Yesterday morning was pretty typical — we scurried to get ready, scurried out the door, scurried out of the car into backpacks and lunch boxes and over the crosswalk to school.

When Sophie, Annabelle and I arrived, it was the typical rush of teachers opening doors in the carpool lane (it always reminds me so much of a valet service) and kids flowing onto the playground.

We all stopped to say hello to Annabelle’s teacher, who gave us her usual big, happy greeting. Sophie said to her, “I come to your classroom!”

At first I didn’t give that much thought, standing there, because Sophie’s been saying that since the first day of school and we’ve always laughed about it. She doesn’t have easy access to Annabelle’s classroom. It’s on another floor, a gigantic (for Sophie) staircase away.

But something compelled me to look up from Sophie’s face to the teacher’s.

“Um, Sophie hasn’t actually shown up in your classroom, has she?”

“Why, yes!” the teacher responded cheerily. “Just yesterday!”

The craze of arriving kids continued through this discussion, so I couldn’t get much out of her, except that Sophie had shown up and a friend of Annabelle’s had escorted her back down the stairs to class.

When the bell rang, and Miss Y appeared to usher in her line, I broke the Cardinal rule. I brought up a Big Subject in the before-school rush.

“Hey, did you hear that Sophie showed up in Annabelle’s teacher’s room yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Noooooooooo,” she replied, clearly replaying the past day in her head even as she grabbed for hands and secured packs on backs.

She stopped and looked at me.

“Really?”

By day’s end, when we corresponded on email, she had asked for but not received details of the journey. There was speculation that this might have taken place during a therapy session or maybe music, since Miss Y never knew it happened.

I suppose it was a good week for this. In a couple hours, I’ll drive over to school for that one-month meeting of Sophie’s IEP team, which is finally to take place. And I’ll bring this up.

But first I’m going to let them all go around the room and talk about how incredibly well Sophie is doing, how this is the best possible setting for her, how her academics and socialization are through the roof (even if they really aren’t — I notice how eager people are to tell me how well Sophie is doing, and how eager I am to accept that news; events like yesterday’s are a wake-up call from the complacency that sets in) and when they’re done, I’ll pipe up.

And maybe, just maybe, if she’s at this meeting, the principal won’t turn to me, wince, and say what she said last year at this meeting, when I asked if we could write a provision into her IEP to have someone walk Sophie from the cafeteria to the playground at lunch each day.

You  know, if Sophie needs to be treated like someone other than a typical kid, the principal said, you will need to look at options elsewhere in the district.

Maybe there’s a simple explanation for the wandering. It’s true, Sophie was fine — people know and love her at this school, they want to take care of her. I just wish that when I’d asked Miss Y about it, she’d had a ready explanation. I know she does, too. She takes this as seriously as I do.

Honestly, the seriousness of it didn’t really sink in til I called my mom last night, to recount the events of the day, and mentioned it almost as an aside. She was horrified, speechless (rare for her). We hung up and 20 minutes later, I was in Safeway, and the phone rang again. What can we do about this? she asked.

I honestly don’t know. I’m back to thinking Sophie needs a micro chip or a tattoo or at least a tag that says, “If lost, please return to:”

Or maybe I’m just exhausted.

Now there’s nothing left to do but freak out.

I’m good at that. Without meaning to (I was only looking for the link, and truly hate the sound of my own voice) I just listened to the piece I did for the local NPR station last year, in honor of Sophie’s first day of kindergarten. I was worried then, but as I concluded, I had to try — after all, they call kindergarten the great equalizer. In a lot of ways, they were right. Sophie did okay. So okay that tomorrow she’ll begin first grade.

“They” failed to mention the stamina involved in jumping these hurdles year after year, worrying every day whether you’ve made the best decision, done right by your child.

First grade will be harder than kindergarten. And, in some ways, easier. We’ve already made the great mainstreaming leap. Sophie is a member of the community that is this small public elementary school. The principal has deemed Sophie “so cute!” and since she wasn’t too big a problem last year, hasn’t made any noise about finding other options in the district. Not to me, anyway.

But the challenge this year will be keeping up. Staying in line. Sophie’s not always so good at that.  And as she gets older, the stuff that used to be cute is getting less and less appropriate. At “Meet the Teacher” tonight, I never unclenched my jaw, even through the hellos to old friends. I had an eye on Sophie the whole time, watching for clues that she doesn’t fit in. There — she spotted a little boy from her kindergarten class and raced over, throwing her arms around him as he stared silently, desperately, at his father. When a little girl from last year came over to say hi, her mother told me the girl had hoped Sophie was in her class this year. Liar, I thought, even as I smiled broadly and said how sorry I was the two wouldn’t be together. Sophie hugged that little girl’s dad til he pried her arms away — very gently, but still. I watched the aggressive affection replay itself in a half dozen ways, til I had to stop looking so hard and focused instead on keeping Sophie  moving through the crowd.

As in kindergarten, academics won’t really be the challenge this year. It will be social. And if anyone can help Sophie with that, it’s Miss Y.

Both girls got the teachers we requested. Annabelle’s is absolutely darling — young, creative, energetic, and AB is thrilled. But Sophie’s really the lucky one.

Miss Y, as I wrote a bit during the last school year, was most recently a special education teacher. She wanted a typical classroom, and just happened to land in first grade. She has a close family member with Down syndrome. And beyond that, if you met this woman — even if you didn’t know all that about her — you’d just know she’s the one. It’s impossible to fill Ms. X’s shoes, but Miss Y will follow beautifully in her footsteps.

That’s not to say Sophie will fall into step herself. So much of this is really up to her, I think. But with Sophie’s state services almost certainly secured by that 55 IQ score and Miss Y in the classroom, she’s darn well equipped.

I’ll stop gushing, but first I have to share with you part of the teacher letter Miss Y sent home late last month, to give you an idea of how wonderful she is.

….During the coming year, your child and I will be spending many, many hours in the classroom together. I want you to know that there is no place I would rather be, and no job that I would rather have. Together, as parents and teacher, we can truly provide a comfortable, stimulating, and nurturing environment for your child. My promise to you is that I will consistently put the best interest of your child first, keep you informed about your child’s growth and classroom activities, and always welcome your input and support.

….As a first grader, your child will be provided with a multitude of writing experiences, and a wide-range of hands-on math activities that will encourage critical thinking….I work hard to differentiate my teaching and structure lessons to meet the needs of all learning styles, so that each of my students will have a wide range of vehicles for learning.

Yes, that’s Sophie’s teacher.

“Wow, things just fall in your lap, don’t they?” a friend at the school remarked, when she heard Miss Y would be teaching first grade this year.
Yeah, I scoffed to myself, when she said it. Things sure do fall in my lap — like a kid with Down syndrome. But you know what? My friend was right, even if she didn’t quite realize what she was saying. In a lot of ways, Sophie did simply tumble my way. And I’m damn lucky she did.

I stare at my kids all the time and wonder if my heart will burst from loving them too much. Both of them. I’ll be honest: Early on, when Sophie was just a mushy baby and more of an abstract concept (like all babies are to me, frankly) than a person, I wondered if I’d love my kids equally. I don’t wonder that anymore.

But I wonder every day if I’m doing right by either girl. With Annabelle, it’s a million tiny things and one huge question — what will it be like, in the final analysis, to have Sophie as a sister? And with Sophie, it’s a million huge things, starting with school. I know from last year that all I can do is take it one day at a time, make Miss Y promise to tell me the minute something goes wrong and to accept that at some points, something will go wrong.

And some things will go right. We made our way from Sophie’s new classroom to Annabelle’s, then down to the gym and finally the cafeteria. I stopped to chat with some other moms, and looked up to see Sophie holding hands in a circle with three other little girls, playing ring around the rosy. For a moment, at least, I couldn’t help but feel optimistic.