Saturday was the state Special Olympics cheerleading competition. Sophie’s team bombed. They finished third out of three, winning bronze medals. I found Sophie’s crumbled on the not very clean porch windowsill the next day. No one had even bothered to bring it into the house.

A rather sad end to the season, in contrast with last year, when Team Tempe came from behind to tie for the gold.

Here’s the thing, though. Sophie’s team bombed — but they also completely and totally kicked ass. They had great music, great choreography, they knew their moves. The crowd loved them. Sophie had a blast onstage, smiling, shaking her pom poms and her hips, staying on the beat and, of course, doing the splits (three times!) at the end of the routine. (When Ray gets a video made, I’ll post it.)

The competition was tough. In order to dance and cheer (as opposed to just cheer), a team has to enter the “advanced” category. And Tempe was pitted this year against two very good teams. So yes, technically they bombed and kicked butt at the same time. And honestly, I don’t think the team would have performed as well if they hadn’t been pushed so hard to compete. I love Sophie’s coach for making the decision to enter them in the harder spot.

It was one of those rare and beautiful moments when your kid is pushed to her limits under all the right circumstances, in a place where it’s safe to fail. In a place where it’s understood that even though every participant has “special needs,” someone will fail. A soft landing, a medal, but still, last place.

I sat in the audience as the bronze medal was announced, and thought about science.

Last week I learned something I am kicking myself over for not figuring out way sooner. What I’ve been able to piece together so far is that Sophie’s gotten little to no science and social studies instruction all year — and what she has received has not been modified, meaning it’s way too hard for her. Because of a scheduling snafu, instead of being pulled out of regular math and language arts for “resource” help, that’s been happening during science and social studies, the rare times Sophie is supposed to be learning alongside her typical peers.

Long story short: the work in science and social studies is too hard, and Sophie’s not in class (much if at all) to learn it.

I’m sure I’ll write more about this as I learn more (I have meetings pending with the special education teacher and principal) but one thing I’ve learned disturbs me most of all. Sophie was given a C in social studies and one in science, and word on the street is that this is because someone at the school has been trained to “never give a special needs student a failing grade.”

That could be because it’s expensive and inconvenient to educate a special needs kid. The idea generally is to resist holding such kids back a grade — just move them along, let them socialize with their peers. It could also be because it’s easier to give a special needs kid a C than disappoint either her or her parents. Ds and Fs raise more questions than Cs.

I am not a fan of either reason. I sat and stewed during the rest of that medal ceremony and it wasn’t because Team Tempe lost. It was because when you throw that up against what has obviously happened at school — and a school where everyone loves Sophie; where a lawyer fine-tooth-combs her IEP and attends all the meetings; where I like to think I’m on top of every little thing — almost an entire year can go by where no one’s offering your kid (and others, this seems to apply to at least two if not a whole gaggle of fifth graders and perhaps beyond) two of the main subjects taught at the school.

I blame myself. I should have figured it out. But I didn’t. No one did, until last week. Now there will be lots of meetings, carefully worded apologies (since all of this may or may not be illegal). They’ve already sent home science and social studies vocabulary words for Sophie to study for an upcoming test. For the most part, I’ve learned that people aren’t cruel; they are just not well trained for their jobs, and when Sophie’s part of the job, there’s a greater chance of mishap since it’s so relatively rare for a kid with Down syndrome to come along and require so many adjustments. And Sophie does require a lot. I get that. I feel guilty about it. But Sophie deserves an equal education.

And if the classwork is modified and taught to Sophie and she studies and takes a test and fails — she deserves an F.

This past weekend, Sophie  performed onstage at the Herberger Theater in downtown Phoenix for the third year in a row. The production is Snow Queen and as far as I know, Sophie’s the only kid with special needs (definitely the only one with Down syndrome) who’s ever been in this show, sort of a Nutcracker alternative presented by Center Dance Ensemble, a modern dance company run by my mother’s longtime friend and business partner.

Hence, the in. Annabelle first performed in Snow Queen when she was 6; we waited much longer for Sophie to audition. The last two years, Sophie was a sprite, the role reserved for the youngest kids. She’s so small I figured she’d stay with that, but this year the (very kind) producers said she was ready to be a “village lass.”

Turns out, they were right.

“Sophie’s internet connection’s just a little slow,” Ray stage-whispered (not unkindly) as we watched her heel-and-toe across the floor Sunday afternoon. It’s true. She had trouble keeping up, but she did it — and made up for what she lacked in speed with a sassy hand-on-hip attitude that got progressively stronger with each of the four performances, til I was half-joking that if there’d been a fifth performance she might have ripped off her shirt, a la Fat Amy in Pitch Perfect.

Even better than what happened onstage was what happened backstage: Nothing. Yes, she probably asked a few more questions than the other kids, might have wandered out of the dressing room a couple times to chat with older cast members, but for the most part, Sophie was one of the crowd.

It was awesome. She played games with the other girls, shared snacks, lined up for curtain call — just like they did. Only one asked me why Sophie was 10 and a half and smaller than the others. (A legitimate question.)

Saturday evening, I volunteered backstage and got to see it all firsthand. At one point I was chatting with one of the stage managers, who made some comment about “The Village” (the scene Sophie’s in) and suddenly, out of nowhere (but always lurking, I suppose) the term “village idiot” popped into my head.

Oh great, Sophie’s the village idiot! I thought to myself. I sat down and Googled the phrase. It’s unclear whether the expression refers to people with Down syndrome, which wasn’t formally identified until the middle of the Nineteenth Century, long after the heyday of the old school town clown.

I sat still in my chair as the chaos of the theater swirled, blinking hard, thinking. I got up and found Sophie, sitting with several other cast members — again, one of the crowd.

Stop it, I thought. And I did. No village idiots here, people. Move along. Nothing to see. Just another cute village lass with bright red lips.

This morning I woke up and realized that Special Olympics cheerleading begins tonight. It’s about as different an experience as you can imagine. Sophie’s just as excited for it.

To be honest, so am I — after a lot of hesitation last year. Both can be tough. Sophie doesn’t fit easily into either world, and as her mom, neither do I.

But Sophie loves to perform. And I love to watch. All the world’s (and all the worlds) her stage. So far, anyway.

They’ve cheered at basketball games, competed in the regional competition and practiced just about every Saturday since December.

A funny thing occurred to me at practice this morning: I’m going to miss cheer. Me, the one who was so horrified at the mere suggestion.

Sophie and I both started out pretty lukewarm.

I spent the first several practices with my teeth gritted, wondering what my kid was really getting out of it — certainly not much exercise, since these cheers are mostly a lot of arm waving. She memorizes much more complicated routines in the ballet classes she takes with typical kids.

I couldn’t see how she’d make friends out of the deal, either. With the exception of one girl her age she’s already friendly with, the team is pretty much all adults. Which would be fine (Sophie loves adults!) except it’s a fairly quiet, withdrawn bunch. Several weeks in, Sophie still hadn’t really cracked the nut with any of them.

But we’d made a commitment and Sophie liked the uniform and the pom poms, so we kept going. And in the end, we both got into it.

Really into it, I’m embarrassed to admit. Two weeks ago at the regional competition, I — well, the best way to describe it is that I kind of lost my mind. There was a big auditorium with a judges’ table and a whole bunch of teams lined up on the sidelines. When Team Tempe took the stage, I found myself moving forward and practically taking the stage myself — standing behind the coach, smiling and mouthing the cheers, pantomiming the moves, almost panting with excitement and nerves.

Afterward, I had to shake myself like a dog and wonder, “Why did that seem so familiar?” Then I realized, in horror, that I am no better than reality TV’s Dance Moms; on par with Toddlers and Tiaras.

I had to put on a big smile when Tempe took second place to Mesa — out of two teams in their heat. It didn’t matter to Sophie, she was thrilled with her silver medal and the joy of competing, not to mention the cupcakes handed out afterward.

I was careful to keep frosting off her uniform, but her mouth was covered and I panicked for a moment, looking around for a bathroom or a drinking fountain. Then I saw Robert. He’s the only male on the team, a quiet older guy with a sweet smile. I’d never seen him and Sophie interact, but here he was — and he was holding out a wet paper towel.

That’s when I realized what this whole cheer thing is about: teamwork. True, the routines aren’t anything super fancy, but they require concentration and symmetry. They require the group to work as a team. (And it doesn’t hurt that their coach is terrific — kind and understanding but also down to earth and funny.)

I watched this morning with new eyes, and saw Ursula, the grande dame of the team who came to the competition decked out in sparkly eyeshadow and brand-new white Keds, greet Sophie with excitement. At the end, when I said to Sophie, “Hey, Babycakes, let’s go,” another team member, Colleen, giggled and said something I didn’t quite catch.

“You’d call her Small Fly?” I asked, confused.

“No,” Colleen said, rolling her eyes. “Small Fry.”

We both laughed.

Even though cheer’s not even over yet this year, on the way home Sophie and I discussed it and decided she’ll definitely sign up again next year.

I did it. I’ve been talking it about (a lot — apologies to those who have listened to me go on) and today I finally did it. I sent in Sophie’s Special Olympics registration. For cheerleading. What follows is a piece I read last month at an event sponsored by a group called the Lit Mamas. The lights were so bright I couldn’t tell if the audience was cheering — or cringing. In any case, next month Sophie starts cheerleading practice. I’m quite certain this won’t be my last post on the topic.

It was the perfect moment.

The sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, the waves were crashing just loudly enough to drown out the noise of the other families on the beach. And for the first time all week, most of my own family was nowhere to be seen.

We’ve been coming to this stretch of La Jolla – my parents, my younger sister and me – for a week every summer for nearly 30 years, and over time, our ranks have increased – with boyfriends, then husbands, and now kids. Back in the day, I’d spend hours on this beach, frying under Bain de Soleil (for the St. Tropez tan) SPF #4 and reading book after book, or sleeping, moving only when I really had to pee.

Now I’m lucky if I can pick up a magazine – let alone turn a page – before someone cries, or escapes running down the beach, or vomits sea water in my lap. These days I wear cover-ups and hats, slathering my exposed spots with Neutrogena SPF 70 that includes something called Helioplex that leaves a really attractive white film all over me – and my children, when I can catch them long enough to pour gobs of it on them.

But this day, this moment, something odd happened. I looked around, and it was just my mom and me, wrapped in beach towels on our lounge chairs, all alone on the beach. Jackpot.

I was just starting to doze off when my mother spoke.

“Ames, there’s something I have to say.”

My eyes flew open. OH FUCK, I thought. It’s cancer. When your 70-year-old mother uses that tone of voice, how can it be anything else? FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. FUCK.

I threw off the towel, sat up and turned to face her.

“Um, what?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, my heart racing.

“I really think you should consider letting Sophie do cheerleading in the Special Olympics,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, are you fucking kidding me?” I shrieked. “I thought you had – um, well, I thought. Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Don’t scare me like that!”

She continued on, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I know how you feel about cheerleading, the whole feminist argument and all, but just think about how much fun Sophie would have! She loves to dance, and she loves people. She’d have such a great time.”

Before I could say more than “I’ll take it under advisement,” a throng of children and husbands descended and the moment was gone.

But I did think about it. A lot. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it, and that’s got me really annoyed, because, frankly, I’ve got other things on my mind.

Sophie has Down syndrome. She will be 10 next May. All children come with their own special challenges, but Sophie’s really loaded for bear: She had open heart surgery before she was 1 and more open heart surgery at 4. She’s had three operations for clogged tear ducts (none of them worked, by the way), half a dozen pairs of orthotics for her feet and several pairs of glasses for eyes that don’t work right. She has her own lawyer, who bullied the neighborhood school into keeping her there, and every day I drop her off I wonder how much time we have left at that place before they tell us it’s just too much work to keep her there.

I can tell what you’re thinking. But please, don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t. And if Sophie was here tonight, you’d know why. The kid kicks some serious ass. She’s smart, funny, and I know it’s a stereotype but she’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. She can also be a total jerk. I love her like crazy.

So that’s why I take any decisions made on her behalf very, very seriously. And I’m not talking about the decision to crack open her chest and fix the hole in her heart. We had no choice there. I’m talking about the day to day aesthetic choices, the stuff that matters a lot more to all of us than we’re willing to admit.

When Sophie was just a few days old, I made a decision. If she was doomed to a life of bagging groceries, so be it. But she would never wear a bow tie when doing so, like the clerks at the high end market in town, A.J.’s. No way.

Not a good look for people with Down syndrome.

Over the years, the list has grown: No overalls, no top hats, no sailor suits. There is no rhyme or reason to my fashion pronoucements (although the overalls thing might have something to do with Of Mice and Men) – they simply come to me. And it’s not like I’m so High Fashion myself. I’m not; nor does it bother me that my husband shows up at the office every day a wrinkled mess.

But for Sophie, it’s different. She’s got to look her best.

Again, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, who cares – your kid is mentally retarded. She’ll be LUCKY to get a chance to bag groceries. Who cares what she wears while she does it?

I care.

Always have. I made sure Sophie had hot pink Converse to wear over her ugly foot braces when she was learning to walk, and scoured the thrift stores for Oilily and Baby Lulu outfits when she entered pre-school. She always has the cutest backpack in her class.

At the same time, I try not to stifle her creativity, which is why some days, she hits the playground in her fanciest party dress and tennis shoes. The other day she insisted on gigantic pink-lensed sunglasses. Sort of Diana Vreeland with a twist, I decided, and let it go.

But I have my limits. Sophie’s the tiniest kid anyone knows, so she gets all the hand me downs, and I hide the bags our friends give us til I can search them by myself late at night, getting rid of the overalls and the Elmo tee shirts she loves but is way too old for. And nothing too hoochy mama.

When Sophie turned 8, I signed up for the city of Tempe’s Special Olympics newsletter. That first season, the choices were as follows: bowling, speed skating and cheerleading.

OK, no bowling. Not as a team sport, anyway. No way. First, it’s not real exercise. And second – well, do I really have to explain myself? It’s just not a dignified sport. And speed skating? Yeah, right. So that left cheerleading.

And thus, my existential crisis.

Look, here’s the thing: Sophie is going to spend most of her life on the sidelines, no matter how hard I try to make it otherwise. She won’t likely drive a car or go to college or live on her own – if she does any of those things, it will be a truncated version. Special Olympics is one chance she gets to step on a level playing field. Why should she be off to the side, jumping around?

“But she’ll look so cute in the uniform!” a friend said.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport,” another friend said. “Anyhow, cheerleading isn’t what it used to be. It’s very athletic!”

Not for Sophie, who can’t turn a cartwheel – let alone do a backflip off the top of a human pyramid. No. Cheerleading for Sophie will only ever be a photo op.

“Oh come on,” my mom’s voice echoes in my head. “She’ll have fun!”

Ballet class is fun. Swimming lessons are fun. Running track in Special Olympics – that was a blast. Sophie loved it, ran her heart out, cherishes her fourth place ribbon. That was a lot of goddamn fun!

Cheerleading??? Do we really have to go there?

Right now you’re thinking: Wow. That woman really overthinks everything. You are right. I do. It’s exhausting. And wait – I’m not done.

I haven’t admitted this to my mother, but the truth is that I’ve been thinking about cheerleading since before I was Sophie’s age, and it’s not because I’m some crazed feminist. It’s because I always wanted to be a cheerleader.

I mean, really, how many kids choose to be on the speech and debate team? That was just a way to keep busy during the dances and other typical events I wasn’t included in when I was in high school. I watched the other kids like an anthropologist, and realized at an early age that the one sure-fire path to popularity – at my school, anyway – was cheerleading.

It wasn’t going to happen. I turned my last somersault when I was four. Like Albert Brooks’ annoying, nerdy-smart character in Broadcast News, as a kid I consoled myself with the thought that someday, I’d be more successful than any of them. That didn’t happen (some of them are damn fine real estate agents!) but I have lived happily ever after – and happier than a lot of them, if what I see on Facebook is any indication.

And now I’m charged with the happiness of two young girls. The truth is that I just don’t see any upside to Sophie being a cheerleader. It won’t bring her great popularity – and here I’m not talking about how, often, kids with Down syndrome become the mascots of their high school – elected Prom Queen, named “team manager” – and it won’t result in great athletic prowess.

It’ll just be – well, it’ll just be fun.

After months of thinking about it, I did the thing I should have done the first day it came up. I asked Sophie.

“Hey, Sophes,” I said one night before bed. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Do you want to do Special Olympics cheerleading?”

“YES!”

So Sophie will be a cheerleader — for one season, at least.

And I’ll be in the stands – cheering.