Today Annabelle and I went to Kate Belly Button’s birthday party.

(You know, it could be that I’ve already introduced Kate Belly Button, but the truth is that it’s close to midnight and I’ve promised myself I’ll deal with at least one overflowing basket of laundry before bed, so I figure I either have time to go back and read old posts and figure out whether you’ve met KBB, or I have time to write about the party. And I just spent three minutes on this explanation, so I think i’ll cut my losses at this point.)

Kate Belly Button is Annabelle’s oldest friend. Born a day apart, the girls started day care the same day at the same place. Kate’s parents, Todd and Kacey are that odd couple in that Ray and I both actually like both of them. Unheard of! And they have a sweet little boy named Evan. The girls made their first trip to Disneyland together and they’ve played at the beach. Of course, they’ve always invited one another to their birthday parties.

The birthday party thing is tricky, since Annabelle and Kate (Kate nicknamed her Annabellybutton early on, and while that nickname didn’t stick, for some reason we’ve transferred it to Kate — probably because we know several Kates) haven’t been in school together since they were 3. They have no friends in common. That can be a tricky proposition with a swimming pool full of 7 year old girls, and although the invitation arrived with both Annabelle and Sophie’s names on it, for some reason I thought it would be wiser to just bring Annabelle.

I’ll be honest. Sophie has, in fact, been known to suck the attention out of a room (or a pool). I figured Annabelle would need (and deserve, for once) my undivided attention. And although he’s certainly a lot more fun that I am, Ray doesn’t particularly like kid birthday parties.

I thought I’d keep it simple. I thought Annabelle would be thrilled. I know I never wanted my sister around, when I was 7. (Sorry, Jenny, but I know you felt the same. Now we’re BFFs. Well, close.)

Halfway to Kate’s, Annabelle asked, in a small voice, “Will I know anyone at the party?”

Uh oh. We arrived, and no, she didn’t. Just Kate, and the birthday girl was understandably swept up in the commotion of her day.

In the end, it was fine. Several girls didn’t know the others, so everyone played and swam and ate and had fun. “That was a great party!” Annabelle announced as she buckled her seat belt. It was; Kacey always throws a nice party. Her mother in law even brought eegee’s lemon ice up from Tucson.

But at the beginning, it wasn’t so good.

As she wriggled into her swim shirt in the bathroom, Annabelle looked up said, “I hope I have someone to play with.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I’d left her playmate at home.

Already, today, the sisters had cycled through several highs and lows — Sophie chased her around the dining room table til Annabelle, crying, slammed herself into her room; later, the two tangoed across the kitchen floor, gasping for breath between giggles as Annabelle tried to dip Sophie.

“I should have brought Sophie, shouldn’t I?” I asked, in a small voice.

From under the swim shirt, an equally small voice answered. “Yes.”

“Oh Sophie,” Annabelle was saying, in her sweetest voice. “YOU get to go to water play today! That will be SO MUCH FUN. Not like boring old dance camp, where I have to work so hard and get tired.”

Pause, then a stage whisper. “Hey Mama, turn around,” Annabelle said, winking broadly from behind her hand, careful not to let her sister see.

Annabelle knew that Sophie wanted to come to ballet with her — that Sophie always wants to come to ballet with her. Instead, we dropped Sophie at her perfectly lovely pre-school (in her bathing suit and Crocs, ready for water play) and proceeded across town to dance camp.

“I promise you can come and see me dance at the end of the week!” Annabelle said, hugging her sister good bye. I cringed, hoping that promise would be forgotten.

Even if Sophie wasn’t “special” (as previously stated, I hate that word), the week-long dance camp at my mother’s ballet studio would be out of the question. Sophie’s too young. But she’s not too young to take the regular classes offered at the studio during the school year. Those start at 3. And Sophie’s turned 3 and 4 and now 5, without any mention from my mom that she might soon be enrolled. (Yes, just to clear up any confusion. I will pause right now to confirm that, indeed, my mother is a ballerina. An almost 67-year-old ballerina. Pictured here with Annabelle.)

I’ve stopped taking Sophie along to Annabelle’s class on Saturday mornings. Instead, she goes to swimming lessons with Ray. It’s too much torture, chasing her around the studio, distracting Sophie from her goal, which is to get inside a classroom — to dance. I notice other parents staring, and once in a while, one will ask, “Why isn’t Sophie in class?”

I don’t know the answer to that question. I haven’t wanted to ask it. It’s the fundamental question about what it means to be Sophie, and to have brought her into the world and expect the world to accept her.

To wit: Should Sophie have been taking ballet from the time she was 3, along with her peers, Down syndrome (and the repercussions of a kid who would never have been able to follow along at that age, for crying out loud she was barely WALKING) be damned? Or should I admit to myself that there are some things (and here I have to wonder what else might be included — regular school? a trip to Europe? outdoor rock climbing?) she’s just not up for?

How hard should I push Sophie, and how hard should I push her on the world?

What’s best for all of us?

It’s been several years now, and my mom’s barely mentioned the idea of Sophie taking a regular ballet class.  Once, early on, she did say in a very low key way that maybe Sophie just wasn’t meant to take ballet. I know what she meant. She meant that if I pushed Sophie into class (a class my mom doesn’t teach, she won’t take the kids til they’re 8) and she was disruptive, it would be uncomfortable for her as the owner of the studio. I did understand — I do understand — and I haven’t said anything.

But whenever it comes up with Sophie, I feel sad.

It’s not that I think every kid should take ballet. I certainly didn’t dance, except for a few false starts, despite my mother’s insistence that I was born with my toes pointed and perfect turnout. When Annabelle was born with the same, my mother gently pinned her hopes on her first granddaughter, and (heavy sighs of relief all the way around) Annabelle performed accordingly.

I don’t think my girls should do all the same things, or wear all the same clothes (handmedowns aside) or play with all the same toys. Of course not. And I want Annabelle to have things that her own, that are “special” — there’s that word again. She’s just as special as her sister.

But I hate, already, to be denying Sophie something she so wants to do.

Last spring, for a few weeks, we tried a separate class for three little girls with Down syndrome, including Sophie. Everyone meant well, but it really didn’t work at all, and I couldn’t help but wonder (apologies to Carrie Bradshaw), would Sophie have done better in a class with typical kids? Would they pull her up, or would she drag them down?

I will be asking that question all her life, all my life.

This morning — promises forgotten, thank goodness – Ray dropped Sophie at school for water play, and took Annabelle to the studio for her end-of-dance-camp performance. It was easier that way. For everyone.