Word around school this week is that Sophie’s been swiping other kids’ drinks at lunch. She drains her juice box and nabs someone else’s drink, particularly if it’s strawberry milk. I stuck 35 cents in this morning, so she could get her own, which she thoroughly enjoyed.

I didn’t mean to be in the cafeteria during her lunch hour, but Sophie spotted me at school this morning so I promised to reappear at lunch — then hustled through Mrs. Z’s Xeroxing (man, I better not quit my day job — the copy machine and I DO NOT get along) and made it over for most of the kindergarten lunch hour.

Arrgh. I’d heard all about kindergarten lunch — it’s legendary — and most recently, both my mother and Sophie’s occupational therapist had spent time in the cafeteria, observing.

What a freaking mess. I know the idea is to let the kids blow off steam during the lunch hour (um, it’s hardly an hour — 30 minutes from start to finish, including time on the playground) but it’s ridiculously out of control in that cacophonous, smelly, linolium-lined lunch room. I didn’t see one kid finish his/her lunch. Probably a good thing, considering what they were serving — something that passed for a BBQ rib sandwich. I had to ask a kid what it was.

Sophie brings her lunch, mostly so I can put stuff in that she’s able to eat easily and quickly. It was a liquid lunch for her today (probably every day); I was lucky she consumed half a mini-quiche. The raisins went untouched and the cheese/crackers were just played with.

And Sophie stays in the lunch room almost the whole time; I was blown back against the wall when someone blew a whistle and most of the kids cleared out to the playground. Before the half hour was over, I’d clapped my hands over my eyes at least twice. (It is true that I scare easily.)

I braced myself for the playground, having been warned about the horrendous ratio — every kindergartener in the school versus one “duty” (please, someone, come up with a better term!). The woman walked around the playground, looking hard and blowing her whistle; but lacking eyes in the back of her head, I just don’t see how she (or any one person) can adequately watch all those kids.

Last week when my mom was there, a little girl wet her pants. Today a kid fell and skinned her hand; she didn’t know what to do. Neither did I.

As I’ve written before (I’m almost sure I’ve covered this already in some depth) there is no law — state or federal — regarding playground ratios at public schools. The ratio at the aftercare program at our school is 12 kindergarteners to one adult. In the classroom it’s as high as 23 (maybe higher) and outside, apparently a 1 to 90 (or so) ratio is cool.

The duty has a walkie talkie, the principal told me, the first time I complained. Anyhow, she said, the school’s not violating the law.

Yeah, I replied. Because there is no law.

I’m holding off while I formulate my second complaint. I need more ammo. And, yeah, less snark.

At first, they worked so well, it seemed like a miracle. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

Like most souls, Sophie is very interested in a good bribe. I see nothing wrong with that. Positive reinforcement is what it’s all about, as far as I’m concerned. I do it with myself constantly. (Go for that long walk and you can have a double non-fat latte! Do the dishes and I’ll let you read those back issues of Vogue and Elle you’ve been hoarding! Write a paragraph, shop on etsy.com. Organize your bedroom and as a special treat, you might get to see the floor again!)

You get the idea.

The system with Sophie in kindergarten is a little more intricate. A chart was fashioned with velcro and laminated (someday I will blog about laminating, I promise. Short story: I am afraid of the laminating machine) cut outs of Elmos.

Each morning, Sophie works to “earn” 5 Elmos. Same in the afternoon. The rewards vary, to mix it up and keep her interested: Courtney, the latest Wonder Nanny (we have a team of 5 at the moment!) actually purchased and painted a “treasure box” and filled it at the dollar store. Or Sophie can work for chocolate ice cream with Ms. X or on a very special day, a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.

I think her favorite reward, though, is a chance to stay after school and play teacher. And therein might lie some of the problem: Sophie, not unlike her mother, is a control freak.

So it’s no wonder the bribes aren’t working, the ante must be upped. I have one shoe on and one off, in preparation for that latte-earning walk, so this is To Be Continued.

But if anyone has any ideas for a good bribe, send them my way!

He’s right. Ya ain’t. For a long time now, he’s been taking the girls to the Phoenix Rock Gym. Annabelle scampers to the top of the wall, but for months, Sophie’s been stuck at one move — maybe two. Yesterday he had a breakthrough. Ray swears the following came with just one tiny boost. Scares the crap out of me. But that’s probably because no one took me to the rock gym when I was five.

We’d been emailing for weeks (months?) about our daughters. The woman lives in town, friend of a friend of a friend.

My daughter is 5; we found out she had Down syndrome when she was several days old. Still, I remember the time before the diagnosis felt like eternity.

This woman’s situation is worlds apart. She learned her daughter had Down syndrome when she was 3 years old.

You didn’t misread that.

I might have made a quick reference to this after I first learned of it — so forgive my redundancy — but the story is one I can’t stop replaying in my mind.

The baby was born to young parents (unlike me and my “geriatric maternal age” at 36) so there wasn’t the hint of a problem. And Baby Girl was perfectly normal, happy, healthy. But by the time she was 2 and a half, Mom noticed she wasn’t saying much. After months of debate and discussion and doctor visits, the pediatrician finally came up with a brilliant idea: a blood test.

Turns out, Baby Girl (now Little Girl) has a relatively rare form of Down syndrome called mosaicism. I’m not Science Girl, but basically it means that where every one of my Sophie’s cells is affected by Trisomy 21, Little Girl’s got “normal” cells along with the kind you see in Down syndrome.

It manifests differently in every case, but in this one it means that Little Girl looks totally typical. She has curly hair. Her mom was amazed to hear that Sophie’s hair is straight, while Annabelle, Ray and I range from curly to wavy depending on the humidity.

“Yeah, I asked the geneticist about it,” I told her, explaining that people with Down syndrome don’t have curly hair. Almost never. “He looked horrified.” (I don’t blame him; my kid was about to have open heart surgery and I was asking about her hair. Shoot me. I like distractions.)

We had the same geneticist, and I remember at the time we saw him, when Sophie was 3 months old, Ray remarked that the old guy seemed pretty bored. Run of the mill DS has to be the most common thing he sees. Yawn.

“Was he fascinated by your situation?” I asked. Oh yes, Mom replied. He kept them in his office for two hours.

Little Girl is getting all the services Mom can muster; she’s about to start pre-school; Mom and Dad have read the books, done the homework. She has stomach and thyroid issues common to DS. Funny, Sophie doesn’t have either. (Not yet, at least.)

But I wonder how Little Girl will match up with Sophie. All kids are different — and kids with DS are no exception — but I have to admit I’m curious. I want to meet Little Girl.

I had to ask. I leaned across my Bento box, feeling (and I’m sure looking) a little nervous. The topic hadn’t been broached.

“Um, so, in your life, have you ever known anyone with Down syndrome?”

Mom shook her head. Me either, I told her.

“Have you met anyone with it, since, well, you know….”

No. She hasn’t.

I remembered how I felt, and how I still feel. I’ve tested the waters with kids who have DS, but I have to admit that I still haven’t truly forged a relationship with an adult with DS. I keep swearing I will. One of my dozens of unkept New Year’s resolutions this year was to volunteer at the local ARC rec center. It hasn’t happened, and I’d like to say it’s only because I’m busy. But it’s also because I’m scared.

I wondered if Sophie was scary, in a similar way. I know she would be to me, if the tables were turned.

There was nothing else to do. I dove in.

“I think you should meet Sophie,” I said. “I don’t want that to freak you out. I think she’s awesome” (I’d already done quite a bit of bragging) “but I know it’s not the same. I don’t want it to be weird.”

She didn’t hesitate. She wants a play date.

In any case, I think I’ve made a friend.  

We hugged goodbye on Mill Avenue where our paths took us in different directions, and I got into my car, shaking my head. She says she was like a cat stuck over a bathtub, resisting the water, but I didn’t see that in this woman.

All I saw was one brave mom.

I thought she was pointing to one of her foot braces. For years now, Sophie’s worn flexible (well, somewhat; the first were totally stiff) ankle braces that fit down into her shoes. This has dramatically limited her choice of footwear. Frankly, for the most part, that’s bothered me a lot more than it’s bothered Sophie. We had one memorable afternoon in Nordstrom’s, trying on shoe after shoe; I hated the thought of sticking her in clunky white athletic shoes. Trish had the brilliant idea of getting her hot pink Converse, which unfortunately didn’t please the physical therapist.

To be honest, Sophie’s walking so well that we cheat a little (ok, a lot) and don’t always put her in her braces. She wears Crocs and Mary Janes and cute tennies that wouldn’t accomodate the braces. So don’t feel so sorry for either of us, though I still don’t put her in clogs; she’s too unsteady. (For that matter, I trip on my own clogs all the time.) I had a buying spree at Last Chance this summer that greatly increased Sophie’s shoe wardrobe and she has a lot of hand me downs from Annabelle.

I was thinking about the shoe thing less because today Ray’s taking her to the orthopedist and we expect she’ll be switched to a hidden plastic insert, and more because of what happened the other night, with the closet.

“What’s that?” Sophie asked.

“Oh, that’s one of your old braces,” I said. Don’t ask me why I’ve saved them all. I honestly think they’re pretty ugly (I realize now I didn’t even bother to take a picture). Once the orthopedist, whose wife is a fantastic local artist and who dabbles himself, took a much larger but similar brace from another patient and turned it into a planter, for a show where artists made planters out of different stuff. I couldn’t look at it.

But those darn braces — the purple ones, the pink ones, the one with butterflies (the babysitter accidentally drove over the other one, luckily without Sophie in it) — they’re all shoved into those pockets on the back of the closet door. It’s not like anyone else can use them, since they’re custom-fitted. And I’m not making planters out of them; no way. I’m just compelled to keep them.

Sort of like I’ve kept the pink velvet overalls I can never put Sophie in. (What? You’ve never heard my riff about how people with Down syndrome should not wear overalls? Not a good look. Perhaps related to “Of Mice and Men”.)

“NO!” Sophie insisted, in the way that only Sophie can insist. “What’s THAT?”

I caught a glimpse of red glitter, and pulled. Two ruby slippers (Target’s finest) that Annabelle’s outgrown emerged. You know, the shoes that have become the requirement for every little girl in America, now that someone brilliantly thought to mass-market them.

“GIVE ME!”

So I did, checking the size and warning that they were likely too small. She tried cramming her foot in anyway, then agreed and silently handed the shoes back.

At first I cursed the braces, cursed Sophie’s spaghetti ankles, cursed that extra chromosone.

Then I had to face the fact that really, it’s all because I’m disorganized. Three months ago, those shoes would have fit just fine, and Sophie would have had a great time in them.

Whatever. Life is too short to get upset when there’s an easy solution that’ll cost less than $20. We gave the slippers to a friend with a 2-year-old. And the next time I’m at Target, I’ll pick up a new pair.

It did feel that way, as we set off for our Fall Break road trip last Tuesday. We were headed north to Winslow, Holbrook and Flagstaff, stops along Route 66, although we’d be taking I-40 — you know that, if you’ve seen the movie Cars, which we tried to watch the night before we left. (We all fell asleep — that’s just not my favorite Disney movie.)

I had a bit of a bad attitude. The back roads of Arizona just aren’t my thing, and after three days, when we finally landed in downtown Flagstaff, I heaved a sigh of relief as we drove past the relatively tall buildings and bustling streets of that sleepy college town. (Crystal shops, mediocre sushi and one really good Korean restaurant, but still.)

Ray loves the open spaces, loves the silence — spotting a lizard or hearing a coyote howl. Me, not so much. I’m a city girl, and throughout our 15-year relationship have often been known to hum the theme to Green Acres at opportune times.

But we couldn’t afford a trip to the big city, and even the idea we’d had to drive to New Mexico seemed too ambitious when we realized we only had four days. So we headed north. Ray’d barely been to Winslow, and not to any of the nearby attractions, if you can call them that, so it was new for all of us.

The girls were thrilled to be together, and on a road trip. We all were. It’s been a crazy busy fall, and I’m making up for the days away now (writing at 3:45 am, I’m tripping over my typos). But it’s good that we did it. No school, no work (except for email and a couple phone emergencies for Ray), no doctor appointments, no therapies. No IQ tests or meetings with the principal or worries over playground safety. No mention of Sophie’s “disability” at all — except for one time, during the trip.

Ah, but I jump ahead.

I promise I won’t share a painfully boring blow-by-blow of our vacay. Just some highlights.

We stopped in Payson for Cheetos and a bathroom break. (Gotcha — ha. Really, highlights, I promise.)

The idea was to spend one night in luxury (La Posada, an amazing little hotel so misplaced in Winslow I kept hitting myself on the head to be sure I wasn’t dreaming it up); one night in kitsch (the Wigwam, several cement tee pees in the center of the town of Holbrook); and two nights cheap — my parents’ summer house in Flagstaff, which they abandon as soon as a leaf turns.

Ray was the one who chickened out on the tee pees when we got to Winslow; he dug for his credit card and bought a second night at La Posada as soon as we hit the lobby. And he’s not a hotel kinda guy. He would have been thrilled to camp the whole four nights. But this place is special — built to accomodate the influx from the railroad boom, it’s a Harvey House designed by a woman named Mary Colter (great for the girls to hear about a woman so accomplished, so long ago) that narrowly escaped demolition several times.

I won’t do it justice here (nor will my snapshots) and this is about the people, not the places, so check out La Posada for yourself: www.laposada.org

As for Winslow Proper, wow. I think the town must have busted out with pride when the new Church’s chicken opened. De-press-ing. Makes downtown Phoenix bustle. We stood on “The Corner” and explained The Eagles to the girls, then visited one of the two businesses open at 5 pm on a weekday, one of the two gift shops devoted to the song.

Inside, a video played an Eagles concert. “You don’t have to watch that thing all the time, do you?” I asked the young woman behind the counter. She nodded, looking sad.

Wow.

When we drove by the tee pees in Holbrook the next day, Ray and I knew we’d dodged a bullet. Cramped, to say the least (and that’s possibly the best thing you could say about them). We took several pictures and then stopped by the Safeway across the street.

And then we were off to the Petrified Forest/Painted Desert National Park. We’d already been to the Homolovi Ruins (Indian ruins, they’re called, I didn’t see one reference to “Native Americans” the whole time we were in Winslow/Holbrook) the previous day, and would later hit Meteor Crater and Lowell Observatory. Ray and Annabelle also hiked inside a cave, but I drew the line at that; Sophie and I stayed in that day.

This was defintely what I’d call a “Ray trip”. My idea of touring the glitter factory in nearby Cottonwood (really, there is one!) was out; that’s okay, it’s a better bet for a girls weekend. And the truth is that Ray gets short shrift on “Ray stuff”. But as I watched both of my children practically blow into that stupid Meteor Crater on a particularly windy day, I swore to plan an urban adventure for our next trip. (I much preferred the indoor part of the Meteor Crater exhibit, where the girls got to pretend to stand inside the crater.)

Things got extremely desolate as we headed for the petrified forest. My iphone lost reception, and I was forced to look out the window. I had visions of standing (or at least leaning) trees in the forest and rainbow hues in the painted desert, but Ray had warned all of us. And I already knew — the pleasures of the desert are very subtle.

Very.

OK, it wasn’t THAT bad, though it was a little warm out that day. Way too bright. We watched a brief movie at the visitors center (I nodded off) and Sophie befriended several AARP members. Turns out it was seniors and us, at most of these places. The upside is that the trails are all paved and managable, which is good since neither Sophie nor I are interested in scrambling.

The girls were both troopers, though there was the inevitable whining you’ll find on any family road trip, and without a crib in the room (I swear, I’m planning to deal with THAT at home — soon — really) Sophie was left to sleep with one of us, which made for a couple of interesting nights til we got to Flagstaff and the Pack n Play there. The night she slept with me, Sophie was on the side of the bed against the wall, but there was a small gap. I held onto her for what seemed like hours, then finally let go and fell asleep (Ray swears I was snoring long before that) and then woke up to a loud clunk as she rolled off the bed. I started screaming at Ray to turn on the light and he screamed back to shut up, but amazingly NEITHER kid woke up. Sophie slipped between the wall and bed, made her way to the ground, crawled under the bed and would have continued to slumber if I hadn’t dragged her out.

So we were all a little fuzzy.

After a makeshift picnic in the back of the Jeep, Ray lured us to a path called the Crystal Forest, which the movie warned was not what it used to be, due to people pilfering the petrified wood (a ton a month, the movie claimed; Ray and I both found that hard to believe) and it’s true it WAS tempting.

The girls weren’t that interested in the stuff — it’s weird, some pieces look like wood chips, others like crystals; in places it’s huge, though the Crystal Forest had dwindling piles of tiny hunks — but I found myself dying to take a piece or two. Ray (normally more likely to pilfer) shot me several dirty looks and I finally gave up, sulking as we walked to the car.

After a long drive past some petroglyphs (Ray was somewhat disappointed) and — finally — the promised vistas of the Painted Desert (if you’ve been to Sedona, or even Camelback Mountain, skip that detour) we drove to the end of the forest/desert, marked by a ranger station.

I had that guilty feeling you get when contemplate doing something wrong and ultimately make the right decision but still feel like everyone knows what you were thinking all along, and visions from the movie of the guy with the pocketful of petrified wood getting handcuffed by the rangers (really, they show that!) kept running through my head as we pulled up and a friendly blonde woman popped her head out of her small station.

“Well, hello!” she said, gazing into the back of our disgustingly road trip-ified car. “Don’t you have beautiful daughters!”

And, after a pause.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I practically busted out, “I swear, I don’t have ANY! I thought about it, I even held it in my hand, but I put it back, okay? I have small children, as you can see. Don’t arrest me!”

“Sure,” Ray said.

“Is your daughter disabled?”

She chirped the question in the same tone she would have used to ask, “Hot enough for you?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, wondering what this had to do with pilfered petrified wood. “She has Down syndrome.”

“I thought so!” she chirped back, grinning. “Did you know that because of her disability, she can get a lifetime pass that will get ALL of you into any national park free, for the rest of her life?”

We did not know that.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s really nice, but, um, you know, we are happy to pay. We want to support the parks.” (And shit, it had only been $10 for the carload of us. What with the world financial crisis, who am I to cut corners for the government right now?)

“Yes, but really, you should take advantage of it!” she said, beaming. “It’s such a great program. That way, you’ll never forget your daughter. You’ll always bring her with you on vacations, and she’ll get you into the parks free!”

Suddenly I was really wishing I’d taken a piece of that damned petrified wood. We smiled and nodded and pulled away from the ranger station, and headed to Holbrook to look for rock shops.

I never really liked Cabbage Patch Dolls. They peaked in the 80s, when I was in high school, becoming valuable collectibles (someone didn’t make enough, either by accident or on purpose), toys you left in the box to increase their value. I always thought they looked a little creepy. Too soft. Too homespun. And okay, I’ll say it. Those dolls look dumb.

Which is why I was silently horrified when our dear friend Janice — a woman who, it must now be stated, gives TERRIFIC gifts, like paper made from elephant poop on Annabelle’s most recent birthday — gave Sophie a Cabbage Patch Doll for a holiday, so long ago I know don’t recall which.

Janice was excited to watch us open the gift. “I just had to get it!” she said. “It looks exactly like Sophie!”

Now, I’m not above quietly confiscating an offending gift and simply making it disappear. I do it all the time — with duplicates, dangerous items, or something that will be too messy even for my house.

But I couldn’t throw out this doll. It was Sophie. Janice had said so — even though I couldn’t see the resemblance beyond the hair and eyes. As I type this I realize that’s probably all Janice meant. She couldn’t have been looking at the half-open mouth and the empty expression, right? Anyhow, Sophie’s expression is anything but empty, and her eyes are GORGEOUS, nothing like that doll’s. She looks like a perfect little porcelain china doll, not a patchwork-wearing, stuffed Cabbage Patch Doll.

That’s me, overthinking everything. The doll made in my likeness would have worry lines as deep as ditches and Diet Coke stains on its shirt.

Like all dolls that enter our house, the CPD was immediately stripped naked and left for dead in the landfill, I mean play room. Every few weeks, it surfaces, and I pick it up, thinking I’ll add it to the pile for the ARC thrift store.

But I can’t.

I was glad we weren’t home, because Ray might have wanted the girls to watch, and I just can’t let them make Sarah Palin any sort of role model. Heck, I’d rather they watch Kenley, the bad whiny girl on Project Runway.

Literally.

OK, I am a horrible mom. I let Annabelle stay up til 10 on Wednesday, to see the end of Project Runway. Hey, it was down to four designers. It was a big week. Truth be told, if you’d made me pick one, I would have skipped the debate for the runway, no prob.

I love that Annabelle loves Project Runway, and not just because it gives me a reason to watch something other than childrens TV. (I actually don’t mind kiddie shows much; they drive Ray nuts but I think they make nice background noise.) But Annabelle, like (I’m guessing) millions of other little kids (and some big ones — Trish swears that 15 year old Zach is among them) are now planning careers as fashion designers.

And what’s wrong with that? I love that she wants to create. After the show ended Wednesday (I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen this week’s yet) Annabelle announced that she was going to design her own evening dress. It will be sleeveless and orange with a big flower in the middle and it will go down to THERE, she said, pointing past her ankle. She intends to pair it with orange boots, which she also plans to design herself.

“You go girl,” I thought. “And thank goodness you’re gong to Grandma’s on Monday!”

I seriously have trouble sewing on a button, a lack of skill I inherited directly from my mother (GAGA). But my mother in law, now she can sew. She’ll laugh when she reads that, but I am in awe of her abilities — she can even operate a sewing machine. We met up for bagels last weekend (pic to follow) and the girls got silly with her, but I have a feeling that Monday Annabelle will arrive to spend the first day of Fall Break with Grandma, and she’s going to be carrying a bag of materials.

We’re planning a trip to SAS fabrics this weekend. I can’t wait. After the debate last night, no one quite knew what to say: Palin did just well enough to escape the full-on wrath of the crowd, which frankly pissed most of us off. So we talked about other things, like Project Runway. And trips to SAS. One friend with grown kids fondly remembered trips to SAS (it’s a dump of a small warehouse packed with fabric remnants and accoutrements — sequins, feather boas, patches, ribbons, I’m getting excited just writing this) as a young, poor mom. For five bucks, she recalls, you could occupy the kids for days.

Not bad advice in this economy. Google SAS fabric. There are several in the Phoenix area; I’m not sure how far the chain extends.

All I know is that Grandma better have her equipment out on Monday!

I reconnected this week with a lovely woman in town whose daughter is just about Sophie’s age, and also has Down syndrome. We wrote on each other’s “walls” on Facebook (if someone can explain that whole Wall thing versus the Email thing versus Status Comments, please do, and while you’re at it, what the hell does it mean when someone Pokes you?) and swapped quick kindergarten tales.

I’ll cut to the chase. Her kid — who goes to a public school in a neighboring district — gets a personal aide in the classroom 18 hours a week! That’s huge! Sophie doesn’t get someone to walk her from the cafeteria to the playground.

Something’s wrong with this picture, and if it was in reverse, I know this lovely woman would be kicking my butt toward an advocate or a law office. I need to do something. As Sophie’s physical therapist said this morning, it’s about her safety. I don’t want to rock the boat. But how can I help it?

Damn the economic crisis — we couldn’t sell our house and move to that better district even if we wanted to. And open enrollment is not an option for special needs kids; they’re too expensive.

At least Fall Break starts tomorrow, so I can indulge in one of my favorite pasttimes: procrastination.

It’s still well over 100 degrees — heck, it’s barely October — so it just doesn’t feel right to call the semester half in the can. But it is. Sophie is halfway done with her first half of kindergarten.

And Annabelle’s half done with the first half of second grade. Ray and I beamed through her conference — she’s a little above grade level for reading and right at grade level for math, and her teacher, Mrs. Z., adores her. The feeling’s mutual; Annabelle practically melts when she hears Mrs. Z’s name. I grilled Mrs. Z about mean girl stuff and whether AB’s a nag (no and no) and we talked about Annabelle’s morning ritual.

Before Sophie came to school with Annabelle, AB had us all to herself. Ray or I would drive both girls to the end of the block, put Sophie on the school bus (the pre-school insisted, and it was a cush ride — just Sophie and one or two other kids, and she had her own car seat) then drive AB to school, where we’d have a few minutes of one-on-one before the bell rang.

That’s over this year. This year we’re juggling both girls, and while Sophie’s much better than she was a few weeks ago, from the moment we step out of the car she has to be encouraged to stay on the straight and narrow. I have to leave Annabelle to put her own backpack on, while I make sure Sophie doesn’t run into traffic. We have to pause when Sophie refuses to relinquish the crossing guard’s hand. And we usually have to chase Sophie in one direction (out to the playground) or another (away from the older kids’ classrooms). Annabelle’s old enough to line up with her classmates when the first bell rings — and most mornings she does — but she’d rather I stay by her side and walk in with the line. I try, but most days I’m corraling Sophie into her own classroom.

And so we have developed a ritual. Annabelle stands outside her classroom, waiting for one last hug. “Once she has that hug, she’s fine,” Mrs. Z. assured us yesterday. She thinks it’s sweet. So do I, though I see it as a sign of my own neurotic tendencies, lurking.

But there was no denying it was a terrific conference. I made Ray give me a high five as we headed for Ms. X’s room across the breezeway. “I just worry about Annabelle once she hits fifth and sixth grade,” Ray said. “Yeah, that’s when I began screwing around, too,” I replied. (Although I think our definitions vary dramatically; my idea of screwing around was not doing my homework and reading unassigned books. Ray was way cooler — I’ll leave it at that.)

We were late for Ms. X. She had all the paperwork laid out, and first handed us the reports from the therapists — occupational and speech. I was immediately struck by how little those reports meant. Sophie gets 20 minutes at a time with these women, who are certainly well-meaning but also paid to simply catalogue their activities with special needs children. So much of the job is about making sure the reports are done, to satisfy the requirements of the IEP. What the kindergarten teacher has to say is the money shot, I realized. (I knew this already, sort of, but it was really made clear when she handed us those reports.)

I was eager to get a look at Sophie’s report card. I have to admit that I was a little startled to see a couple of “N”s for “needs improvement”. I’m thinking back, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an “N” on a report card. Not on one of mine (in third grade, I did get an S minus — S is for satifactory, the minus was NOT — for handwriting, which pissed me off so much I cleaned up my act immediately) and not on one of Annabelle’s.

But Ms. X is more than right, of course. Sophie DOES need improvement when it comes to completing tasks on her own. Most of her grades were P for progressing, with a couple S’s thrown in. And Ms. X swears she’s doing remarkably, that she is listening better at carpet time, following directions, even staying on the playground at recess. (The playground safety thing is still on my mind; I’m trying to figure that one out — a blog for another day.)

Ms. X pulled out a looseleaf binder, and flipped through Sophie’s section. She showed us that Sophie has, indeed, mastered every one of her sounds. “And she’s really not the last one to do it?” I asked (I asked AGAIN, I’m geting annoying, I know, but I had to hear it).

She looked through her notebook and reported that Sophie is actually the FIRST kid in her class to get every single sound. Sophie recognizes almost every letter (a couple exceptions: the lower case L — duh, it looks like an I! — and the “typewriter g”) and is on her way to counting to 100. She can sight read several words:

And check out her “first quarter portrait” — true, she does have just one nostril:

She got an “S” for writing her first name, and Ms. X assured us she’s stopped drawing on other kids’ papers. The PE teacher reports that the kids are “mother henning” her less and interacting with her more as friends.

Of course I sat there wondering what Ms. X isn’t telling us, though I hear from her nearly every day. (Again, my neurotic tendencies.) I know things are far from perfect. On Monday morning, Annabelle tripped on the playground before school. Of course she was standing right in front of me when it happened. (Don’t you love being there to witness your kids’ injuries?!) I grabbed her hand, then Sophie’s, and started marching to the nurse’s office.

It wound up being close to nothing, but Annabelle did get a bloody lip, which startled both Sophie and me. Halfway to the nurse, we passed two good mom friends; they agreed to walk Sophie to class. “I’ll be back to say goodbye!” I called to Sophie as I hustled Annabelle away.

In the nurse’s office, Annabelle was washed and Band Aided. The bell rang. A few moments later, I heard the quietest knock possible on the door. It took me a minute to even realize what it was. I opened the door, and there was Sophie. She marched in the door and walked directly to Annabelle, giving her a hug and examining her wounds. Before I’d had time to react, the door swung open and in walked Ms. X.

“Sophie, that is not all right! You are not to leave the classroom!” Ms. X said, in her perfect stern kindergarten teacher way. Sophie followed her out the door, sheepish. (My friends had deposited her in the classroom just fine; the escape happened later.)

In some ways, Sophie’s actions were totally appropriate. She was worried about her sister. But they were also completely unsafe. Ms. X assured us yesterday that Sophie’s not the only kid in the class with challenges — far from it she said, laughing. But of course I worry.

I will always worry.

Ray hadn’t seen the bulletin board with Dan the Flying Man. I haven’t read the book, but I’m guessing Dan is a character who flies. Ms. X asked each of the kids to draw themselves flying, and stapled them up in a line. Ms. X pointed out Sophie’s flying figure — a happy blue shape, not as complex as the others’, but way better than she would have done in July, that’s for sure.

And my favorite part is that she’s up there flying with her classmates, keeping up. She looks pretty good.