A real feat, the first time since Sophie’s been in her big girl bed. Every morning, it seems, she comes to us earlier. Ray calls it the “snuffle shuffle” and it’s true, she’s blessed with our noisy sinuses and who can blame her for dragging her feet at 5 a.m.? I know I do. (This morning it was 4:37, for the record.)

Usually the slightest movement from me wakes her and she’ll go instantly from deep sleep to “I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE I’M AWAKE” at eardrum bursting decibles. A colleague at work said, “It’s like that coyote ugly thing where you wake up the next morning and have to chew your own arm off to get out of bed without that person you slept with noticing.”

That colleague does not have children. Still, I get her point.

I didn’t get the hour alone I’d hoped for, but I did get enough time before Sophie’s head popped up in the kitchen door to read a good book. The title: “My” by Sophie.

With no prompting from her or anyone else, I was able (though to be honest you might not have been) to tell that she wrote about “My family,” “My bed” (why don’t you stay in it if it’s worth writing about, was my thought there) and “My teacher.” Here’s the teacher one:

Not bad, huh?

I had a comment from a reader today who wanted to know why Sophie’s IQ was tested at such a young age.

I did a piece on this last summer for This American Life. (It’s the third piece on this show: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1249)

I think I have a clearer  (still muddled, but less so) answer to the question now, though. Probably the short answer is that I suck as a parent and didn’t fully investigate my legal options before signing the paperwork.

The long answer is two fold. It involves the school system, and also state services. And the option of hiring a lawyer, making  a lot of enemies and enduring a protracted battle (years, maybe) to get what Sophie really needs.

From the school perspective, a year ago when this all came up, I wanted the option of sending Sophie to our neighborhood school, where she could have Ms. X (pictured above, sort of), who had been her older sister Annabelle’s teacher and already knew Sophie and wanted her in her class. But the district was pushing us to send Sophie to a pull-out program for special ed kids, held at another (I’d say inferior, and the stats on the school bear that out — more important, it’s not the village we’ve been building/gathering for our family) school.

In that case, it behooved Sophie to not qualify as mentally retarded. She doesn’t technically qualify for that program. I know, I know, you can make your IEP say whatever you want it to, but not under our principal — and while in the abstract I’d always pictured myself as the parent who would sue, picket, scream, etc., it’s just not the same when your kids are involved. They have to face these people — these people you’ve snarked at, or worse — every day at school without you there.

I’ve had to temper myself. And if you know me, you know that’s not my style. I mean, I take no prisoners when it comes to cab drivers, store clerks, waiters. That’s not to say I’m still not bitchy in IEP meetings. I am. But I try not to, as I’m fond of saying at work, “freak the fuck out” on anyone.

So we wanted Sophie at the neighborhood school, mainstreamed. Yeah, I would have loved to have an aide. (I probably did wimp out too early on that one.)

That’s the school. Now there’s the state. And that’s where we’re really screwed. The state of Arizona has standards for providing services to developmentally disabled children. You have to fall into one of four categories: cerebal palsy, epilepsy, autistim (NOT PDD or Aspergers), or mental retardation.

Having Down syndrome doesn’t qualify a kid as developmentally disabled in the state of Arizona. From what I hear, this has accounted for some nice cost savings for the state and it pisses me off to no end because Sophie desperately needs speech, occupational and physical therapy and I don’t personally see the cognitive link alone on any of those — her other challenges that come from DS account for those needs.

When she was 3, the qualifications were not as stringent; a caseworker screened her quickly and approved her for services. At 6, it’s a higher hurdle. They want an IQ score if there’s any question. I asked the pediatrician, can you just write down that she has DS and is retarded? No. In the end last year, the school psychologist wrote on the paperwork that it was believed Sophie was mildly retarded due to early intervention services, but that won’t work. The  caseworker wants scores.

It could be that this is just the way it was going to be, no matter what we did. Or it could be that I majorly screwed up everything. Lately I’ve been thinking about advertising for a guardian angel for Sophie — she’s got a great teacher, amazing therapists, wonderful friends, good doctors and a family that loves her, but I’m not sure that’s enough. I need someone whispering in my ear, telling me what to do.

If you know one, please send him or her my way.

First, “mental retardation” is a medical term. The IQ cut off is 69. Seventy, and you’re not retarded.

Second, I have spent much of the year considering this topic, particularly since Sophie’s IQ clocked in at 83.

(This was the topic of the piece I did for This American Life, which you can find at www.thislife.org — it ran June 30, the social engineering show. Sophie’s about to pop in the room and my blogging time will be over, so I can’t paste the URL in. Sorry!)

Sophie was not even 5 when they tested her, and some smart people discount IQ tests altogether. So take that 83 for what it might or might not be worth. I took it to a professional, since losing the MR status (while super for me, her bragging parent) could be troubling for Sophie: It could mean a loss in services at a crucial time.

There was some doubt about the veracity of the tests she was given this spring, at school.

So today, Ray and I will meet with the psychologist who has spent the summer retesting her. I’ll let you know the results.

I’m sad, in anticipation. And selfish, I know. But wouldn’t you want to have the smartest little kid with Down syndrome, ever?

Either way, I know I do.

(Well, that made for a nice last line, anyway.)

Not in stock. In merch. Something that will remind you of a positive writing experience, every time you look at it. When I sold a piece to salon.com years ago about how it’s hard to name your kids when you’ve used up all the good names on the pets, I bought myself a red leather Kate Spade organizer, which I only recently gave up for Google’s calendar.

(You can read the piece at http://archive.salon.com/mwt/feature/2002/03/08/pet_names/index.html — and no, I still haven’t learned the link thing.)

Sometimes the purchases are not as auspicious. Ditto for the assignments. Earlier this year, I used the money from a Travel & Leisure assignment (which I will NOT link to here) to pay my Visa bill.

But when I got the check from “This American Life” last week, I knew what I was going to buy, and it’s something very special.

Now, I need to say here that I felt incredibly guilty, taking money from public radio. True confession: For years, I’d time my contributions during the pledge drives to TAL, so I could call in to donate in answer to Ira’s plea. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to beckon a little karma.

And it worked!

I do have bills to pay with much of my TAL check, but I intend to use part of it for this year’s donation. I used another small hunk to buy a piece from Amanda Blake, who so graciously agreed to let me use the image of “Beth” for Girl in a Party Hat. (And big thanks to Deborah, who suggested the name.)

Nancy will be arriving any day now, but I’m so psyched I had to show her off immediately (I also don’t know how to size photos — still — but here’s a bit of an idea), and give Amanda a plug: She’s got more little girls on wood for sale, on etsy.com. You can check her out at amandablakeart.com

I’ve already written once about a scary baby doll.

It happened again. Several times in the last few days, I’ve walked past the living room couch and gasped — there lay (laid? pick the one you like best) a baby.

I know Ray really wants a third, but I’m not sure even he’s resourceful enough to scare one up and leave her naked on the living room couch, sucking her thumb.

And this baby could be Sophie’s double, back three or four years. Do you ever have that dream where it turns out you have a baby, and you forgot about it, then there it is?

Oh. Well, lucky you.

Turns out this was no dream. It was Sklyar. We have so many freaking toys we all lose track in this house, and there’s a constant churn that brings old discards (or not quite discards, just castoffs, maybe) to the surface. Sklyar was the doll Annabelle absolutely positively had to have, couldn’t live without, last year on a trip to New York CIty that featured a stop at FAO Schwartz (but not American Girl, something — my debit card? — told me to hold off on AG as long as possible) and a long time in the baby department.

Actually, that’s not the doll Annabelle absolutely positively had to have and couldn’t live without. THAT doll was about $50 more, simply because it came with its own — get this — adoption papers. And a “nurse” running the department. I wanted to run screaming from the place, but instead I reasoned with Annabelle til really I simply wore her out and she agreed to get the same doll, sans papers. (I’m sure our Sheriff Joe Arpaio here in Maricopa County would not approve, but at least Skylar’s pale as the moon, no Mexican blood in her, Joe.) Of course the week we got back from NYC, I heard a hysterical piece on This American Life about that very department at FAO Schwartz. If you can find it on their site, thislife.org, it’s totally worth the time to track it down and listen.

Anyhow, I hadn’t seen Skylar in months, but there she was, stripped to nothing (of course — every doll Annabelle and Sophie have received in the last six years has been stripped naked upon arrival, beginning with Rio de Janeiro Barbie, which the sitter gave Annabelle when she turned 1; thus killing my vow to not let my kids play with Barbies) and laying/lying on the living room couch, waiting to scare me.

Finally, last night, I tossed Skylar back in the landfill, I mean toy pile. At least she doesn’t make noise.

Or emit liquids. I’ve gotta say that one of the funniest moments of motherhood had to be the day my sister called in a panic; she’d just bought my niece Katie a Baby Alive for her fifth birthday.

“Um, I can’t believe I’m leaving this message,” Jenny started, gasping a little. “But we fed Baby Alive an hour ago and she hasn’t pooped. What do you think is –”

And she started laughing so hard she had to hang up.

Damned if I know. I’m scared of dolls, let alone human poo.

Turns out you have to sit Baby Alive upright. Then she’ll poop.

I haven’t tried it (um, no thanks, don’t want to hear the sound of my own voice again — don’t you hate that?) but looks like you can just click and listen.

This week we discovered the double-messy bun(s). On the day this photo was taken, Sophie also had her shorts on backward (she knew, she insisted) and I worried that I’d really gone over the edge with the whole “I’ve gotta be me, I’ve gotta be free!” approach to childish expressions. But she actually got a few compliments. And no one seemed to notice the shorts.

I’m still not saying “for sure” on this one, even though I got confirmation from the producer today — but I MIGHT have a piece on the radio show This American Life, on the episode airing this weekend.

For me, that’s right up there with beating Kristy Kyl (yes, U.S. Senator Jon Kyl’s daughter, no, we didn’t have the same political views) at high school debate camp. In other words, I’m psyched! And for once, no caveats.

The piece is about Sophie (surprise!) and info about the show is at www.thislife.org — it airs on public radio, it’s different in every city. In Phoenix, it’s on KJZZ at 2 p.m. on Saturdays.

And with that, the shameless-self-promotion-portion of the blog is now over. For today.