The other night in the Target girls’ section, I noticed a campaign aimed at kindness. Tee shirts with sayings like “Come Sit With Us” and “Kind is Cool.”

I smirked. If only it was that easy.

In my world — rather, in my daughter Sophie’s world — too often it’s Homecoming Queen or nothing. This is the time of year that my Facebook feed fills up with feel-good stories about boys and girls with special needs winning titles and serving as royalty for a night. It’s a wonderful thing — don’t get me wrong — but we parents worry about the other 364 days a year. Such a discussion was taking place on my Facebook page yesterday afternoon after I posted a terrific piece by another mom who also grapples with such things, when the phone rang.

It was my mom.

“How was lunch?” I asked, not really paying attention, thinking I knew the answer. My mom had been once already this year, bringing Sophie Panda Express (half rice/half noodles and a small pink lemonade) and happily eavesdropping on junior high conversations.

“Well,” my mom said. “Not good.”

Turns out, the kid Sophie’s been eating with all year walked up to her in front of my mom and announced he won’t be sitting with her anymore. I get it. Really, I totally get it. I love this kid; he and Sophie have had their ups and downs and he’s been very patient with her. He had another guy in tow, and my guess is that like most eighth grade boys, he’d rather hang with the guys and he found one. Good for him.

That leaves Sophie with the rest of the entire school.

I asked my mom, did anyone else at lunch acknowledge Sophie? No. Only a cafeteria worker who noticed when Sophie tried to cut in line. (That part made me smile.) No kids.

Shit. Lunch has always been my biggest worry. In kindergarten, I worried that Sophie would be mowed over by the other kids as they rushed the playground. I hired babysitters to pose as volunteers and spy to make sure she was okay. A couple years later, we had an “incident” — older girls grabbed her lunch box and locked her in the bathroom (briefly, but still). Not long after that, we got a lawyer and the lawyer got Sophie an aide, an incredible woman who I’m convinced has paved the way for Sophie’s inclusion and success.

But (ironically) the aide is on break at lunchtime, the one unstructured period during the day. And really, I know that Sophie’s old enough, mature enough to eat lunch by herself.

Which is exactly my point: “by herself.”

I hung up with my mom and sat for a minute, staring at the floor, as the work emails stacked up in my in box. I reminded myself that I didn’t always have someone to sit with at lunch when I was in school. I spent most high school lunch hours hiding in the library. Those, of course, were the bad old days. I wouldn’t wish Hopi Elementary School in the 70s or Arcadia High School in the 80s on my worst enemy. (I think I’ve blanked out entirely on junior high, a good thing.) We wore band tee shirts, and tee shirts with sayings like “Do The Hustle.” There were no kids with intellectual disabilities, none that I saw anyway.

But this is 2016, this awesome time where a person with Down syndrome gets assigned a Best Buddy, competes in Special Olympics, and might just be elected Prom Queen. There’s a social skills club at lunch at Sophie’s school, I’ve been told several times. There’s a tee shirt campaign at Target, encouraging kindness! She’s a fucking cheerleader, okay?!?!

And yet, my kid has no one to sit with at lunch.

I get it, I suppose. Most kids’ goal in junior high (even in this allegedly enlightened age) is to emerge unscathed and unnoticed. Sophie demands attention — both because she’s half the size of the other kids, and because, well, she literally demands attention with her intentionally ratty hair, wedge sandals and eyeliner experiments. She still sucks her thumb on occasion. It’s not so easy to understand her when she talks. And her conversation abilities are not those of your average 13-year-old girl. But she’s trying. And of course trying is the kiss of death when you’re a 13-year-old girl.

Someday she’ll fully embrace punk rock and she’ll be set for life. But for now, I’ve got to figure things out.

I stopped staring at the floor and emailed Sophie’s team leader at school, her math teacher. He’s a nice man who wrote back immediately, reporting that last Friday he noticed Sophie eating lunch in the school office by herself.

When asked why she was in the office, she told me how that person did not want to eat with her anymore. I tried to encourage her to sit with other people, but she told me that [she'd only ever sat with that boy]. My next step involved bringing up her self-esteem and letting her know that plenty of people know who she is, and would love to sit with her. I also told her that other peers love to say hi to her in the halls. She still wasn’t ready to give the cafeteria another try.

I emailed him back and cc’ed several others at the school, reminding them that I’d expressed concern about lunch at the beginning of the school year. In part I wrote:

Amy’s book, “My Heart Can’t Even Believe It: A Story of Science, Love, and Down Syndrome,” was published by Woodbine House this spring and is available through Amazon and Changing Hands Bookstore. For information about tour dates and other events visit myheartcantevenbelieveit.com and here’s a book trailer.

Dear Sophie,

You know, I have been writing this blog for the last 8 years — I started it on your fifth birthday, to document your year in kindergarten — but I’m not sure I’ve ever actually written to you, only about you. So today, in honor of your 13th birthday, I thought I’d write you a letter.

THIRTEEN! How did this happen? People always say this, but I don’t know where the time went. It’s my best job and greatest honor to be mom to you and Annabelle. It’s funny, for as much as you two have changed since you were born, I feel like I’ve changed just as much — maybe more. I’m not any taller, and I haven’t learned how to do as many things as you two have, but I think I’m a lot wiser than I was before I knew you. One thing I’m certain of is that I definitely don’t know it all.

I think you know, Sophie, that you are the first person with Down syndrome I ever met. I think you and I (and the rest of the world, for that matter) are only beginning to really understand what it means to have it. I know you don’t always want it. And I get that, even though there are things about you — your beautiful eyes, your long toes, your ability to see the good in almost everyone, as well as your skill of doing the splits at the drop of a hat — that I suspect are a direct result of that extra chromosome. But I get that some days, it feels like Down syndrome is holding you back, weighing you down, and I suspect it might feel a little bit like trying to swim in a pool filled with Jell-O.

As your parents, your dad and I consider it our job to clear obstacles in your path and help you get to where you want to go — or, at least, figure out the target destination. I know Down syndrome sometimes makes that harder, and most of the time, when we talk about it, I don’t know what to say. I know parents aren’t supposed to admit that — we are expected to have all the answers. But I want to be honest. That is why I sometimes just give you a hug when you say you don’t want to have it.

But today, I know exactly what I want to say to you, on your thirteenth birthday. I know that you are the one who will be blowing out the candles and making that big birthday wish, but I have a wish for you, too, dear Sophie.

Please don’t grow up so fast.

I am surprised to be saying that. You see, when you were born, I worried that in a lot of ways you would never grow up. Down syndrome can mean so many things for so many people, and we did not know if you would walk or talk or read books. We didn’t even know if you would survive heart surgery. And so I wished hard for you to grow up — to get potty trained so you could go to kindergarten, to learn to swim, to study math and science and all the hard stuff at school.

You did it. You exceeded our expectations on all of the above, but more important than that, you are growing into a young lady with grace, poise, mad style and a wicked sense of humor. I love to be around you. You are not just my daughter, you are my friend. And you are a friend to others. Almost every day this year when I dropped you off in the carpool lane, you marched right into junior high, usually pausing to wait for a friend or two (or two boys at once!). I envy that about your, your easy ability to make friends and your desire to celebrate them, like you did when you called your BFF Tatum onstage with you during your choir solo so you could sing to her and share the spotlight.

The other day you told me that the first thing you wanted to do when you finished seventh grade this week was go shopping for school supplies for eighth grade. You always want to know what the plan is for the next hour, day, week, month. You love to make plans — for sleepovers, college, career paths. I get that, I have always been the same way. But it’s funny, for as much as I’ve spent the last 13 years pushing you forward and worrying about you growing up, now I want to yell at the universe, “Slow down!”

Don’t grow up so fast, Sophie. Don’t be in such a rush. The other day, you and your sister performed in your ballet studio’s annual recital. This year’s theme was Peter Pan and I sat in the audience and cried, watching the two of you dance so beautifully, so grown up and still children in so many ways. There is no Neverland, no way to freeze you like this forever, as you stand on the brink of becoming a woman. I wonder, Sophie, now that you’re a teenager, will you still cuddle with me? Eat chocolate ice cream for every occasion, and not care at all if you get it all over your face? Suck your thumb? I hope you give up the thumb — those braces were awfully expensive — but never the cuddles. You will always be my little girl, even in the high heels and  hoop earrings that top your list of birthday gift requests.

I will be honest. I don’t know exactly what the future holds for you, Sophie. I don’t know what it will mean to be a teenager with Down syndrome. We will have to figure out that one together. But if the last 13 years are any indication, the next 13 are going to be pretty awesome.

Happy birthday sweet girl!

Love,

Mom

Amy’s book, “My Heart Can’t Even Believe It: A Story of Science, Love, and Down Syndrome,” was published by Woodbine House this spring and is available through Amazon and Changing Hands Bookstore. For information about tour dates and other events visit myheartcantevenbelieveit.com and here’s a book trailer.

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.

Sophie is the most popular kid I know.

Just a few weeks into the new school year, I’m having trouble keeping up with my 11-year-old’s social schedule. Last Sunday she was invited to a friend’s house for dinner, and another friend asked her out for ice cream. Another pal asked if she can have a regular badminton date on Fridays, and she’s been meeting with another to write a play. She regularly texts and calls another dozen or so friends; she’s got sleepover plans in the works with several of them. Tonight she has a date with our next door neighbor to compare paint brush collections. She regularly begs me to schedule a time to watch Project Runway with another friend, and a mani-pedi with yet another.

Sophie treasures each of these friendships, and I treasure them as well. We should all be lucky enough to have friends like these. There’s just one problem. They’re all adults: two former nannies, her physical therapist, a family friend, a 60-something neighbor, her kindergarten teacher and the principal from her elementary school (yes, he promised her mani-pedis to celebrate their shared birthday).

Last week I asked Sophie if she’d made any friends in middle school. “Yes!” she told me. “Mrs. W.”

Her aide.

I get that it’s hard to make friends in junior high, whether you have Down syndrome or not. It took Annabelle years to feel comfortable at a new school, to find a group of friends. But I worry if it will ever happen for Sophie. Her gregarious and sometimes aggressive approach to friendship just isn’t going to fly with most of the tween and teen set. She’s different — and kids that age don’t want anyone to notice them, they are busy worrying about their own differences, stuck understandably in their own heads. And if they are intrigued by the idea of a friendship with someone like Sophie, they might be unsure of how to approach it. I know I would have been. (Still am!)

And so my stomach did a backflip when I got an email yesterday informing me that Sophie’s school is getting ready to launch an official Best Buddies program, started years ago by the Shriver family (of Special Olympics fame) to foster friendships between typical kids and kids with disabilities. Historically Best Buddies has been more common in high schools, but they are expanding to junior high. I’m thrilled.

Not everyone’s as into it. I was out for lunch a few weeks ago with a friend who has a 7-year-old with Down syndrome, and the topic came up. She’s not a fan; she doesn’t like forced friendships. I do tend to agree. But when Sophie was 7, she had no need for Best Buddies. She had — and still has — a bona fide best friend, the kind most of us only dream about. She and Sarah met in kindergarten and were attached at the hip (not literally, Sarah’s always had at least a foot on Sophie) through fifth grade — till they parted for different schools.

Here’s a radio piece I did years ago about their friendship.

I wonder if Sarah and Sophie would have become friends if they’d met today. Even at 5, Sarah was a very special person with a big heart, but she was also a little kid unencumbered by puberty and the insecurities that come along with it. Their kindergarten teacher knew to nudge the friendship along, but these days there’s little time for social interaction in school — no recess, a super short lunch hour. Some forced — or rather, encouraged — interaction might be in order.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I worry too much. As usual, Sophie has already proved me wrong. Yesterday afternoon she came home with a phone number for a new friend, one  her own age — a girl in her science class. So maybe we won’t need Best Buddies. But something tells me we will.

In any case, the biggest challenge will be working more play dates onto Sophie’s already-full dance card.