Yesterday morning, I saw a snowman.

Outside my favorite coffee shop in Tempe, just sitting there on the sidewalk. Melting. It was maybe a little taller than Sophie — nothing fancy, with twig arms, a carrot nose and coal eyes.

The temperature was predicted to hit 115 yesterday, but someone woke up and got some ground ice and built a snowman. You don’t see a lot of whimsy in metropolitan Phoenix, particularly in the summer, so I took note. And a photo.

A few hours later, I strapped Sophie into her car seat and we headed off for her IQ test. I braced myself, feeling repelled by the idea of meeting the psychologist others have dubbed Dr. Death, let alone the idea that I’d actually scheduled an appointment with her, with the hope that Sophie would fail an IQ test and keep her state services. The law says my kid needs one of four diagnoses: autism, epilepsy, cerebal palsy or mental retardation. Having Down syndrome — which she does have — isn’t enough on its own.

Go figure, I really liked the doctor. We hugged at the end. And I didn’t just like her because she seemed like she wanted to help Sophie, which she did. She seemed knowledgable and reputable (remember, my lauded pediatrician did recommend her long after I’d heard from others of her shady reputation) and, as so often happens in this small town of a metropolis, she’s worked closely with several medical professionals I know and trust.

I liked her, even though she told me my kid is retarded. And not just retarded. Really retarded. After answering questions for half an hour myself, then leaving Sophie alone with her for an hour, I returned to her small office and perched on the couch, expecting the doctor to tell me she’d have results in a couple weeks.

Oh no. She had numbers now. As the doctor shuffled her paperwork, I thought of Michael Berube. He’s an amazing guy, a humanities professor who studies the role of the disabled in our society. His son has Down syndrome, and Berube wrote a book about him, “Life as We Know It,” when Jamie was about 4.

Berube came to Arizona State to speak in the spring of 2008, and I went to see him. This was right around the time the pre-school told me they wanted to test Sophie’s IQ for the first time, and I raised my hand and asked the professor about it. They think she’s not mentally retarded, I told him. Could that be possible? 

Berube nodded. He knew what I was talking about. He didn’t answer the question I asked; he answered the question I should have asked.

“You need to make sure her IQ doesn’t go over 69,” he told me. He wasn’t the last to say it. The cut off for mental retardation on an IQ test (and I know, I know, I know, many people don’t consider them valid — me either, particularly after the last year and a half) is 70.

And so I sat on that couch and thought, “69, 69, 69, 69….” until the doctor derailed my train of thought.

“Sophie’s IQ is 55,” she said. That was according to her one-on-one testing. The result of the questions I answered (and trust me, I may not have bragged, but I didn’t lie) was 57.

The final report won’t be done for a week, but there’s the number: 55.

A year ago, I sat on a couch in a different psychologist’s office, thinking, “69, 69, 69″ and heard, “Eighty-three.” That was 2 points higher than the school’s testing.

(Funny, I cried when I heard 83. Yesterday, I was dry-eyed. Maybe I’m in shock.)

Maybe it’s because Sophie’s 6 now. This test was different. Maybe it’s because the psychologist who gave her the 83 last year spent the entire summer getting to know Sophie and us, and administering the test in managable pieces, admitting she asked some questions several times. We were done yesterday in well under 3 hours. Maybe it’s because Dr. Death rigs the test. Part of me wants to think that. (“WTF? FIFTY FIVE?!!!!”)

In any case, I’m not complaining. I swore I wouldn’t. “This is what you wanted, right?” more than one person asked yesterday, when told of the results.

Yes, sure, of course. Of course not. No.

You’ll love this part. The psychologist gave me the results (and a lecture about how Sophie clearly has ADHD, which I’ve heard before) and then she apologized.

“You probably won’t be able to keep her services with this number,” she said. “I think she needs to qualify as moderately mentally retarded, and this will likely only put her in the mild category.”

Sophie and I said goodbye to the doctor and headed off in search of chocolate ice cream. I strapped her into the car seat and looked into her eyes. “I love you, Sophie!” I told her. “You know you’re a smart girl, don’t you?”

And then my daughter did something I’ve never seen her do. She looked at me wordlessly, opened her mouth, and let some drool spill out onto her chin.

Really.

I wiped it off, kissed her and got in the car. We never did get chocolate ice cream, only because Sophie fell asleep immediately. I drove around for an hour and a half, making calls to my husband Ray, my mom, Sophie’s kindergarten teacher, Ms. X.

I told Ms. X about the drool. She hooted. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen her do that before, she was sending you a message!” she said.

Sophie’s no dummy. I do think she’ll get to keep her services (her support coordinator told me 69, nothing about moderate vs. mild) and last night I emailed the three wise women (physical therapist, occupational therapist and speech therapist, all of whom have been with Sophie for years) to tell them about the test.

This morning I had a message back from Sydney, the speech pathologist.

55…85…105… when it comes to Sophie, it’s all the same to me.

Right or wrong, [the doctor] is giving you a snapshot of performance during a very short period of time in which a child is put in an unfamiliar environment with an unfamiliar adult and asked to comply.  My guess is that if Sophie decided she didn’t want to do a task, she convincingly said, “I can’t,” or “I’m very tired.”  During administration of select standardized tests, this counts as an incorrect answer.  There is no game playing or adult manipulation allowed.  If I assumed Sophie was incapable of learning a new task every time she told me, “I’m so tired,” I would have thrown in the towel long ago.

I am not bashing [the doctor].  I am not negating the number 55.  This is her system and her style of testing and she has earned respect for this.  She is also adamant about children getting services which I very much appreciate about her.  She wants the best for children and parents. 

Now…in my perfect world (and in the perfect world of many psychologists I have worked with), a true IQ would be the result of testing completed over multiple sessions in familiar environments with input from parents, speech pathologist, occupational therapist, physical therapists.  It is difficult if not impossible to pull a child apart and look at one specific area (ex. cognitive functioning) without considering the influence language, fine motor, gross motor…have on it.  If a child is asked to manipulate shapes to make a certain pattern, and is unable to do so…is it because of cognitive level or could it be that the child’s fine motor level doesn’t allow for completion, or could it be that the child’s visual level doesn’t allow for completion, or could it be that receptive language level doesn’t allow for completion.  I know you get this.

 I‘ll be seeing Sophie later on today and we are working on high level verbal analogies.  Was that on her IQ test???

Can you see why I’m so desperate to keep these women in Sophie’s life?

Last night, we went swimming at my parents’ house and I told my mom and the girls about the snowman I’d seen in the morning. We sang “Frosty the Snowman” then several other Christmas songs, sweating in the lukewarm pool water.

By the time we headed home it was after 9. On the way, I swung the car into the parking lot of my favorite coffee shop, and hopped out to take a look at the spot where the snowman had been. Maybe part of me thought it would still be there, even though I knew there was no way. Annabelle crawled out of the car behind me.

The twigs, coal and carrot were sitting in a puddle. I looked closely, then leaned over to feel the ground. It was cold. Incredibly, there was just a bit of ice on the ground, even though the temperature did, in fact, reach 115 yesterday.

 A little bit of someone’s dream was still there.

Tomorrow is Sophie’s IQ test. Her third IQ test. Many people never take one in their lives. My 6-year-old is a veteran.

If her score goes down 14 points, she keeps her state services.

There have been suggestions of Benadryl and late night play sessions (and worse) but I’m playing this one straight.  (True, true, I found the psychologist with the most lenient reputation.)

But really, it is what it is. Sophie is who she is.

I know this much: IQ tests are ridiculous. I don’t need to tell you that, dear reader. You’ve heard me whine long enough about how little cognitive skill (or rote memory, which I suspect is working in Sophie’s favor) has to do with fine and gross motor challenges, or speech difficulties, the stuff of Sophie’s state services.

What I should really be doing is quitting my job and running for the Arizona Legislature, so I can try to change the law that says you only get state services for the developmentally disabled if you have a. epilepsy, b. cerebal palsy, c. autism or d. mental retardation.

Then again, maybe Sophie should run. No matter what her score tomorrow, she’ll outwit many members of the Arizona Legislature.

That was a cheap shot. Once, years ago, one of the guys I work for called our legislators “mouth breathers” and I thought that was hilarious, til recently I was thinking about it and realized that’s just a clever way of saying “retard”.

But really, when it comes to the folks making the laws for our state, it gets tempting. Not tempting enough, however, to try to join them. Not that I’d ever get elected, anyway. Talk about an exercise in futility.

Which is probably what tomorrow is. And if it isn’t, I’ll be devastated. I’m screwed either way.

I do know that either way, Sophie will be okay.

None of this changes my girl. I know that. It’s my job to fight and protect for her but it’s also my job to love and enjoy her. So instead of ending this post in anger, I’ll end it with a small tale.

The other day, appropos of not much, Annabelle remarked, “Sophie doesn’t have any collections.”

Annabelle collects many things — most recently rubber ducks. I stood for a moment and pondered the comment.

“Well,” I replied, “when you were 6, you didn’t have any collections.”

Annabelle and I both looked over at Sophie, who was busy watching Noggin.

“Hey Sophie,” I asked, “do you have collect anything?”

Looking rather bored, she answered matter-of-factly.

“Piglets.”

Um, okay, DUH. Of course Sophie collects Piglets. Her bed is covered. We talk about Piglet all the time. Annabelle and I both slapped our foreheads and we all laughed. 

Smart little girl.