It’s been a high-fashion week for Annabelle. Her grandma taught her how to sew on a button (I dug up some silver lame fabric — all I had ) and she practiced several evenings in a row. And in honor of fall (i.e., temperatures below 90) we dug out what I like to call “The Anna Collection” — hand-me-downs from our super-swank 10-year-old pal (daughter of the equally stylish Deborah).

I handed Annabelle a pile of at least a dozen pairs of jeans. We’d tried them on several years running; they never came close to fitting. This year every pair fit! Some are a little too short. Ah, to be tall and skinny (relatively speaking, Annabelle’s still the wee-est kid in her class) and to be able to wear ANYTHING.

Annabelle did a little twirl in a pair of Anna’s jeans — denim appliqued with white satin and seqins, trimmed at the bottoms with tulle ruffles. To die for.

“I wish I had a pair of those!” I said, more to myself than to her.

She stopped and turned.

“Do you think they’d look good on you?” Annabelle asked.

I was dumbstruck. This is the kid who draws everyone as a stick figure, who never calls anyone names, who tells me I’m beautiful.

“Annabelle! That’s not a nice thing to say!” I blurted.

She shrugged and turned. “I was just asking your opinion,” she said innocently.

Or not.

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