It had been a whole week, but I knew exactly who she meant. I’d been thinking about that woman, too.

She is middle-aged, hard to say more than that. Looks a bit like a school principal — tall, slender, in a pant suit (a little dressy for a Saturday morning), her straight brown hair cut to her chin. I figured she was the parent of one of the cheerleaders, but I didn’t know which one. Sophie’s one of the only little kids participating in cheer — the rest are adults. And the parents of the adult cheerleaders don’t usually hover in the back of the practice room like I do. Mostly they sit in a separate room and chat.

So although we were several sessions in, I hadn’t noticed this woman til the end of practice last week, when Sophie suggested that all the parents come in and watch a few cheers. The very sweet (and very good) coach agreed.

Afterward, the woman walked over to the gaggle of cheerleaders, pointed a long finger down at Sophie, nodded at me and asked dramatically, “Is she yours?”

I nodded.

“I want her!” the woman said loudly. “I’m taking her home with me!”

Sophie looked up, startled, then backed away.

“Say hello, Sophie!” I said, embarrassed. My typically friendly child shook her head hard, burying her head in my hip as I murmured, “It’s okay, she just thinks you’re cute, she isn’t really going to take you.”

The woman didn’t seem to notice. “She’s adorable!” she said. “And she’s going to stay that way!”

Then she turned on her heel and left. It was a brief encounter, but I thought about the woman all week. I wondered about her and her kid, wondered what diagnosis her kid has. Mostly, though, I wondered what she meant when she said, “And she’s going to stay that way!”

Did she mean that, like her kid, Sophie would be an adorable adult? Or the opposite? I’ll be honest — it sounded like the latter.

Another week’s come and gone, and I’m still not sure. I got Sophie in the door this past Saturday morning by promising she wouldn’t have to go near the woman, and when we got inside, I watched her carefully, trying to match her with a cheerleader.

Annabelle figured it out: The older woman’s daughter is a young, plump woman with Down syndrome — probably in her 20s, maybe 30s — with a blonde bob and glasses. In several weeks, I haven’t heard the young woman say a word. She stands quietly, pays attention, does what’s asked of her. She looks a little defeated. I’m not sure I’ve seen her crack a smile.

Despite the similar hair, glasses and features, the young woman’s not much like Sophie — who talks so much I wonder if the coaches lament recent innovations in speech therapy. Sophie’s a tiny, whirling dervish of questions, demands, jacket on and off, shoes chucked in a corner, always angling to stand next to the coach to cheer like she’s a coach herself, vying to be the one to yell, “Ready, ok!” And, yeah, adorable. I agree that Sophie is adorable.

So what did that woman mean? I don’t know; all I know is that she sort of scared the shit out of my kid.

Maybe we’ll find out next week.

Lately, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been writing so much about Sophie and Down syndrome, per se. Maybe it was the distractions of the holiday season, but I think it’s more than that.

Funny, when she was born, the doctors and other experts warned us that as she grew, we’d see her differences more. Instead, more and more (for me at least), Sophie is simply Sophie, rather than Sophie-with-Down-syndrome.

I notice increasingly that I don’t notice it — I don’t compare her (as much, at least!) to kids her own age. She’s emerged as her own little person, good at some things, not as good at others. Sometimes a pain in the butt, but more often a source of indescribable (is that a word?) joy.

I don’t notice people staring in public as much as I used to — though they probably still do. I’m comfortable in my skin, being the parent of a kid with special needs.

At least, I think that til something blindsides me. I didn’t want to write about this, but I’m forcing myself, for honesty’s sake. I owe it to this blog, if nothing else.

Late last night I was rooting around in Sophie’s backpack, and happened upon a somewhat crumpled worksheet. It was a very simple sheet — hopefully you can read the wording on the photo above — asking the student to draw a picture of herself and write a short story about “Me”.

Check Sophie’s out.

OK, I’ll say it: Her finished product is underwhelming.

At first I was angry, thinking, “Wow, didn’t anyone sit down and work with her on that?” — which quickly changed to, “Hey, Amy, what happened to being more concerned that the special ed teacher does too much of Sophie’s work for her?” which then morphed into, “Oh no, what if the special ed teacher was helping her and this is all she came up with?”

In any case, I was bummed. I admit it. After dinner last night, Sophie read me the book in her homework folder, and I was impressed with how well she did with long(ish) sentences, in a sing-songy picture book about a Grizzly bear sitting in a chair, watching circus animals pass by.

But later, after I found that “Me” worksheet, I remembered that at the same point in first grade, Annabelle was easily reading the chapter book “How to Eat Fried Worms” for her nightly homework. (Yeah — I thought it was a little too sophisticated for a 6-year-old, too; Annabelle’s first grade teacher had recently switched from teaching third.)

I know I know I know I know. Sophie is who she is, and she’s a remarkable little girl. I wouldn’t trade her in, that’s for sure. It’s probably good that I dug that wake up call out of her backpack. Time for a conference with the teacher, if nothing else.

Someday I’ll find that happy medium between Just Sophie and Special Needs Sophie. I can see it on the horizon; I just can’t reach it quite yet.