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.