When my son, Rojo, mainstreamed into an afternoon kindergarten class at my daughter’s small Catholic K-8 school, he was instantly met by a friend we’ll call “Rosie.”

Rosie noticed things about Rojo. She noticed he needed a lot of help, and she offered to provide it. She noticed he was funny, and she laughed in all the right places. And when he recited the alphabet – backwards – she noticed he was smart. She went home and told her mother, “Rojo’s a lot smarter than you think.”

This summer was a hard one for Rojo: he got braces, he turned thirteen, and he became aware for the first time, of the widening gap between him and his typical peers.

We called Rosie.

“Mom, I would like for Rosie to come to our house and play. Call her.” He asked to see very few of his many school friends this summer, but she he asked for right away.

She came. The same day. And the next one, too.

Seven years later the two are still journeying together, they just started 7^th grade last week. Most days you’ll find Rojo sitting by Rosie in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Most days you’ll find Rosie doing whatever he wants her to do at recess. These days you’ll find Rosie seated next to him in the classroom. The teacher placed the kids alphabetically, and as fate would have it, they are next to each other on the list.

The first day of school I had to pick him up early to take him to a doctor appointment. I was out in the hall talking to his aide, making sure we’d got everything we needed in the backpack, that type of thing, when out came Rosie. “Carrie,” she said matter-of-factly, “I didn’t see a Home Folder in Rojo’s desk.  I took the one marked ‘health’ and put the things in there that he needs to take home today. They’re due tomorrow. Try to get a Home Folder for him by tomorrow, too.”

I did.

Rojo came home from school really worked up on Thursday. “Rosie is not going to be at school tomorrow. She has to go out-of-town with her family. Who is going to help me? Who am I going to sit by at lunch?”

We brainstormed until we came up with half a dozen other names of possible helpers, and he was somewhat satisfied, but surely, there was no substitute for Rosie. “We get a tickle out of each other,” he said, “we just have so much in common.”

The biggest thing they have in common is there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for either one of them. Rosie is an angel in my son’s life, therefore in mine. She begins where I leave off.  I do the looking out for him at home, she handles the school hours.

This arrangement seems written on the stars, there’s no way I could have orchestrated a better fit if I’d tried.

I know of so many moms of special needs kids that sweat the school year. I don’t.

I have Rosie.