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.

Does anyone need a giant white cheer bow?

This morning Sophie was ready early, waiting by the back door, yelling at me to hurry up so she could get to school and see if she made the freshman cheer line.

“Now remember, you might not make it,” I said as we climbed in the car. “How do you feel about your chances?”

“I know,” she said. “Good.”

I’ll be honest: Even though I warned her all along that she might not make it, this morning as we drove to school, Sophie and I both thought it was a sure thing. Last night Sophie’s nanny (who had been at most of the practices and the try-out) dropped her off and announced that Sophie had nailed all the cheers, that she smiled and that she was one of the loudest.

“All the judges seemed to really like her,” she told me. And with that, I let down my guard, the first thing they teach you not to do at that How-to-be-a-Parent School that doesn’t exist.

I didn’t worry about Sophie’s extra questions during try-outs, or the time she’d made herself the leader at practice, or the fact that she told the coaches it was not appropriate to make the girls run in 110 degree heat. Or that no matter how hard she tries, and no matter how well she learns any kind of dance or cheer routine, she’s always a beat behind.

I knew she was going to make it.

I kissed Sophie goodbye. “Text me a selfie if you make it, okay?” I asked. “I want to see your face!”

She nodded, grinning.

I dropped her with her aide and Sophie rushed off to the activities office. I drove away, already composing a blog post in my head, ready to accept all those virtual high fives on social media.

I still had mixed feelings about cheer — and no desire to attend a football game — but after a few glimpses of how well Sophie interacted with the other girls, how well (aside from not wanting to run, and she was not alone there, and the part where she made herself the leader) she followed directions and learned — and performed — the routines, I was thinking that she had a real chance, and thinking about what an important piece of her development this could be. Of how she might actually make a real friend this year. Of how this school would truly be practicing inclusion, like the district’s special ed director had assured me they would when we spoke last year.

To be fair, that man never guaranteed that Sophie would make cheer. And I would never, ever expect that. But now I need to call myself on my own shit because maybe, this morning, I was expecting it.

A few minutes later, Sophie texted me a selfie. In it, she’s crying. Below it, she wrote  “Nope.”

Oh fuck.

Sophie is okay. And if not, she will be soon. She has drama, ballet, jazz, and swimming after school. She’s in dance and choir at school. She wants to sign up for the Spanish Club.

She can still be in Special Olympics cheerleading.

I will be okay, too. I have to be, right? I’m the one who assured the cheer coach last week that all we wanted for Sophie was a fair shake, a chance to try out. That we’d understand either way.

And now I have to understand.

I’m itching to email the coach and ask how close Sophie got, what my kid did wrong, what she can do better in the future, and — while I’m at it – why on earth they wouldn’t include a kid with so much energy and enthusiasm , who tries so hard, who works twice as hard as anyone else, who knew all the cheers and smiled and wore the giant bow. Why they didn’t include the kid with Down syndrome when all I see on social media are cheerleaders with Down syndrome.

I want to ask everyone at that school just what inclusion is supposed to look like, both in and out of the classroom.

Instead, I’m going to try to say nothing. That is not my strong suit. But we’ve only been at this school for a hot minute, and I need to give this some time, gather some context.

And look, I fully realize that I’m completely biased here. (And possibly slightly unhinged.)

Sophie will be okay.

And if I’m not, that’s okay, too. In fact, it’s probably better. Because it’s my job to ask the hard questions — even if for now I’m only asking myself.

I am so grateful to Sophie’s teachers — past and present — and to everyone at her school (she pretty much knows them all by name!) for educating, enlightening and including my little girl.

Sometimes, knowing where to begin to say “thank you” can be tough.

As usual, Sophie gave me the best lesson when it came to a concrete example of gratitude, in the form of notes she wrote last night to her teachers. I gave her a stack of hot pink index cards, a fine-point Sharpie and a list, and asked her to write a note to each of her teachers. She’d had a more-than-full day, including homework and ballet class, but she complied happily, occupying herself at the kitchen table and leaving a pile I didn’t turn to till early this morning as I was furiously shoving salt water taffy and iTunes gift cards into bags.

Check out the note (photo above) that Sophie wrote to her Language Arts teacher:

“Thanks for teaching me all of those awesome things to me and reading The Outsiders. Sophie”

To the math teacher: “Thank you for teaching me all of math.”

And to her beloved aide, who has been with Sophie (but not necessarily by her side from third grade to seventh, and if you have any knowledge of how it’s supposed to work with a one-on-one aide you know what I mean): “Thank you for traveling with me from elementary school to this point.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself. The girl can write. I’m bursting with pride — and gratitude.

For many years, I wrote about Sophie’s school without naming it. Now that she’s finished there — moving on to junior high — I have no reason to keep the name a secret — and every reason to tell you what a fabulous place it is. Was. Is — for lots of kids. Not for Sophie, not anymore. School’s been out for a week and I still can’t think hard about it without blinking back tears.

I’ve been lucky enough to have had the chance for several years to chronicle Sophie’s adventures on KJZZ, the Phoenix National Public Radio affiliate. I did a commentary about Sophie’s first day at Broadmor Elementary School.

And I did a commentary about her last day there, too. Three minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to express my gratitude — but I hope I made my point.

Here are each of the pieces:

Sophie’s First Day of Elementary School

Sophie’s Last Day of Elementary School 

I won’t bury the lede. At this point, if I had to make a decision, I’d send Sophie to the feeder school, the standard-issue junior high in our district.

The last option on my list.

That sounds shitty, like a slap, and it shouldn’t, because the truth is that I haven’t even visited that school. That’s why I was in the principal’s office; he had promised to set up a tour when I was ready, to find the right contact person, to make things okay. (Or as close as he can.)

He’s such a great guy. He’s the one who wore fuzzy purple pajamas to Sophie’s birthday party last year (they share a birthday, as she reminds him whenever she sees him). He’s the one with the inspirational messages on the walls of his office; I’ve written about them before.

Yesterday I fixated on one on the back of the door, just above his head, in all red:

ALL MEANS ALL

And it has, for Sophie, at this school — to a very large extent, maybe the largest possible. True, I had to fight to get her in and the principal at the time was not my favorite. We’ve had our ups and downs at this little K-5, but looking back, it’s been nothing short of remarkable. Sophie is truly a part of a community — she knows everyone, they know her. I’m quite sure she’s overstayed her welcome with both adults and kids, in a few cases, but she’s also made true friends. She has learned so much. And I like to think Sophie’s taught the folks here a thing or two, as well.

A friend of mine — the  mom of another kid with special needs at the school — calls the place Camelot. With caveats, for sure, she remarked recently after a school choir concert as we struggled to chat over the din in the gym, but Camelot.

And next year? We stared at each other, neither sure what to do with our daughters, even after months of research. So we wrapped our winter scarves tight around our necks, gathered our families, and went home.

I’ll just say it: The future is grim. Oh, I know, Sophie will be awesome wherever she goes, she’ll win hearts and minds and all that crap. Before I know it, I’ll be writing about that. But before that, I’m going to write about the fact at for all practical purposes, once Sophie leaves fifth grade, inclusion will end. For junior high, anyway.

I’ve ventured out — toured schools; talked to parents, teachers, lawyers; hired a consultant; googled and read, everything short of praying (though that’s been recommended). From time to time, I’ve turned to the Church of Facebook, kneeling at that altar to ask for advice. Last week a Facebook acquaintance — I’ll call her that since we’ve never actually met — commented:

Arizona has a tremendous amount of school choice available….You’d have to search pretty hard to find another state with the amount of options that we have in AZ. I’m sincerely sorry that this quest has proven to be so difficult for you and your family.

I’m sorry, too. And sorry for all the whining I’ve done. But when it comes to Sophie — and probably most kids with special needs — it’s simply not true. And pretending that it is is not only insulting but dangerous.

Maybe that perfect school is out there and I simply haven’t found it. But as much as I’m quick to doubt myself in other realms, at this point I’m pretty sure I’ve rattled all the cages in town.

Bottom line: I decided to take full advantage of the school choice thing when finding a school for Sophie. We looked hard and found the right place for Annabelle. There had to be just the right niche for Sophie, right?

As I told the principal yesterday, here’s what I’ve learned. Please, tell me if I’ve left a stone unturned:

*There is likely not a charter school for Sophie. We put in for lotteries at two schools; both would be good choices (with caveats) but her chances could be as crappy as 1 in 100. I’m not holding my breath. Most of the charters I researched and talked to (including Annabelle’s) made it clear that they don’t have appropriate special ed services for Sophie. I could force her way in; that wouldn’t be good for any of us, most of all Sophie.

*There’s not a public school outside of our district, Tempe. Yes, technically, you can open enroll a kid out of district in Arizona. Even a kid with special needs. A kid with an IEP? Not so easy — and almost certainly impossible, particularly at the super-popular schools I’d like to send Sophie to. (Her lawyer confirmed this for me.)

So much of this skirts the law — yes, legally all public schools (and that means charters) are supposed to provide appropriate services. And the choice to open enroll should be as open to Sophie as to other kids. But in reality, it is not.

*There’s not a private school. There are some terrific schools — for high achievers. The private school I found for special needs kids isn’t quite right for Sophie. And we are not interested in a religious school.

*No, I’m not home schooling. And if you know me at all, you are applauding right now. Plus, Sophie needs to be around her peers.

*There are no other viable public school choices in Tempe. Then I turned back to Tempe. A friend urged me — rightly — to figure out a way to keep Sophie with her peers, her classmates, the kids she’s known, in some cases, since pre-school. Her best friend. A very good point, and the bright side of not being able to find a perfect boutique school. But that is sticky, too, and not only because some of those kids will go out of the district or to charter schools. It’s because Tempe has shut Sophie out of that choice.

A few years ago, the junior high across the street from Sophie’s elementary school closed, due to declining enrollment. Blame the charter schools. I did — even as I was guiltily pulling Annabelle out of public school to send her to one. The school stood empty and lots of options were discussed — a charter school collaboration with ASU or maybe Sophie’s school could be a K-8.

In the end, the district decided to go head to head with the boutiques — creating an “international academy” that will someday (they hope) house a prestigious IB program.

Mediocre students need not apply.

Well, technically, we could have petitioned, brought in the lawyer, demanded fair treatment — but my understanding is that this school has no special education services in place (not the kind Sophie needs, anyway) and all I’d be doing is making a point. And enemies.

I heard a rumor that more than half of the fifth grade has been accepted to the international academy. Many more will go to charters or out of the district. That will leave a few to go to the feeder school. It has a gifted program, so most likely any of the higher achievers left in the pot will leave for that.

I’m guessing Sophie will be at that school with dozen or so kids. Mostly “resource” kids.

“So what’s she bitching about?” you might be asking yourself. Sounds like that’s where Sophie belongs. And maybe it is. But so much for inclusion. And so much for school choice.

ALL MEANS ALL.

I stared at the words over the principal’s head and I didn’t cry, even when he offered to come with me on the tour of the big, scary junior high. Even when he offered to bring Sophie over himself. She’s excited about it — weeks ago, apparently, her special ed teacher told her he spoke with the resource teachers at the junior high and they can’t wait to meet her.

For her special ed teacher, it was a foregone conclusion. Maybe it should have been for me, all along, too. I’ll probably always be on the lookout for the right junior high for Sophie, the way I keep an eye out for Holiday Tic Tacs at Walgreens all year.

Maybe this junior high will be Sophie’s dream school. As a friend observed not long ago, the school’s color is purple. They have a cheer squad. Maybe she’ll love it, flourish, learn. Maybe I’ll be just as sad to leave there in three years as we are to leave elementary school. Maybe.

I googled Camelot to make sure I was using the reference correctly, and the following scholarly quote popped up:

“Camelot, located no where in particular, can be anywhere.”

“Sophie had a really bad day today,” she said. We were on the phone, but I could see her shaking her head. Sophie was out of sorts all day, in ball buster mode, totally stubborn. Refused to come in from the playground, wouldn’t listen to directions.

“Oh, and she bit someone,” Ms. X said in a rush, like it was an afterthought. I know she knew I’d freak.

“SHE WHAT?!”

“She bit someone. But, but — it wasn’t bad. She just took a kid’s fingertip in her mouth. I don’t think she meant to really bite. It didn’t break the skin.”

Apparently another kid actually left a bruise on a classmate last month, so this really wasn’t much by comparison. Still, Ms. X and I both know it’s got to be nipped in the bud. (So to speak.) Sophie was sent to another classroom for 15 minutes, and it was during Reading Buddies, when Annabelle’s class was there to read with the kindergarteners. Big punishment.

As always, I could tell Ms. X felt badly about being stern with Sophie. And she was quick to tell me that the last 20 minutes of school, Sophie was absolutely perfect.

Super.

“And as she was leaving, she gave me a hug and said, ‘You come my house Thanksgiving!’” Ms. X reported happily.

I was not happy. I called Ray to report on the day’s events and warn that he not mention the bite. We don’t want to make a big deal, I cautioned.

“OK, no problem,” he replied, not seeming concerned. “I know where she got it.”

“Where?!”

“From watching `Charlie Bit Me.’”

Grr. Not on my watch. I’m the queen of inappropriate, but even I have my limits.

Am I the only one who doesn’t find that You Tube video funny? Check it out for yourself if you’re among the handful of Americans who hasn’t seen it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HE4FJL2IDEs

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.

So the Elmos aren’t working, as you already know. It looks like the tough love approach might be the ticket.

Ms. X called the other day to report that Sophie had had a pretty terrible morning. In the afternoon (and without any interns to help out) Ms. X tried a new tactic. She sat Sophie down and sternly (but lovingly) told her, “Sophie, you are a smart little girl! You can do the work the other kids are doing. Stop screwing around and do it!”

And sent her off with the afternoon’s work, a multi-step project: pasting the correct words onto a picture of a tiny plant (stem, seed, etc), coloring the plant, writing her name at the top.

Ms. X held her breath and firmly sent Sophie back to her seat.

A little while later, Sophie appeared at Ms. X’s side, paper in hand. It’s now proudly displayed on our fridge. Darn good, and the best writing of her name I’ve seen yet. The leaves are black (hey, her mom’s never kept a plant alive, so she has no point of reference) but the flower is yellow, the stem green, the soil brown.

“And she did it all by herself!” Ms. X said proudly.

One afternoon down. So many more to go.

It’s a tradition at the girls’ school. (The festival, not the spying.) Every Halloween, all the kindergarteners — and only the kindergarteners — parade through the school in their costumes. Cutest thing ever. Then they gather in the cafeteria for the morning, where sevearl stations are set up with carnival-like activities: story telling, cookie decorating, pin-the-smile-on-the-jack o’ lantern. That kind of thing.

I signed up immediately as a helper for the morning. It was my first real look at Sophie in action, amongst her peers. I’ve banned myself from her classroom, which kills me. Not that I have so many hours to volunteer, but I’ve always managed some lurking time in Annabelle’s classroom. It’s good for her to see me around, and even better for me to see what’s up in the space my kid occupies for such a big hunk of her life.

Last year when Annabelle was in first grade I got an eyeful of just how much time some teachers spend texting (hey, it was a new boyfriend, cut her some slack) and got to organize someone else’s supply closet — which for some reason is infinitely easier than organizing any of my own crap. This year I’m in absolute awe of Mrs. Z and her Smart Board (google it if you’ve never heard of one — amazing) and her ability to keep just enough control over a group of 7 year olds to get them to work without feeling like they’re working.

And while I’m grading homework, I get to keep tabs on the kids’ social lives. I admit that’s the best part.

But I’ve never gotten to hang with Sophie’s class. In pre-school, parents were pretty much banned from the classroom. At first I was really upset, but Sophie’s wonderful teacher promised she’d be a different kid with Mommy around. “We’ll videotape her if you want,” she said. I was allowed to come at Hanukkah, and the teacher was right: Sophie spent the whole time showing off for me and disrupting the group.

Lesson learned, sadly, so I’ve stayed away from kindergarten. I’m lucky because Ms. X keeps me posted on classroom activities and Sophie’s ups and downs. But as I stood with Sophie the other day before school, I realized I know very few of the kids in her class. Several of the girls, yes, but not many by name, and the only boy I recognized was the one who came to school on Picture Day with both ears pierced. (He’s memorable, and also a good friend to Sophie.)

The Kindergarten Festival went well, although I got stuck at the math station — not my strong suit. OK, I admit it’s not like it was algebra. The kids made patterns with construction paper pumpkins, ghosts and bats. Still, it was stressful, and partly because I was afraid of what I would see. Would the other kids  leave Sophie in the dust?

Let’s say I was pleasantly horrified. I’d figured she’d emerge as the slowest, but as I got to see each kid complete (or not) an activity that required a bit of concentration and effort, I realized that Sophie’s hardly at the bottom of the pile.

I’m not deluding myself, trust me. Well, maybe I am, but not entirely. Last week the “Clifford Journal” came home — the kids are allowed to take home a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog to play with, then asked to write about the “visit” in the journal.

My eyes welled up as I flipped through the book. Many kids had drawn fairly intricate portraits of Clifford engaged in activities around the house, along with several well-constructed sentences describing the visit.

Sophie wrote her name in her Sophie way, and drew a, well, a more rudimentary picture than the others in the journal. She dictated her description of the visit to me, which I dutifully wrote, verbatim:

“Don’t feel bad,” Ms. X said when I mentioned it. “I’ve watched parents dictate to their kids. They don’t come up with that stuff themselves.”

But even that wouldn’t have worked with Sophie. She still has trouble forming the letters to more than her name, dictated or not.

So I was nervous as I set out glue sticks and paper cut outs. And yeah, I saw my share of whiz kids. But what surprised me was how many kids were completely unable to do the simple task at my station. Although patterns are a big thing in kindergarten — the precursor to math and all that, something that has no doubt been covered to death by three months into the school year – some children stared blankly when faced with the task. A few couldn’t figure out how to rub the glue stick on the back of the paper, or how to get the finished product into the brown bag they were carrying around.

By the end of the morning, I’d decided several things:

I will never, ever teach elementary school.

Sophie’s doing just fine in kindergarten.

And she looked damn cute in her Cookie Monster costume.