Last night, after Sophie had gone to bed, Annabelle and I settled down on the couch. As the older sister, she gets to stay up a little later.
“Sophie’s turning 5 tomorrow,” Annabelle said.
“Is she really going to kindergarten? She doesn’t talk very well.”
“You know why that is, right?”
(I think she does, but who knows. I’ve been known to play dumb a time or two, myself, in this life.)
“Well, Sophie has Down syndrome. That makes her a little different from us, from other kids her age.”
Luckily, Ray had just come in from a bike ride. He was summoned to the couch, where he explained that every person starts with one cell, and that in Sophie’s case, that cell was different (we’ll have to come up with a different word, whoops, for different; he also learned that the phrase “genetic material” doesn’t work on an almost 7 year old) and therefore, every bit of Sophie’s just a little bit different. (Sometimes more than a little bit.)
“Does that make you sad, that she’s different?” I asked.
“No,” Annabelle replied, matter of factly. “If that’s her, that’s her.”