration, I couldn’t help but notice that Sophie tries twice as hard and she’s still a beat behind.

That sounds about right for life in general for Sophie, I thought, my ears ringing with calls for “defense!” and the “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8″ I’d hear in my dreams all night.

Sophie has been on cheer lines before, in junior high and Special Olympics, but even though there don’t appear to be any gymnastic skills or tricks required here, high school cheer is different. It’s much harder. The routines are longer, there’s more concentration required, precision expected. The stakes in life are getting higher for Sophie, and for the most part there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I thought cheerleading would be an exception. I tried for months to downplay high school cheer, to dissuade Sophie from trying out, figuring it was totally out of reach and much easier to distract her than risk her trying out and being turned down. I encouraged her to join Speech and Debate instead. She just gave me a dirty look. (I am so uncool.)

After she saw the cheer line at orientation, Sophie was obsessed. As with many things involving my younger daughter, I had no say in the matter.

So I’m on the hunt for all-white Velcro tennies since Sophie still can’t tie her shoes, and this weekend I’ll drag my ass to the mall to buy a giant cheer bow (because both all-white tennies and giant cheer bows are required just for try outs — I will never understand this subculture), and my teeth will remain gritted until word comes back next week of whether or not she makes it.

If she does, it looks like I will be attending high school football games. If she does, I’ll be impossibly proud.

And if she doesn’t, I’ll still be proud. Maybe even prouder. It’s what we all look for as parents, right? The opportunity for our kid to try out for something, to reach and attempt and maybe fail. Or maybe not. I almost robbed us of it, this time, but Sophie wouldn’t let me.

Her instincts might have been spot on. This feels like a comfortable space in which Sophie can excel and make it — or not. I am probably being naive, but I really hope a spot for Sophie wasn’t pre-ordained the moment the coaches heard there was a girl with Down syndrome who wanted to try out. I hope that if she does make it, she’s not just a mascot, a warm fuzzy for everyone else. I hope she deserves a spot. And if she doesn’t, that she’s urged to try again next time.

I am cautiously optimistic after watching the coaches and girls encourage Sophie to run yesterday. I’m trying to feel that way about high school in general, but it’s too soon.

We’ll start with cheer. Final tryouts are Wednesday. As we drove home last night, Sophie admitted she’s nervous, sticking her forbidden thumb in her mouth. “I get it,” I told her. “But either way, I’m really proud of you for trying. Are you proud of yourself?”

She nodded silently, reaching her other hand out for mine.

I’ll let you know what happens.