Years ago, as elementary school came to a close, Ray warned that Sophie’s Salad Days were ending, too.

I completely agreed. Gone, soon, would be carefree days of feeling accepted, of being fully included. That was more than two years ago, and I’m still waiting — against all odds, I’m pretty sure — for the universe to kick Sophie in the ass.

In fact, the first few weeks of eighth grade have pretty much cemented our younger daughter’s position as queen of her world.

That’s not to say that her life is perfect. Sophie has inklings (sometimes more than that) that the world has dealt her a shitty hand, that some things don’t come  as easily to her and never will. She loves the reality TV show “Born This Way” — I can feel the pride she has that there’s a “cool” show about people with Down syndrome. She begs me to let her watch. Inevitably, she winds up with her head burrowed in my shoulder, whispering, “I don’t want to have Down syndrome” as she watches several young adults and their families face the challenges of disability and adulthood head-on.

“Let’s change the channel,” she says, beating me to it. She’d rather watch re-runs of “Dance Moms.” She applied last month and wants to know if we’ve gotten an email back yet. No, I tell her. We haven’t.

I’m not sure if Sophie realizes she doesn’t have a hope of being cast on “Dance Moms,” a fairly despicable but addictive reality show about as different from “Born This Way” as it gets. The girls on the show are creepy-perfect and hyper competitive, and their moms are creepy, too. I’m sure I’d hold Sophie’s application back as much as anything. And really, it’s a numbers game. There have to be thousands of kids vying for a spot.

Sophie understands math better than I do, but she still thinks her chances are good, because — well, because she usually gets what she wants. Mostly because she asks. And asks, and asks, and asks. Believe it or not, I do say no. But when you ask as much as Sophie does, you’re gonna get — sometimes.

For example, on Saturday I took Sophie out to run errands and get our nails done.

She wanted to leave the house without brushing her hair. (I gave up and said yes, since we were about to miss our appointments.)

She wanted to play her ukulele in the nail salon. (NO.)

She wanted a dress from the used clothing store. (Yes. But just one.)

She wanted to invite a friend over for a sleepover. (No.)

She wanted to order an “affordable” outfit on amazon.com. (No.)

She wanted to buy herself a present while shopping for a birthday gift for a friend at a local boutique. (No. I told her she could spend the $20 Ray had given her earlier that day and that led to her texting Ray to say that I was trying to steal the money he’d given her for the school book fair.)

She wanted to go to Target. (No.)

She wanted to go out for Thai food. (Okay, fine.)

You get the picture. (That, by the way, was in the span of a couple hours.) It’s not just me. She does the same with Ray, the nanny, her big sister, her grandmother. And she has employed this method in junior high.

After the first week of school, we had a meeting of Sophie’s “team,” to talk about how things were going. The biggest challenge, it seemed, was not that Sophie (fully mainstreamed with an aide) couldn’t keep up or didn’t understand what was going on. It was that she was throwing her hand in the air every time any of her teachers asked a question.

“Please don’t call on her every time,” I said.

There was a palpable sense of relief around the table, even though I was assured that given the typical apathy of the eighth grade, it’s refreshing to have Sophie around.

I do get that. Sophie wears it all on her sleeve, including her heart. I had a crush on my eighth grade social studies teacher but God forbid anyone should have known. (Please, if he’s still around, no one tell Mr. Broderson, okay?)

Sophie, on the other hand, made up a cheer for her social studies teacher. And, noticing that he seemed like he might enjoy hiking (read: fit hipster), asked for his phone number so she could give it to Ray, figuring the two might like to hike together.

“You know, you didn’t have to give her your phone number,” I told the teacher, cringing as I asked, “Has she done her cheer for you yet?”

“Every day!” he replied. (The other teachers looked a little jealous.)

Sophie is making plans to attend Arizona State University (she’d go farther but she thinks she might live at home so we can cuddle) while I have a near-constant stomachache over what high school is going to look like. I’ve been like this my entire life — I worry. I don’t expect the best. I might beg, but I’m not surprised when the object of my affection doesn’t arrive on a silver platter.

More and more, I think, I would not mind being Sophie. And, given her lack of understanding of what it takes to make our world run on a daily basis, I wouldn’t mind if she knew what it was like to be me.

So I’m waiting for our “Freaky Friday” moment. (The Jodie Foster version over Lindsay Lohan, please.) In some ways, Sophie is simply a somewhat-spoiled teen and I her fairly-clueless, out-of-touch parent.

Of course, in many ways, it’s so much more. But I hope it stays like this a little longer.

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.

Yesterday I ran into the vice principal at Sophie’s middle school. I adore this woman, who ushered my tiny girl into cheerleading and is one of many who look out for her every day. After we had such an incredible experience in elementary school, I never thought I’d get comfortable with these people at this big, scary junior high. But they love Sophie and I love them.

“I’m so excited!” the vice principal told me. “Sophie’s gonna let me do her hair the Friday before Valentine’s Day!”

She explained that she has already bought fancy hair ties and ribbons, then asked, all casual, “Can you send the brush and detangler to school with her that day?”

I smiled and winced, picturing Sophie’s hair that morning when I dropped her at school — snarled, all over the place, a “style” that could (very) kindly be called bed head.

I love the bed head look.

It’s pretty much my only fashion statement and the day I realized 20 plus years ago that my wavy/curly hair looks best if I don’t touch it was a great day. No more curling irons, blow dryers and cowlicks. Wash and wear, with the right product (that last part is key). I haven’t brushed my hair on a regular basis in years; currently I haven’t touched it in months.

Ray doesn’t brush his hair, either. Annabelle, who has a better version of my hair, pretty much shakes hers after the shower  – and goes.

Sophie’s hair is different, fine and stick-straight. It’s gorgeous hair, hair that needs to be brushed all the time.

As you might imagine, she prefers the dad/mom/Annabelle method. Hence, the near-dreadlocks.

As I sit here in the living room, typing, the house is still quiet. I need to get up and make coffee, let the dogs out, urge the others out of bed. Annabelle and Ray won’t need much coaxing, and they’ll be out the door soon. Sophie will require cajoling, begging, bribing — her Carnation Instant Breakfast shake and thyroid pill delivered in bed and a toasted bagel with butter and cranberry juice at the coffee table; then frequent sweetly worded reminders (then yelling) to get her to put on the clothes I put out for her. Then more yelling to get her to brush her teeth, to find her ID and glasses, to quit digging for more mechanical pencils (she sneaks and chews the erasers), and to stop switching out backpacks as we are walking out the door with seconds to spare.

More often than not, I catch a glimpse of the crazy-messy back of Sophie’s head as she’s climbing out of the car and that’s the first time I realize I haven’t even tried to make her brush her hair.

It’s a big deal. It’s important that Sophie look her best (that we all do, but particularly a kid with special needs, who has enough to deal with already) and once again, I’ve failed her.

But her head is extra-sensitive (thanks, Down syndrome) and more than that, it’s just one more thing she has to endure that the rest of us in the house don’t.

The vice principal grinned. She has a vision of making tiny buns all over Sophie’s head, shaped like a heart for Valentine’s Day. I grinned back, thinking, “Good luck with that.”

All hair advice is welcome. I’ve tried everything from olive oil to fancy brushes to threats of haircuts and bribes. Sophie insists that she wants her hair to look like mine, that I don’t brush it and why should she. It’s hard to argue with the logic. And hey, it’s a nice compliment.

“My Heart Can’t Even Believe It: A Story of Science, Love, and Down Syndrome” will be published by Woodbine House April 15. You can pre-order it from Changing Hands Bookstore and come to my release party May 1 or pre-order on Amazon. For more information about tour dates visit myheartcantevenbelieveit.com and here’s a book trailer.

I have a lot of uncertainty when it comes to Sophie — her future, her academic abilities, whether or not she brushed her teeth before bed last night. But one thing I know for sure: The stage beckons.

This is a kid with a flair for the dramatic. She will take any opportunity to perform, and if there isn’t one, she makes her own (sorry/not sorry if you were at Phoenix Public Market the other night and were “treated” to Sophie’s impromptu performance of “All About That Bass”). Even a selfie is an opportunity to act. There’s a serious side, too — she is currently writing scripts with two different adults, and her first stop at any bookstore we visit is the play section.

So it’s only natural that she wants to take drama as her elective at school. But there is no drama elective at Sophie’s school. This semester she took visual art and computers; next semester is PE and Spanish. All good, worthy choices and she’s loved what she’s taken so far. But she’s figured something out — and she won’t let it go.

Apparently the elective options at the “gifted” academy on her junior high campus are different than they are for the general population. The gifted kids can take the electives Sophie can take, but no one at Sophie’s part of the school (which is not just for kids with special needs, it includes all the “non-gifted” kids) can take the electives at the gifted school. And the gifted school offers drama.

Sophie’s been bugging me for weeks to ask if she can take drama and yesterday I finally caved and sent an email to several school administrators, asking if it’s a possibility. I told Sophie she needs to be patient until we get an answer back, but that didn’t stop her from asking every adult in the school office this morning when I dropped her off.

“If I had a magic wand, I’d do it,” one kind staffer told her, adding behind her hand, “but you know, it might open a can of worms.”

Ugh. I think I pushed too far this time, I said to a friend afterward. I get the broader implications of letting a kid from the general population into the gifted school — even for one class, even if it’s drama, even if it’s Sophie. My friend shook her head.

“You know, someone once told me I was opening a can of worms and I’ve always regretted listening to that,” she said. “Go for it. It would be good for Sophie, but there’s a bigger reason to do it.”

Tears in my eyes, I nodded. And so we will go for it, worms and all. I’ll let you know what happens.

The other day I opened Sophie’s school backpack and noticed she had a new set of folders — shiny, carefully labeled with each of her classes and in her favorite themes, kittens and nail polish. Her aide did it. She didn’t ask, or make a big deal out of it. She just did it, knowing Sophie would love it. And she did. Me, too.

A small kindness. There have been many, so far, as Sophie’s stuck a toe into junior high, a time and place typically considered the worst kind of viper pit. Not for Sophie, not so far. I get that we’re only two months in; there’s plenty of time left for problems, and we’ve had a few bumps so far. But not what I expected, certainly not what I feared.

My biggest fear, after safety, was friendship. Would Sophie wander around alone (with her adult shadow) — head down in that typical Down syndrome stance, with (horror) her thumb in her mouth? Would anyone talk to her? Would she make a real friend? I got an inkling things would be okay even before the first day of school, when we walked into the office to drop some paperwork off with the nurse and a kid I’ve never seen called out, “Hi Sophie!”

Even at a new, strange place, people know Sophie. And on the few occasions I’ve been on campus, it’s been the same. Kids and adults know her, seek her out, if only to say hello.

And beyond hello? It’s going more slowly, understandably. Sophie does still eat lunch every day with an old friend from elementary school who also happens to have Down syndrome. But a note came home the other day from a new girlfriend looking for a playdate. And I hear there’s a boy in Sophie’s art class who carefully arranges all of her materials each day so they are ready when she arrives.

A small kindness, and one I hope I didn’t end after Sophie proposed marriage to this boy.

Sophie has attended her first school dance, performed in her first junior high choir concert and later this month she’ll try out for cheer. The school has started a Best Buddies program; in a couple weeks she’ll be matched with her buddy. Sophie’s teachers report that she pays attention in class (probably not all the time) and raises her hand to answer questions posed to the group. She got a C on a recent science test that she took with no modifications. She still struggles in math.

This school has embraced my little girl. I called with a concern the other day, and I received a call back before day’s end from not just one administrator, but a group: the principal, vice principal, school psychologist and sixth grade team leader. The matter was quickly resolved, and I thanked them (profusely) for being so responsive, and so welcoming to Sophie.

“She’s already taught us so much,” one of them said with a happy sigh.

For her part, Sophie is still not so sure about junior high. Every morning, it’s a struggle to get her into her uniform and into the car, and when we drive past the turn off for the other neighborhood junior high — the one her best friend and most of her former classmates attend — she tells me, “I want to go to Sarah’s school.”

When we pull up to Sophie’s school, her sweet aide comes right to the car to get her. But she doesn’t want to get out. Sticks her thumb in her mouth, puts her head down, mutters that she’s tired. Junior high is really hard. I imagine the energy it takes Sophie to wind up and get going, to keep her thumb out of her mouth, her head up. Some days, kitten folders just aren’t going to be enough of a motivator.

After I drop her off I drive to the gym, and I will admit that I, too, have trouble getting out of the car to start my own day.

I hope sixth grade gets easier for Sophie, but really, I have to admit that she’s got it pretty good, hit the middle school jackpot. How do I explain to her that I’ve never encountered a kid — special needs or not — having such a good junior high experience?

For now I’ll focus on the small kindnesses, and hope that someday Sophie can, too.

Another big change in junior high: a strict dress code.

The first couple days of school, Sophie was excited to wear her navy polo dress or a shirt and a khaki skort. By day three, she was rebelling — wanting to wear forbidden leggings, refusing to tuck in her shirt — and by the first day of the second week she had completely lost her shit.

I get it. It was picture day and Sophie wanted to dress up.

“No, sweetie,” I told her for the second or maybe it was the hundredth time, trying to be patient but ready to lose it myself. “You have to wear your uniform. How about this dress? And be sure to put black shorts on under it and please wear these shoes.”

The promise of a borrowed necklace and a little make up got her in and out of the shower, but by then we were officially late, so when Sophie emerged from her room with a gray and white tie-dyed, sequined vest over her polo dress, I gave up.

“Fine,” I said, not very nicely. “They’ll make you take it off at school.”

I had to admit she looked pretty cute. She practically cooed when I pulled out the mascara and jumped at the chance to borrow my new lip gloss, smearing it all over her mouth. She came home with the vest, necklace and lip gloss crammed in the bottom of her backpack.

By this morning, she just seemed resigned. I put her outfit on the couch without a word, and she put it on.

Uniforms are the least of Sophie’s worries — or they should be. But for both of us, I think, the school dress code sends a bigger message: conform or go home.

Here’s a piece I wrote about uniforms that ran on KJZZ — the Phoenix NPR affiliate — the week before school started. 

This morning Sophie burst through the kitchen door — fresh from a shower, wrapped in a towel — and announced, “I look like a full-grown woman!”

I smiled. Adorable? Yes. Full-grown woman? Hardly. True, she didn’t have the towel draped over her shoulders like a little kid, but at 43 inches and 54 pounds, dripping wet, my fifth grader still gets confused with the kindergarteners at her elementary school.

That’s okay with me. I prefer it to what’s coming next year in junior high. i picture a herd of giant tweens and teens barreling down the hallways of the new school, trampling little Sophie without even realizing it.

She has no idea what’s coming. And for all I know, instead she’ll emerge victorious — held aloft on the shoulders of members of the JV football team, crowd surfed through middle school.

Most likely it’ll be something in between.

One thing I can pretty much guarantee: I’ll always get a hug after school. One of our beloved nannies is out of town this week, so Ray picked Sophie up from school yesterday. This morning (still in PJs, pre-shower/towel) she jumped into his arms and he recalled how good it made him feel to have Sophie run across the school yard to him yesterday, so excited to see her dad. Sophie’s aide told Ray she’d talked about it all day. This afternoon it’ll be my turn. I can’t wait.

You can’t always take it for granted that a kid will offer physical affection in public. I know that. It’s been many years, but I still recall clearly a day when Annabelle was 7. We were walking up to school and I asked shyly if I could hold her hand. She said yes. “Oh Annabelle, how much longer will you let me do that?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she replied, looking a little shy herself.

A long time, as it turns out. Annabelle still takes my hand at the mall, still leans in for a hug in public. (Not always — she is on the verge of 13, after all. The hormones are beginning to simmer.) Every time I feel that small, soft hand slip into mine, it makes me think I’ve done something right as a mom.

Annabelle is affectionate — but subtly, appropriately so. Sophie’s desire to be a grown-up does not extend to public displays of affection. I know that this afternoon she’ll get a running start and leap into my arms as though we haven’t seen each other in years. I’d say she’ll make a scene, but everyone in the school yard knows her so well, they won’t give it more than a passing smile.

Junior high won’t be that way.

Should I start training Sophie now to tone it down? This afternoon, should I stop her short, give her a quick pat, quiet her when she shrieks, “MOMMY!”?

Maybe I should. But I won’t. Not today. We still have a few months. In any case, for all I know, I’ll go to pick Sophie up on that first day of junior high and she’ll greet me calmly — no hug, no squeals, just another cool sixth grader.

Maybe. But probably not. And that’s more okay with me than I want to admit.