“Gosh, I didn’t expect to cry,” a mom said, wiping her eyes as we walked out out of the school cafeteria after the kindergarten holiday show.

“Yeah, I know,” I mumbled, grateful it was dark so she couldn’t see my own dry ones. I actually had expected to tear up, had packed extra Kleenex, but it never happened.

Maybe because I was too apprehensive. Sophie looked worried, too, as she waited on the risers before the concert started. (Once it did start I couldn’t get close enough to get a good picture.) Maybe because the place was so freaking packed you couldn’t move, maybe because I was distracted by the endlessly fascinating task of watching the odd music teacher, or maybe because I feel like an interloper.

That’s it. Interloper. I got the usual phony hello from the principal as I ran Sophie into her classroom, then watched as another teacher had to nudge her (in a not very friendly fashion, I thought) toward her group, when she strayed — just enough that I was likely the only one to notice, but still.

I don’t mean to whine. Sophie rocked it. She mouthed along to the songs, sat up and down when she was supposed to, and didn’t sneeze (a big worry — she’s got a runny  nose and I had visions of a “snot alert” from the stage.) Of course, for Sophie all rocking it really meant was that she didn’t bolt from the stage when she saw her family, looking for a hug. Luckily, Annabelle found a spot on the floor right in front of where Sophie was sitting, and (trained from her own kindergarten experience) did the hand movements for Sophie to copy.

But I just couldn’t get past the anxiety and the fluorescent lights and the Flip camera to get a good cry in, and I didn’t realize why til we were walking to the car, just after talking to the weepy mom.

Next year, Sophie might not be in school with that weepy mom’s little girl. She might not have the luxury Annabelle has — of hanging out in second grade with the BFFs she made in kindergarten. Sophie might be held back, or forced to go to another school (if the principal has her way) and flush! There goes the community we’ve been building for her. I’m hesitant to embrace it, for fear it’s an illusion, just as my mom (understandably) worries that Sophie’s not really making any friends.

That so much of this is for show.

Is this kindergarten experience for show, just something to make me feel good? I have evidence to the contrary, I do. I know it. Sophie’s where she should be.

For the moment….

“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

At first, they worked so well, it seemed like a miracle. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

Like most souls, Sophie is very interested in a good bribe. I see nothing wrong with that. Positive reinforcement is what it’s all about, as far as I’m concerned. I do it with myself constantly. (Go for that long walk and you can have a double non-fat latte! Do the dishes and I’ll let you read those back issues of Vogue and Elle you’ve been hoarding! Write a paragraph, shop on etsy.com. Organize your bedroom and as a special treat, you might get to see the floor again!)

You get the idea.

The system with Sophie in kindergarten is a little more intricate. A chart was fashioned with velcro and laminated (someday I will blog about laminating, I promise. Short story: I am afraid of the laminating machine) cut outs of Elmos.

Each morning, Sophie works to “earn” 5 Elmos. Same in the afternoon. The rewards vary, to mix it up and keep her interested: Courtney, the latest Wonder Nanny (we have a team of 5 at the moment!) actually purchased and painted a “treasure box” and filled it at the dollar store. Or Sophie can work for chocolate ice cream with Ms. X or on a very special day, a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.

I think her favorite reward, though, is a chance to stay after school and play teacher. And therein might lie some of the problem: Sophie, not unlike her mother, is a control freak.

So it’s no wonder the bribes aren’t working, the ante must be upped. I have one shoe on and one off, in preparation for that latte-earning walk, so this is To Be Continued.

But if anyone has any ideas for a good bribe, send them my way!

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.

I reconnected this week with a lovely woman in town whose daughter is just about Sophie’s age, and also has Down syndrome. We wrote on each other’s “walls” on Facebook (if someone can explain that whole Wall thing versus the Email thing versus Status Comments, please do, and while you’re at it, what the hell does it mean when someone Pokes you?) and swapped quick kindergarten tales.

I’ll cut to the chase. Her kid — who goes to a public school in a neighboring district — gets a personal aide in the classroom 18 hours a week! That’s huge! Sophie doesn’t get someone to walk her from the cafeteria to the playground.

Something’s wrong with this picture, and if it was in reverse, I know this lovely woman would be kicking my butt toward an advocate or a law office. I need to do something. As Sophie’s physical therapist said this morning, it’s about her safety. I don’t want to rock the boat. But how can I help it?

Damn the economic crisis — we couldn’t sell our house and move to that better district even if we wanted to. And open enrollment is not an option for special needs kids; they’re too expensive.

At least Fall Break starts tomorrow, so I can indulge in one of my favorite pasttimes: procrastination.

The news varies. Often it involves an indiscretion or safety breach. For example, on Monday, Sophie announced to some other kids (but not the teacher!) that she was going to the bathroom, and took off for the nurse’s office without a “buddy”.

Not good. Sophie has solemnly promised all of us she won’t do that again, and Ms. X. has noticed that she does seem to try things only once, but not again — like yesterday, when she unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. (The nurse was not pleased; I don’t blame her.)

I’m hopeful. We’ll see if she leaves the TP alone from now on.

One piece of news in the past few days made my heart soar, and I thought sharing it would be a good way to end the week.

Ms. X called on Tuesday afternoon. “So I was testing all the kids on their sounds, and I tested Sophie, and she knows all of them,” she told me. “She knew most of them at the beginning of school, but now she knows them all!”

Cool, I thought, having no idea what that really meant, or why Ms. X was so darn excited. The next day I asked her, “You know the sound testing thing? Was Sophie the last kid in the class to get that, or are there others who still haven’t?” (I’m weak; I compare.)

No, I was told. Only one or two other kids in the class have mastered all their sounds.

OH.

Well, how was I supposed to know that? I have no idea what to expect of Sophie. She surprises me every day, and I never know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. (Or what it says about me, which I fear is not good at all.)

I’m not a prayer kind of person, or a god kind of person, but I feel like maybe there should a Serenity Prayer for Parents:

SOMEONE, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change about my kid;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Sophie’s IEP team met yesterday. Crammed around a small table in a portable classroom were:

Me. The kindergarten teacher, physical therapist, speech therapist, adaptive PE teacher, school psychologist and classroom volunteer. The psychologist who evaluated Sophie this summer made a special trip over. And the principal was there.

We began by reviewing Sophie’s progress in therapy. I brought reports from her outside physical therapist and occupational therapist, and we went over her daily schedule and achievements in class. Everything’s going well, I was assured.

Not long after the meeting began, the principal stepped outside. I know she’s busy; her job is obviously a demanding one and she had been checking her phone while we’d been sitting there (to be honest, I itched to check my own, I left work far earlier than I should have, but I put the thing on silent and left it in my purse).

The principal never said she needed to leave early. I wish she had, because I wouldn’t have saved my most significant concerns for the end. But I was nervous. My main goal with this principal, with this school, has been to avoid rocking the boat. I was worried about sharing my concern, which is about Sophie’s safety.

I first shared this concern at the original IEP meeting we had in the spring, at Sophie’s pre-school. The principal was at that meeting, too, but again, slipped out early without saying anything. And so when we got to the part of the meeting where I announced that I believed Sophie needed a parttime aide for transitions (playground, lunch, that sort of thing — any time she could stray from the group), if only for the first two weeks of school — a safety net, so she could get settled in, considering the front gate on the school is left open all day — the pre-school principal said, “Oh, no, I can’t make that decision. That’s the other principal’s decision, and she isn’t here.”

Oh. Actually, as I gently pointed out, I believe the law states that it’s the IEP team’s decision, not the principal’s. But again, I didn’t want to make trouble, so I signed the IEP anyhow – but only after everyone agreed that the “team” would meet again one month into the school year, to review Sophie’s progress and challenges and make any changes needed to the IEP, a binding legal document.

Yesterday was that meeting. Turns out, my concerns are sadly founded. Sophie has already escaped from recess once, and that was morning recess, where there are several adults present.

Lunch time is the real concern. At lunch time at Sophie’s school, there are 92 kindergarteners on the playground, with one adult to watch them. There is no one to help Sophie make the transition from the lunch room to the playground, and just one person to watch her and 91 other kids.

We scheduled yet another meeting with the principal for next week, to review these concerns. This morning she said she left the IEP meeting early, because she had heard it was just a review session (although I’d made clear it wasn’t, weeks ago) and anyhow, she had another meeting to attend that day.

I hope I’ve calmed down by our next meeting, because ever since I heard why she left Sophie’s IEP, I’ve been, well, let’s just call it unhappy.

The principal left Sophie’s IEP so she could run a meeting about a golf tournament.

That pushed me right off the tight rope. Which might be the best thing that could have happened.

Sophie’s IEP team is meeting, to review her first month of kindergarten.

When we were putting the finishing touches on Sophie’s IEP (Individualized Education Program, the document that prescribes her school situation, from what therapies she gets to where she pees) I insisted we reassemble the team (everyone from principal to teacher to therapists to parents) a month into kindergarten, to see how Sophie was doing.

I could feel some internal eye rolling; IEP’s are a huge pain in the butt, if only for how hard it is to get all those people in the room at the same time. But at the time I signed the IEP, I had real doubts — mainly about Sophie’s safety at a “big kids” school. Why not get together to see how things are going, and make changes if necessary?

OK. It was agreed. When the speech therapist — a lovely woman who’s new to the school, if not the profession — suggested we meet September 11, I bristled. School started August 4th. That’s NOT a month. It’s five weeks. But I kept my mouth shut. I have learned to do that, in such situations. The ballbuster me (gee, wonder where Sophie gets THAT?) has learned to make way for the sweet-as-pie-mother-of-a-special-needs-kid me. Well, sometimes the ballbuster gets in the way. We’ll see tomorrow. But for now, I’ve been fairly sweet, if I do say so myself.

I didn’t say anything about the date, but when the speech therapist then emailed to confirm this would just be a “get to know each other” session, I freaked a little. Um, no, I replied. This is an IEP meeting. There might be changes necessary.

I hear the speech therapist is freaked, too. Apparently she IS rather new, and she’s used to dealing with kids with speech delays, rather than global disabilities. And here it gets a little confusing: Sophie has the “mild retardation” label but her IQ is so high (and yes, I know, IQ tests are bullshit, but hey, better high than low, I always say, to paraphrase Shrek) she doesn’t qualify for services from the special education teacher, who would typically lead the team.

In any case, I am approaching this meeting with trepidation. I already know that I won’t get what I want, which is a parttime aide to keep Sophie safe on the playground and at lunch. And I know (after a conversation with the school psychologist yesterday) that I better brace myself for the advice (yet again) that really, Sophie might be better off in a “pull out” program, the one where the other “special” kids go.

But because of her aforementioned IQ, she doesn’t qualify for that “special” program. She belongs where she is. But she needs to be safe. Between this and Sarah Palin, I really do wonder — AM I ON AN EPISODE OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE???

Part of my coping mechanism — when faced with tough kid challenges and fear of the future of America — is to organize. Well, to try. I’ve already shown you pictures of my playroom, so I can’t pretend. I’ve had the stamp pad out a lot. I figure anything that can go in a Rubbermaid from Target is, somehow, containable and doable. I made a new bin for Sophie’s paperwork — and that’s just the stuff from the last couple months that needs to be filed.

So we’ll have this meeting tomorrow (which will generate even more paper for the SOPHIE PAPER bin) and we’ll talk about a lot of things and I’ll bring  up the aide and I’ll get shot down and that will pretty much be that, unless I decide to go all ball buster on them and I really don’t want to do that. I wish I believed in God so I could pray for Sophie’s safety, because at this point that’s my best bet.

And here’s the kicker: My ace in the hole did not pan out. A few weeks ago, I talked to a rather zealous but well-meaning former state legislator, who was horrified Sophie doesn’t get an aide. She insisted that Sophie’s got state dollars attached directly to her, because of her diagnosis, and that I simply need to play that card in the IEP meeting, to tell the group that I know how much extra money they’re getting for Sophie, and that they better spend it on her.

So I made the calls and the preliminary figures are in. I’m double checking, since this sounds so ridiculous even for the painfully backward state of Arizona, but if I’m right, here’s the extra amount of money dedicated to a kid like Sophie (a kid who qualifies as “mildly retarded,” boy I hate that term, I think I hate the word mild even more than the word retarded!), each year of public school:

Nine dollars.

That won’t even buy my Starbucks for a week.

Drama aside, there’s nothing like a little while in your kid’s classroom to tell you what’s what. For example, 20 minutes into my morning in Second Grade, I’d diagnosed every single one of those kids with ADHD. There was not a lot of zen going on, although despite that, somehow, Mrs. Z seemed to have perfect control. She was, however, also having some difficulty with the newish laptops each kid is assigned (I know! We hit the jackpot! Experimental tech program in Annabelle’s room!) which contributed to the kids’ wiliness.

I, meanwhile, couldn’t stop staring at the Smart Board. Holy cow. You should see one of those things, if you haven’t. It’s like a souped-up overhead projector and a Power Point presentation you make as you go along, rolled into one, and that’s not even beginning to describe it. Way cool.

But the kids. Wow. There’s one girl in there, I’ve never seen her though I know all the other young ladies, one of whom sidled up to me, pointed to the girl and whispered, “She’s evil.” I sort of agreed by the end of my visit. Maybe just rambunctuous. The kid looks exactly like Junie B. Jones and stared at me for a while, then asked, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

I loved that.

As always, Annabelle was a little weepy when I had to leave, but happy I’d been there. I’m not sure how long I can justify volunteering, since they’ve just about caught up to my meager math skills and I’m afraid of the laminating machine. But I’ll be back. I’ll figure out something. Because time in the classroom is too important.

Sophie’s classroom is another story. And it’s a sad one, for the moment, at least.

After I left Annabelle’s room, I tried to snoop outside Sophie’s. I felt like there was a quarantine, because it’s been decided all the way around that I shouldn’t volunteer in Sophie’s room. Not yet, anyway. She gets distracted by a lot of things — and I’m Ground Zero. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk into the classroom first thing in the morning to help Sophie with her backpack and lunch box; she absolutely balks at doing anything for herself if I’m there.

So I pressed myself up against the wall by the door outside the classroom and tried to peek in. There wasn’t much to see. They were doing carpet time and Sophie was up at the front, so I couldn’t see her at all. I watched a friend of mine sit with the kids — she’s got girls in both Ms. X and Mrs. Z’s rooms —  and then I left.

We had our own visitor last night: Megan. She’s got her own story about why she’s in town, and I’m sure she’ll tell it herself someday soon, at her own fabulous blog, megyn.wordpress.com, but suffice to say, we were happy to see her.

It was all idle chatter, til the phone rang a couple hours later. I love Ms. X. She promised she’d let me know any time anything happened, and she has, so far. The phone rings almost every afternoon. This time she sounded serious. Turns out, Sophie actually left the classroom, and headed, in her high-spirited way, right down the hall toward the main door (which isn’t so far from the street). Ms. X caught her and gave her a time out and was very, very stern with her.

Sophie knew. She immediately walked to the bulletin board, where the “green behavior slips” are posted (make it through the day without losing the slip, and a note goes home saying you were “super”) and silently handed it to Ms. X.

“She’s not dumb,” I said.

“Oh no,” Ms. X replied. “She’s not dumb.”

She’s not. Just this morning, Ray and Annabelle and I marveled at a dozen things Sophie did and said.

But her behavior is simply unacceptable. And exactly what I was worried about.

What am I supposed to do? Put Sophie in a contained, dumbed-down classroom she can’t escape from? (I’m not sure such a place even exists; she doesn’t qualify for it cognitively, in any case.) Or hold my breath for the unforseeable future?

Or get a micro-chip?