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?

“And she wrote her name today,” she added.

“She what???”

At all the meetings we had last winter and spring, to determine Sophie’s next step, the one face at the table that was always the dourest belonged to the occupational therapist, who’s in charge of fine motor skills. She made no bones: The OT said point blank that she did not think Sophie could handle kindergarten.

“She may never be able to write her name,” she said at one of the early meetings.

That line has haunted me since. Look, I know we’re just entering the computer age. By the time she’s an adult, Sophie and everyone else will have some sort of computer strapped to them that will probably let them communicate with their eyes, never mind type with fingers. Handwriting will be obsolete.

But to hear that my child may never be able to write her own name?

“Are you sure?” I asked Ms. X. “Really? She did it herself?”

She promised to show me next week, adding that it’s not perfect, but that Sophie absolutely did it herself and you can certainly tell what she wrote: S O P H I E. 

“I have goosebumps!” she said.

Me, too. And in that moment, I understood just why Ms. X teaches kindergarten, and why she’s willing to put up with all of Sophie’s ball buster BS.

Sophie wrote her name today. I can’t think of a better way to end the first week of kindergarten.

The first week of kindergarten is full of growing pains for all the kids, and for Sophie I think it’s been especially hard because of the heat (you try going back to school — and onto the playground — when it’s 111 degrees out, and humid) and the long day. She had long days, the last two years, but as Ms. X pointed out this afternoon, in what’s turning into our daily chat, she only went to a formal pre-school for two hours a day.

The expectations in kindergarten are high. The bedlam on Day One had turned into a pretty darn controlled environment by Day Four. (I told you Ms. X was amazing.) Even Sophie stood patiently the last two mornings, holding her backpack and lunch box, waiting to enter the classroom.

I tried spying, for a while, but that didn’t work, so I fill in the blanks from the accounts of Ms. X, and other adults who are occasionally in the classroom. (From what I can tell, Ms. X is sticking to her solemn promise to not sugarcoat Sophie’s kindergarten experience.)

The week, so far:

Monday was basically nuts for everyone.

Tuesday, Sophie had a dentist appointment, so she wasn’t there much.

Wednesday, she immediately announced she was tired, and refused to sit for carpet time. That afternoon, she zonked out when some of the other kids were resting, and actually slept through music.

But today, our little ball buster appeared.

“Wow, I’ve never seen that,” Ms. X said, sounding downright awestruck, when she called. Sophie was much better this morning (probably thanks in part to an earlier bedtime last night and my parting promise that we’d take Ms. X out for chocolate ice cream if Sophie did well today and tomorrow) but as soon as they got back from the library this afternoon, Sophie was BAD. BAD BAD BAD. Wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t put toys away. No matter what Ms. X asked or tried, she simply refused to listen.

“I told you so!” I said. “See? This is what I’ve been so worried about.”

Bless her, Ms. X sounded completely unruffled (a jaunty attitude I’m sure she’s practiced over the years). We came up with several strategies: a reward chart; time out; and, if nothing else works, time away from the group in a bean bag chair, with some books. I told Ms. X I’m most concerned that Sophie not disrupt the class or keep her from teaching.

We decided it was all workable. I hung up feeling calm; five minutes later, I was freaked. So it goes.

This morning, I told Ray I was worried about Sophie. “Me, too,” he said. “I keep thinking about what that principal at the other school said about her making more friends there.”

There is ANOTHER school, an elementary school in our district with a program for special needs kids. There’s one kid with Down syndrome there, in fourth or fifth grade. If she went there, it’s true, Sophie would get a little more support for part of the day, in a pull-out program.

When I visited, I wasn’t all that impressed. The extra services didn’t seem to outweigh the benefits of having Ms. X (assuming we could nab her as Sophie’s teacher) and having Sophie in a familiar environment.

Plus, the principal said something that day that really pissed me off. She told me there was something special about her kid at her school (even the non-special ones). “I don’t know what it is,” she told me. “There’s just something about this place. At ANOTHER school, the kids might be nice to Sophie, but they wouldn’t be her friends.”

I’d been warned, just before the meeting, by a good friend in the know, that our school — where Annabelle had gone for almost two years — has a bad reputation for being snotty and exclusive. I’d never seen it. I loved the school (still do) and was hurt that this principal would jump to such a nasty conclusion.

Plus — get this — Sophie’s IQ is too high for her to go to the “special” school. She’s not technically “mentally retarded,” so she does not even get services from the special ed teacher at her current school, let alone an entire special program.

In any case, that other principal’s just plain wrong. Sophie may have had her struggles, so far this week, but a lack of friends and people who care about her isn’t one of them.

From the first day, Sophie’s gotten (not just given!) hugs. Friends have wanted their picture taken with her.

The second day of school, when I looked away for a moment, she and Annabelle grabbed the hands of two other little girls — another kindergartener and second grader — and headed out to the playground. When it came time to gather her up for school to start, another two friends urged her in.

The third day, when we parked and got the backpacks out, Annabelle screamed, “I LOVE THIS SCHOOL!” Sophie screamed, “I LOVE ANNABELLE!”

Annabelle explained to me, “That means she loves the school because she loves me.” Makes sense.

And today, I heard that Sophie ate lunch with a group of fourth grade boys.

She’s a freaking rock star. This week, anyway.

“Oh no,” I told Ray. “The friends are why we have to make this work, at this school.”

If only I can figure out how to keep my little ball buster at bay.

I saw it yesterday in our breakfast with the still-fabulous, still-celebrated Ms. Janice — without her classroom as an accessory, she’s now become simply a very good friend, rather than teacher. I had the role of the enforcer (not one I carried out too well, I might add) at the breakfast table.

The fact that pre-school’s quickly moving into the past became a sharper reality this morning, when I pulled the Morning Monkey quilt out of the dryer. (Ms. Janice has Morning Monkeys and Afternoon Alligators — what a workload.) When Sophie had her heart surgery last fall, the folks at her pre-school were phenomenal. Ms. Janice and others came to visit at the hospital and at home, and everyone sent presents. One night Sophie’s bus driver, Sam, showed up on our doorstep with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

But aside from the visits, the best present she got was the Morning Monkey quilt.

A mom I’d never met (she had a son in Ms. Janice’s classroom) made it for Sophie — it must have taken her days (would have taken me years) to sew this beautiful quilt made of several fabrics, each square printed with a photograph of a member of the class, including the teachers, aides and therapists.

Every night, Sophie insists we cover her with the Morning Monkeys (her own photo looks just like a mugshot, I swear, if you can imagine a 4-year-old getting arrested) and every morning she wants me to pretend to be Alex (her boyfriend) or Tatiana (her friend) or Ms. Sydney (her beloved speech therapist). Today she named each kid and adult, kissing her finger and placing it on a face, one by one.

But this morning, I noticed that the pictures on the quilt are starting to fade. Just like pre-school.