“Mommy, why do I have Down syndrome?”

Sophie and I had just left Special Olympics practice, so I wasn’t completely surprised that the topic came up — we’re almost never around groups of people with Down syndrome, and there were a dozen or so out for track and field that afternoon. I just expected that when the first questions came, they would be more of the “what” or “who” variety, rather than “why.” I will admit that I was completely unprepared. She’s only 8. I figured I had a few years.

“Uh, um, err–” I sputtered. “I don’t know.”

Before Sophie could protest, I followed up with all I could scrape from my end-of-the-day-tired brain.

“So when you were just becoming a baby, some science happened and it made you have Down syndrome.”

That was terrible, but it seemed to satisfy her.

“Oh, like the science fair!” she said, excited, and quickly changed the subject with a question I honestly can’t recall at the moment, something on her current rotation: “When can I get a Monster High doll?”; “When can I have a sleepover with Gaga?”; “Why isn’t it my spring break yet?”; “How many days til my birthday?”

Back to comfortable (if slightly annoying, after a dozen times) territory. I turned up the Disney channel on the radio and let the whole thing play out in my head, again and again.

“Mommy, why do I have Down syndrome?”

“Well, Sophie, it’s because Mommy was selfish and waited til she was 36 years old to have you. You have an old mom with old eggs.”

“Oh, Sophie, I’ve wondered that myself. Perhaps the universe was trying to punish me tell me something.”

“You see, Sophie, you have a genetic condition called Trisomy 21, in which you have an extra 21st chromosome, which affects just about part of you. If you’ve got an hour, I can start listing the many ways.”

“Fuck if I know, Sophes.”

Annabelle got in the car, and asked her sister how Special Olympics went.

“Good!” Sophie told her.

“Hey, Sophie, did you notice there are a lot of people at Special Olympics with Down syndrome?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you think of that?”

“I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because they are nice.”

Later I told Ray about the conversation.

“You know,” I said, “maybe it’s like meeting someone from your own planet. Maybe she feels really comfortable around them — like they are her people.” Maybe she wonders why life is so hard all the time, why she doesn’t quite get it when she’s around us, her nuclear family. Maybe these people are really her family. Does she think that?

“No,” said Ray, who’s read more (as in, anything) on the subject than I have. He says people with Down syndrome are not really capable of that kind of thinking.

I’m not so sure.