It smelled like poo in temple this morning, but that’s understandable, since we were at the children’s service.

I’ve been meaning to take the girls to a “tot shabbat” forever, so I was pleased when my dear friend Kacey mentioned her family would be at the Rosh Hashana service. We tagged along, joined by another dear friend, Deborah.

Both Kacey and Deborah belong to this temple; it’s the one we’ll join if we ever join one. This was a big step in that direction, though I’m still far from a commitment to organized religion.

Toward the end of the service this morning, Annabelle leaned over, pointed to the rabbi and asked me, “Why does he keep talking when no one is listening?”

An hour is a long time for that many children to be in one room, even if they are constantly standing up and sitting down, as is traditional in a Jewish service. At that point, I wasn’t even facing forward anymore. I’d realized, too late, that Sophie needed constant monitoring.

Rosh Hashana marks the beginning of the “High Holidays,” 10 holy days culminating in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. (That’s the big kahuna, the day you fast from sunset to sunset, and ask for forgiveness — like Catholic confession, only en masse and all in one day, once a year. Handy.)

“Today is the world’s birthday!” the rabbi said, by way of explaining that it’s the day we go back to the beginning to tell the story of creation. That got Sophie excited. She kept asking, “Whose birthday is it?” quite loudly.

But that wasn’t the problem.

Before we got to The Problem, we were having a nice time, with the girls enjoying the music, switching off on the adults’ laps.

Not Ray’s lap. After initially indicating he’d like to attend, Ray took a pass this morning — I think he was worried he’d have to wear a tie. In the end, I was a little relieved, since he’s really not down with the god thing. “I’m afraid if I walk into temple, I might catch fire,” he said. Which was pretty amusing, I had to admit.

I can see why he was uncomfortable. At least I was raised Jewish. Ray still doesn’t quite get the concept of the agnostic Jew, though he’s been married to one for almost 12 years.

There were plenty of other laps to go around, lots of singing, and the highlight — the blowing of the ram’s horn, the “shofar,” which I’ll botch by trying to explain but which basically is a call to worship/atone/donate money to the temple. (I’m kidding about that last one — sort of.)

For me, the best part of the service was the exchange Annabelle and I had when the rabbi read from the torah, telling the story (albeit an abbreviated, watered-down version) of Adam and Eve.

“Mommy, who wrote those stories?” Annabelle asked.

“Well, some people say god wrote the stories,” I told her. “But to be honest, I don’t really believe that. I think some really nice people wrote the stories as a way of teaching people to be good.”

She nodded energetically and settled into my lap. Not bad, I thought to myself.

A few minutes later, I realized that Sophie had been turned in her seat, engaged in conversation with a woman sitting in back of us with her family. (It was that chaotic and loud; I couldn’t hear.) At first, I thought Sophie was grilling the woman about just how the shofar works, but then I realized the conversation had taken a turn.

The woman’s son — he was 7 or 8, I think — clearly had a birth defect that affected his arm, which ended about where your and my elbows are. Too late, it dawned on me that Sophie had noticed and was asking the boy and his mom, again and again, “Why? What happened?”

The woman was patient and sweet (“He was born that way,” she shrugged, which didn’t satisfy Sophie) but by the time I realized what was up, the little boy was hiding behind her. “He’s embarrassed,” the woman told Sophie, still smiling but looking at me with big “can’t you get your kid to shut up” eyes.

I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Sophie, do you like it when people talk a lot about Down syndrome?”

She looked at me and shook her head.

“Well, this little boy doesn’t want you talking about him, either. It’s the same thing!”

I looked at the mom and added quickly, “I know it’s not the same thing.” She just smiled.

At this point the service had ended and everyone was scattering. The woman and her family hustled off. I looked at Deborah and shook my head, horrified.

I had worried that people would stare at Sophie this morning (and I suppose they did, a bit), but she wound up being the starer. Funny, Sophie’s genetically endowed with a kind heart and beyond that, I know she’s a sweet little girl.

But standing there, I realized that’s not the same thing as the Golden Rule — which, as far as I’m concerned, is the best purpose of religion.

Our friends came by the house afterward to eat my overbaked challah and dip apples in honey for a sweet New Year.

I had a lovely time, but couldn’t stop thinking about that boy. Later, Annabelle asked (out of the blue), “Mommy, why does Sophie have so many therapies? It seems like she’s not good at ANYTHING!”

I explained that many things are harder for Sophie, and she has people to help her learn. And thank goodness, I thought to myself, that we have such wonderfully trained and experienced experts to teach Sophie to talk, write, run and jump.

Still,  some things fall to the parents, no matter what, and I know that I’m Sophie’s Golden Rule therapist. I’m just not sure I’m adequately trained.

I have to admit that I’m more than a little proud that Annabelle’s already questioning the highest authority. Because I have no faith (of that variety) myself, I view religion simply as a tool by which you can get others to behave. Clearly, Annabelle doesn’t need that tool.

But maybe Sophie does. Sophie thrives on structure, rules, a plan. Will she need religion to stay on the straight and narrow? If I do introduce her to religion, will that be unfair, since she might completely “get” it?

Am I overreacting to some simple curiousity?

So much for a light-hearted New Year’s celebration.