It was a little thing, really.

Sophie missed Brownies last Friday, and the troop leader had each kid take a scrap of paper and write what she likes about Sophie. I don’t believe the girls were supposed to sign their names. The whole lot arrived at our house today, sealed in a white envelope decorated with Sophie’s name.

It was a big thing, really.

Truly lovely. My favorite: “Sophie you are smirt,” written in purple crayon.

Yesterday a piece I did about Sophie and her BFF (aka “B”) Sarah aired on our local NPR station. I had meant it for Valentine’s Day, but Arizona statehood day happens to fall on February 14, so the BFFs were bumped for a few days.

Here they are.

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.

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.

So I wasn’t surprised when, within minutes of her arrival, Megan had already been whisked away to Annabelle’s room for a visit with Dr. Sophie, equipped with plastic toys from a half dozen doctors kits we’ve amassed. When I went back to tell the three of them that dinner was ready, Megan was cheerfully rubbing her upper arm. “I’m sick,” she said. “I got a shot.”

Both kids insisted they’d never met Megan, though they’ve each seen her at least a dozen times, on their visits to my office over the last two years. And Megan remembers holding Sophie years ago, when Sophie was a baby and Megan was an intern at New Times.

She wanted to see Sophie one last time before she left town, so we invited her over for curry and a playdate. After her exam with Dr. Sophie, Megan submitted to several games of hide & seek, a dance party and multiple readings of an Elmo book with Sophie, and keyboard practice with Annabelle.

She also endured — with grace — an awkward dinner table conversation:

Sophie: “Ernie died.”

Me: “Yes, Ernie died.”

Sophie: “I die!”

Me: (speechless)

Annabelle (calmly): “Sophie, you’re not dead. You don’t want to be dead. If you were dead, you’d just lay there with your eyes either opened or closed, and you wouldn’t see Mommy or Daddy or me or Megan.”

Me (to Megan): “Hmmm. This is where religion might come in handy.”

I made everyone knock on wood. Megan already had, she said, smiling.

In 15 years at the paper, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. I’ve said goodbye to some of my best friends and a few of my worst enemies. And in the past five years, as middle management (i.e., an editor), the goodbyes have taken on more weight as the departures either signal relief at losing dead wood or despair at losing a good writer.

But none of the leavings have affected me like Megan’s.

For starters, she quit in an e-mail. That’s akin to breaking up with someone on a Post-It, but by the time I got to the end of the very long note, I was cool with it.

Poor Megan. I don’t think she ever really meant to work at New Times beyond a 6 month fellowship, and from the day she arrived at the paper, I whined that I knew it was just a matter of time before she left me brokenhearted. She’s no dummy. She hates Phoenix. And she grew up in Tucson, which means she’s really not lived anywhere at all, and a couple of semesters’ worth of internships on the East Coast don’t count.

I understand. She wants to see the world — or the equivalent, if you’re a cool twentysomething: Portland, Oregon. I almost called her “hip,” but I’ve banned that word (and the horrendous “hipster”) from much of the writing I’m editing these days, so it’s not fair to use it, but this girl really is hip.

She’s the last (or maybe the first AND last) of an all but extinct species of smart, hard working, stylish, witty young women.

And you can add “compassionate” to the pile. I should have known something was up when Megan’s story list this spring only included social causes. I never dreamed she was about to give up journalism (for good, she says) and go to work for a non-profit, although I could have guessed it would be in Portland. But this is a girl (and really, she is — she’s leaving New Times younger than I was when I arrived) with an old soul — she knows what she wants and she figures out how to get it.

I’d like to be just like her, someday.

I wrote Megan a card when she left, and in it I told her I felt like I was signing the yearbook of a graduating student. As the teacher, I’ll stay behind and wait for the next crop. But there’ll never be another Megan. At New Times, she wrote a lot of hard-hitting intestigative stuff, and some endearing profiles, but her best writing was in a piece I put her up to, in which she visited a bunch of plastic surgeons’ offices and wrote about it:

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2007-09-27/news/pimp-my-bod/

If you read this, you will say — after you say, “Shit, that girl can write” — “Shit, her editor’s mean. How could she assign THAT?”

I know. But as always, Megan reacted with good cheer and hard work. And for the record, I don’t think I touched a word on that thing. Beautiful.

As a result of that story, Megan doesn’t want any photos of herself on the Web, so I didn’t snap a shot of her with the girls.

But I did take a picture of my mushroom purse, which she compelled me to buy.

On top of her other talents, Megan’s got the most unique personal style I’ve ever seen. She reminds me often of my grandmother, another stylish broad who decorated her kitchen with orange, lime and yellow stripes and her bathroom with those lucite toilet seats with themes — like “golf” and “Las Vegas”. (I’m pretty sure she had one of each.) Don’t ask me to explain, but somehow, Megan reminds me of Gommy. One day she came to the office with a wooden basket purse painted with mushrooms. I swear, Gommy had the same purse, no doubt in the lime/orange/yellow color scheme.

Poor Gommy, she died in 1992, long before ebay. Not me. Within hours, I had successfully bid on my own mushroom purse. I’ve never used it (it’s navy and red, not really my color scheme) and I debated giving it to Megan as a going away present, but I figured it would just take be crap taking up more room in her car, so I decided to keep it.

It’ll remind me of her.

At least, some play dates — specifically, the therapists tell me, play dates with girls (or very mellow boys) a little younger, 3 and a half or 4. And it’s got to be in a controlled environment:

One on one. For about an hour. Annabelle can’t be there. It needs to be in a setting unfamiliar to Sophie, and an adult needs to facilitate the play, just so.

All this to teach Sophie how to socialize. Which breaks my heart, because Sophie’s the most social person I know; she just doesn’t do it the right way, apparently. At least, not with the right people. (Her peers, rather than, say, the school nurse.)

Her therapists (and teacher, he was in on the discussion, too) love her, and just want the best for Sophie. We met the other day to talk about summer goals for Sophie, and they all but brushed past academics — ironically, that’s not Sophie’s challenge, not at the moment, at least — and moved on to negative behaviors (inappropriate hide and seek, as in, she hides when no one else knows they should be seeking), writing (she can’t now and maybe won’t, ever), and friendship.

Gordon, the teacher, suggested a social service agency in town that could possibly give us names of kids for potential play dates.

Excuse me?

“I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but I’m not ready to put Sophie on match.com,” I said snottily. “I think I can find her play dates myself.”

So, uh, anyone know anybody?

There it is, a brutal statement, but true. I was going to write about the cats, but I’m trying, with this blog, to push myself to write about hard stuff.

So today, Sophie. Friendless Sophie. Not lonely Sophie, she’s by no means lonely, or unhappy. She always has someone to play with. Just not the right someone. The default someone.

“Who’d you play with at water play at school today?” I ask.

“Gordon,” she replies, grinning.

Gordon is a sweetie, gentle and kind. A lot of fun. But Gordon has a beard that reaches almost to his waist. He hasn’t been 5 for a long time. He’s the teacher.

One of my goals for Sophie, this summer (along with making sure she can open everything in her lunch box, and that she quits playing secret “hide and seek” at school – scaring the bejeezus out of the staff the day she hid in the teacher’s bathroom for 10 minutes before someone found her) is to get her some friends.

Rather, to get her to make some friends.

She had started, in Janice’s classroom. I have a picture of her on “graduation day” with two of them. For months, when I’d ask her who she played with that day, she’d name a teacher or other adult. Late in the year, she started mentioning girls from the class. But still, her friend skills are barely past the parallel play stage, from what I can tell, and that is supposed to end at 18 months.

Sophie’s done with Janice’s class; this summer she’s at another pre-school full time. During the school year, she split her days between the two. I thought maybe that had kept her from making good friends at either place. This would be the summer of friends, I decided.

But no, I saw right away last week, when I dropped her for her first morning, that it would be harder than that. The kids are nice to Sophie (it would almost be easier if they were mean) but distant. She sat at a craft table with a couple of them when we arrived, and one girl tried to ask her a question. But when she couldn’t understand Sophie’s response, she gave up and turned away. Obviously used to it, Sophie didn’t seem to care at all.

When I was 5, I didn’t have any friends, either. The other day, my mother slipped and actually admitted that she used to try to bribe the little girl from across the street to play with me. Even the teachers didn’t like me, as I recall. I was a neurotic kid in a shag haircut and crazy green octagonal glasses my mom let me pick for myself. I wouldn’t have wanted to be my friend, either.

Sophie’s cute. Her hair is long and smooth, she doesn’t have glasses (yet). And she has all the qualities of a good friend that I lacked (perhaps still lack, but I’m trying): She’s kind, loyal, giving and loves unconditionally. (She doesn’t always share so well, at least, not with her sister, but we’re working on that.)

But the thing we have in common is that neither of us (certainly not the 5 year old me, anyway) has that elusive something that makes others want to be around us. Annabelle has it. She’s a freaking rock star. All the kids at school know her and she knows them. She doesn’t try; they simply like her and want to be around her. She’s easy going.

I am not easy going. Sophie is, perhaps, too easy going. And she can’t communicate. Me either, in my own way. I remember (too vividly) that by third grade, I was already inciting bullies by speaking down to them. (If you’re out there, Ronnie Sullivan, and you ever did learn to read, f*ck you!)

I’m not counting Sophie out entirely, but for now, she can’t really get another 5 year old to understand her at all. Annabelle does, and so do some of her friends (at least, they can understand her well enough to think she’s cute and want to mother her — not perfect, but I’ll take it) but other kindergarteners tend to ignore her.

It happened last night.  I invited another family over for dinner. It’s the perfect set up — the parents are groovy one-time punk rockers (can you be groovy and punk at the same time? if so, these two are) and the kids are adorable. The older girl is just Annabelle’s age; they’ve been in summer camp together and are in the same grade at the same school. The younger will be in kindergarten with Sophie.

It was a nice night. I picked up pizza and the girls played “Little House in the Big Woods” in Annabelle’s pink and purple battery-operated Barbie Jeep and built a “campfire” (never lit, thankfully) out of pine cones inside a hula hoop.

Sophie had a blast. If you weren’t looking for it, you might not have noticed that she was two steps behind the other girls, all night.

No one was mean to her. Sure she got in the way a few times (they all do, when that stupid Jeep is involved, Annabelle actually got her foot under a tire, at one point. “That didn’t hurt at all!” she marveled. I marveled, too) but the night was uneventful.

And not in a good way, considering my goal. Sophie said big good byes to the parents as they left; the kids were polite, but still not particularly interested. I can’t blame them. She’s just not on the same wavelength. It’s not like the autistic kids I’ve seen, although in some ways, Sophie is in her own world. I was, too. I do maintain that if I’d been born in this century, I would have been diagnosed with at least Asperger’s.

Makes me wonder yet again what Sophie’s world must look like, through the lens of that third 21st chromosone.

I know it will take more than one play date — with those kids, or any kids. The non-hysterical part of me whispers, “Just wait. Let her get to kindergarten. Let her figure it out. She doesn’t have to be friends with everyone, like Annabelle is. She just needs one or two.”

But the neurotic, shagged, green octagonal part of me says, “She’s screwed!”

Last week, at the behest of the occupational therapist, I packed Sophie just three things in her lunch: tiny quiches, baby tomatoes (not the kind with salmonella) and I opened her package of crackers just a bit so she could open it the rest of the way herself.

Mission accomplished. Now if I could just pack her a friend box.