“Hey, kids, we’re going to see the world’s second largest ball of twine!” Ray called out to the backseat, in his best Clark Griswold imitation.

It did feel that way, as we set off for our Fall Break road trip last Tuesday. We were headed north to Winslow, Holbrook and Flagstaff, stops along Route 66, although we’d be taking I-40 — you know that, if you’ve seen the movie Cars, which we tried to watch the night before we left. (We all fell asleep — that’s just not my favorite Disney movie.)

I had a bit of a bad attitude. The back roads of Arizona just aren’t my thing, and after three days, when we finally landed in downtown Flagstaff, I heaved a sigh of relief as we drove past the relatively tall buildings and bustling streets of that sleepy college town. (Crystal shops, mediocre sushi and one really good Korean restaurant, but still.)

Ray loves the open spaces, loves the silence — spotting a lizard or hearing a coyote howl. Me, not so much. I’m a city girl, and throughout our 15-year relationship have often been known to hum the theme to Green Acres at opportune times.

But we couldn’t afford a trip to the big city, and even the idea we’d had to drive to New Mexico seemed too ambitious when we realized we only had four days. So we headed north. Ray’d barely been to Winslow, and not to any of the nearby attractions, if you can call them that, so it was new for all of us.

The girls were thrilled to be together, and on a road trip. We all were. It’s been a crazy busy fall, and I’m making up for the days away now (writing at 3:45 am, I’m tripping over my typos). But it’s good that we did it. No school, no work (except for email and a couple phone emergencies for Ray), no doctor appointments, no therapies. No IQ tests or meetings with the principal or worries over playground safety. No mention of Sophie’s “disability” at all — except for one time, during the trip.

Ah, but I jump ahead.

I promise I won’t share a painfully boring blow-by-blow of our vacay. Just some highlights.

We stopped in Payson for Cheetos and a bathroom break. (Gotcha — ha. Really, highlights, I promise.)

The idea was to spend one night in luxury (La Posada, an amazing little hotel so misplaced in Winslow I kept hitting myself on the head to be sure I wasn’t dreaming it up); one night in kitsch (the Wigwam, several cement tee pees in the center of the town of Holbrook); and two nights cheap — my parents’ summer house in Flagstaff, which they abandon as soon as a leaf turns.

Ray was the one who chickened out on the tee pees when we got to Winslow; he dug for his credit card and bought a second night at La Posada as soon as we hit the lobby. And he’s not a hotel kinda guy. He would have been thrilled to camp the whole four nights. But this place is special — built to accomodate the influx from the railroad boom, it’s a Harvey House designed by a woman named Mary Colter (great for the girls to hear about a woman so accomplished, so long ago) that narrowly escaped demolition several times.

I won’t do it justice here (nor will my snapshots) and this is about the people, not the places, so check out La Posada for yourself: www.laposada.org

As for Winslow Proper, wow. I think the town must have busted out with pride when the new Church’s chicken opened. De-press-ing. Makes downtown Phoenix bustle. We stood on “The Corner” and explained The Eagles to the girls, then visited one of the two businesses open at 5 pm on a weekday, one of the two gift shops devoted to the song.

Inside, a video played an Eagles concert. “You don’t have to watch that thing all the time, do you?” I asked the young woman behind the counter. She nodded, looking sad.

Wow.

When we drove by the tee pees in Holbrook the next day, Ray and I knew we’d dodged a bullet. Cramped, to say the least (and that’s possibly the best thing you could say about them). We took several pictures and then stopped by the Safeway across the street.

And then we were off to the Petrified Forest/Painted Desert National Park. We’d already been to the Homolovi Ruins (Indian ruins, they’re called, I didn’t see one reference to “Native Americans” the whole time we were in Winslow/Holbrook) the previous day, and would later hit Meteor Crater and Lowell Observatory. Ray and Annabelle also hiked inside a cave, but I drew the line at that; Sophie and I stayed in that day.

This was defintely what I’d call a “Ray trip”. My idea of touring the glitter factory in nearby Cottonwood (really, there is one!) was out; that’s okay, it’s a better bet for a girls weekend. And the truth is that Ray gets short shrift on “Ray stuff”. But as I watched both of my children practically blow into that stupid Meteor Crater on a particularly windy day, I swore to plan an urban adventure for our next trip. (I much preferred the indoor part of the Meteor Crater exhibit, where the girls got to pretend to stand inside the crater.)

Things got extremely desolate as we headed for the petrified forest. My iphone lost reception, and I was forced to look out the window. I had visions of standing (or at least leaning) trees in the forest and rainbow hues in the painted desert, but Ray had warned all of us. And I already knew — the pleasures of the desert are very subtle.

Very.

OK, it wasn’t THAT bad, though it was a little warm out that day. Way too bright. We watched a brief movie at the visitors center (I nodded off) and Sophie befriended several AARP members. Turns out it was seniors and us, at most of these places. The upside is that the trails are all paved and managable, which is good since neither Sophie nor I are interested in scrambling.

The girls were both troopers, though there was the inevitable whining you’ll find on any family road trip, and without a crib in the room (I swear, I’m planning to deal with THAT at home — soon — really) Sophie was left to sleep with one of us, which made for a couple of interesting nights til we got to Flagstaff and the Pack n Play there. The night she slept with me, Sophie was on the side of the bed against the wall, but there was a small gap. I held onto her for what seemed like hours, then finally let go and fell asleep (Ray swears I was snoring long before that) and then woke up to a loud clunk as she rolled off the bed. I started screaming at Ray to turn on the light and he screamed back to shut up, but amazingly NEITHER kid woke up. Sophie slipped between the wall and bed, made her way to the ground, crawled under the bed and would have continued to slumber if I hadn’t dragged her out.

So we were all a little fuzzy.

After a makeshift picnic in the back of the Jeep, Ray lured us to a path called the Crystal Forest, which the movie warned was not what it used to be, due to people pilfering the petrified wood (a ton a month, the movie claimed; Ray and I both found that hard to believe) and it’s true it WAS tempting.

The girls weren’t that interested in the stuff — it’s weird, some pieces look like wood chips, others like crystals; in places it’s huge, though the Crystal Forest had dwindling piles of tiny hunks — but I found myself dying to take a piece or two. Ray (normally more likely to pilfer) shot me several dirty looks and I finally gave up, sulking as we walked to the car.

After a long drive past some petroglyphs (Ray was somewhat disappointed) and — finally — the promised vistas of the Painted Desert (if you’ve been to Sedona, or even Camelback Mountain, skip that detour) we drove to the end of the forest/desert, marked by a ranger station.

I had that guilty feeling you get when contemplate doing something wrong and ultimately make the right decision but still feel like everyone knows what you were thinking all along, and visions from the movie of the guy with the pocketful of petrified wood getting handcuffed by the rangers (really, they show that!) kept running through my head as we pulled up and a friendly blonde woman popped her head out of her small station.

“Well, hello!” she said, gazing into the back of our disgustingly road trip-ified car. “Don’t you have beautiful daughters!”

And, after a pause.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I practically busted out, “I swear, I don’t have ANY! I thought about it, I even held it in my hand, but I put it back, okay? I have small children, as you can see. Don’t arrest me!”

“Sure,” Ray said.

“Is your daughter disabled?”

She chirped the question in the same tone she would have used to ask, “Hot enough for you?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, wondering what this had to do with pilfered petrified wood. “She has Down syndrome.”

“I thought so!” she chirped back, grinning. “Did you know that because of her disability, she can get a lifetime pass that will get ALL of you into any national park free, for the rest of her life?”

We did not know that.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s really nice, but, um, you know, we are happy to pay. We want to support the parks.” (And shit, it had only been $10 for the carload of us. What with the world financial crisis, who am I to cut corners for the government right now?)

“Yes, but really, you should take advantage of it!” she said, beaming. “It’s such a great program. That way, you’ll never forget your daughter. You’ll always bring her with you on vacations, and she’ll get you into the parks free!”

Suddenly I was really wishing I’d taken a piece of that damned petrified wood. We smiled and nodded and pulled away from the ranger station, and headed to Holbrook to look for rock shops.

I just noticed that today someone typed “is Palin mildly retarded” and that led them to Girl in a Party Hat.

I’m not sure what to think.

I had a feeling she’d come home from Grandma’s with something, but I didn’t think I’d be impressed. I was.

On Saturday, Annabelle and I finally snuck away for our long-awaited trip to SAS Fabrics. The logistics were tough — this just isn’t a place for Sophie, not unless you want to give me some meth to snort first. Otherwise she’d be off like a flash, lost amidst piles of probably-not-too-clean remnants. Everything’s at Sophie height, at SAS, from buttons to patches to pokey stuff with pins on the back and sharp edges on the front (those rhinestones can be murder). I had visions of losing her in a heap of tulle.

So we waited til Sophie took a rare afternoon nap and called goodbye to Ray as we were out the door.

For $28, we had a wee of a time, as my mother would put it. I got some random stuff I’ll never use: silver lame-esque rick rack, pieces of fabric with vintage Snoopy designs, iron on patches shaped like those cute Russian dolls that were “in” last year. (What I’ll do with them I haven’t a clue, since I already know I can’t manage to get Annabelle’s Brownie patches to stick.)

But Annabelle’s purchases were the main event. She got a wad of fabric squares for 25 cents each, rhinestone appliques for $2.99, rolls of lace (65 cents) , tiny flowers (50 cents) and a hunk of the palest pink satin (99 cents a yard).

I chucked the blue plastic bag in the bigger bag we were hauling over to my mother in law’s yesterday, and figured eventually, something would come home. At first, Annabelle said she was planning to make a dress for a friend. But when I got home last night, she was wearing the creation herself: A satin floor-length gown, sleeveless, with lace trim and flowers. It went nicely with the Halloween tattoo on her bicep and her mouthful of missing, growing-in and wiggly teeth. And her enormous smile. (This morning I found her original pencil designs and some photos the fashion photographer — Grandpa — took on the back patio.)

“She designed it herself!” Ray announced, as Annabelle twirled and bowed.

A designer (with a wonderful assistant) is born.

This morning I walked by the playroom, where the constant churn of the piles of toys yields a new view every time you pass, and I noticed that damn Cabbage Patch Doll.

I never really liked Cabbage Patch Dolls. They peaked in the 80s, when I was in high school, becoming valuable collectibles (someone didn’t make enough, either by accident or on purpose), toys you left in the box to increase their value. I always thought they looked a little creepy. Too soft. Too homespun. And okay, I’ll say it. Those dolls look dumb.

Which is why I was silently horrified when our dear friend Janice — a woman who, it must now be stated, gives TERRIFIC gifts, like paper made from elephant poop on Annabelle’s most recent birthday — gave Sophie a Cabbage Patch Doll for a holiday, so long ago I know don’t recall which.

Janice was excited to watch us open the gift. “I just had to get it!” she said. “It looks exactly like Sophie!”

Now, I’m not above quietly confiscating an offending gift and simply making it disappear. I do it all the time — with duplicates, dangerous items, or something that will be too messy even for my house.

But I couldn’t throw out this doll. It was Sophie. Janice had said so — even though I couldn’t see the resemblance beyond the hair and eyes. As I type this I realize that’s probably all Janice meant. She couldn’t have been looking at the half-open mouth and the empty expression, right? Anyhow, Sophie’s expression is anything but empty, and her eyes are GORGEOUS, nothing like that doll’s. She looks like a perfect little porcelain china doll, not a patchwork-wearing, stuffed Cabbage Patch Doll.

That’s me, overthinking everything. The doll made in my likeness would have worry lines as deep as ditches and Diet Coke stains on its shirt.

Like all dolls that enter our house, the CPD was immediately stripped naked and left for dead in the landfill, I mean play room. Every few weeks, it surfaces, and I pick it up, thinking I’ll add it to the pile for the ARC thrift store.

But I can’t.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The Veep debate was THE television event of the week. And I was a good American — I did watch it, through my fingers, wincing, glad I was at a party and had an excuse to gulp vodka to numb the pain. I even fell a little bit in love with Joe Biden, where previously I was just tolerating him.

I was glad we weren’t home, because Ray might have wanted the girls to watch, and I just can’t let them make Sarah Palin any sort of role model. Heck, I’d rather they watch Kenley, the bad whiny girl on Project Runway.

Literally.

OK, I am a horrible mom. I let Annabelle stay up til 10 on Wednesday, to see the end of Project Runway. Hey, it was down to four designers. It was a big week. Truth be told, if you’d made me pick one, I would have skipped the debate for the runway, no prob.

I love that Annabelle loves Project Runway, and not just because it gives me a reason to watch something other than childrens TV. (I actually don’t mind kiddie shows much; they drive Ray nuts but I think they make nice background noise.) But Annabelle, like (I’m guessing) millions of other little kids (and some big ones — Trish swears that 15 year old Zach is among them) are now planning careers as fashion designers.

And what’s wrong with that? I love that she wants to create. After the show ended Wednesday (I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen this week’s yet) Annabelle announced that she was going to design her own evening dress. It will be sleeveless and orange with a big flower in the middle and it will go down to THERE, she said, pointing past her ankle. She intends to pair it with orange boots, which she also plans to design herself.

“You go girl,” I thought. “And thank goodness you’re gong to Grandma’s on Monday!”

I seriously have trouble sewing on a button, a lack of skill I inherited directly from my mother (GAGA). But my mother in law, now she can sew. She’ll laugh when she reads that, but I am in awe of her abilities — she can even operate a sewing machine. We met up for bagels last weekend (pic to follow) and the girls got silly with her, but I have a feeling that Monday Annabelle will arrive to spend the first day of Fall Break with Grandma, and she’s going to be carrying a bag of materials.

We’re planning a trip to SAS fabrics this weekend. I can’t wait. After the debate last night, no one quite knew what to say: Palin did just well enough to escape the full-on wrath of the crowd, which frankly pissed most of us off. So we talked about other things, like Project Runway. And trips to SAS. One friend with grown kids fondly remembered trips to SAS (it’s a dump of a small warehouse packed with fabric remnants and accoutrements — sequins, feather boas, patches, ribbons, I’m getting excited just writing this) as a young, poor mom. For five bucks, she recalls, you could occupy the kids for days.

Not bad advice in this economy. Google SAS fabric. There are several in the Phoenix area; I’m not sure how far the chain extends.

All I know is that Grandma better have her equipment out on Monday!

Just when I think we’re just fine, making do with what Sophie’s being handed (or not) in kindergarten, something happens to knock me off my clogs. (If you’ve never worn clogs, you won’t understand that saying.)

I reconnected this week with a lovely woman in town whose daughter is just about Sophie’s age, and also has Down syndrome. We wrote on each other’s “walls” on Facebook (if someone can explain that whole Wall thing versus the Email thing versus Status Comments, please do, and while you’re at it, what the hell does it mean when someone Pokes you?) and swapped quick kindergarten tales.

I’ll cut to the chase. Her kid — who goes to a public school in a neighboring district — gets a personal aide in the classroom 18 hours a week! That’s huge! Sophie doesn’t get someone to walk her from the cafeteria to the playground.

Something’s wrong with this picture, and if it was in reverse, I know this lovely woman would be kicking my butt toward an advocate or a law office. I need to do something. As Sophie’s physical therapist said this morning, it’s about her safety. I don’t want to rock the boat. But how can I help it?

Damn the economic crisis — we couldn’t sell our house and move to that better district even if we wanted to. And open enrollment is not an option for special needs kids; they’re too expensive.

At least Fall Break starts tomorrow, so I can indulge in one of my favorite pasttimes: procrastination.

Kindergarten is a quarter gone. We had our parent/teacher conferences yesterday.

It’s still well over 100 degrees — heck, it’s barely October — so it just doesn’t feel right to call the semester half in the can. But it is. Sophie is halfway done with her first half of kindergarten.

And Annabelle’s half done with the first half of second grade. Ray and I beamed through her conference — she’s a little above grade level for reading and right at grade level for math, and her teacher, Mrs. Z., adores her. The feeling’s mutual; Annabelle practically melts when she hears Mrs. Z’s name. I grilled Mrs. Z about mean girl stuff and whether AB’s a nag (no and no) and we talked about Annabelle’s morning ritual.

Before Sophie came to school with Annabelle, AB had us all to herself. Ray or I would drive both girls to the end of the block, put Sophie on the school bus (the pre-school insisted, and it was a cush ride — just Sophie and one or two other kids, and she had her own car seat) then drive AB to school, where we’d have a few minutes of one-on-one before the bell rang.

That’s over this year. This year we’re juggling both girls, and while Sophie’s much better than she was a few weeks ago, from the moment we step out of the car she has to be encouraged to stay on the straight and narrow. I have to leave Annabelle to put her own backpack on, while I make sure Sophie doesn’t run into traffic. We have to pause when Sophie refuses to relinquish the crossing guard’s hand. And we usually have to chase Sophie in one direction (out to the playground) or another (away from the older kids’ classrooms). Annabelle’s old enough to line up with her classmates when the first bell rings — and most mornings she does — but she’d rather I stay by her side and walk in with the line. I try, but most days I’m corraling Sophie into her own classroom.

And so we have developed a ritual. Annabelle stands outside her classroom, waiting for one last hug. “Once she has that hug, she’s fine,” Mrs. Z. assured us yesterday. She thinks it’s sweet. So do I, though I see it as a sign of my own neurotic tendencies, lurking.

But there was no denying it was a terrific conference. I made Ray give me a high five as we headed for Ms. X’s room across the breezeway. “I just worry about Annabelle once she hits fifth and sixth grade,” Ray said. “Yeah, that’s when I began screwing around, too,” I replied. (Although I think our definitions vary dramatically; my idea of screwing around was not doing my homework and reading unassigned books. Ray was way cooler — I’ll leave it at that.)

We were late for Ms. X. She had all the paperwork laid out, and first handed us the reports from the therapists — occupational and speech. I was immediately struck by how little those reports meant. Sophie gets 20 minutes at a time with these women, who are certainly well-meaning but also paid to simply catalogue their activities with special needs children. So much of the job is about making sure the reports are done, to satisfy the requirements of the IEP. What the kindergarten teacher has to say is the money shot, I realized. (I knew this already, sort of, but it was really made clear when she handed us those reports.)

I was eager to get a look at Sophie’s report card. I have to admit that I was a little startled to see a couple of “N”s for “needs improvement”. I’m thinking back, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an “N” on a report card. Not on one of mine (in third grade, I did get an S minus — S is for satifactory, the minus was NOT — for handwriting, which pissed me off so much I cleaned up my act immediately) and not on one of Annabelle’s.

But Ms. X is more than right, of course. Sophie DOES need improvement when it comes to completing tasks on her own. Most of her grades were P for progressing, with a couple S’s thrown in. And Ms. X swears she’s doing remarkably, that she is listening better at carpet time, following directions, even staying on the playground at recess. (The playground safety thing is still on my mind; I’m trying to figure that one out — a blog for another day.)

Ms. X pulled out a looseleaf binder, and flipped through Sophie’s section. She showed us that Sophie has, indeed, mastered every one of her sounds. “And she’s really not the last one to do it?” I asked (I asked AGAIN, I’m geting annoying, I know, but I had to hear it).

She looked through her notebook and reported that Sophie is actually the FIRST kid in her class to get every single sound. Sophie recognizes almost every letter (a couple exceptions: the lower case L — duh, it looks like an I! — and the “typewriter g”) and is on her way to counting to 100. She can sight read several words:

And check out her “first quarter portrait” — true, she does have just one nostril:

She got an “S” for writing her first name, and Ms. X assured us she’s stopped drawing on other kids’ papers. The PE teacher reports that the kids are “mother henning” her less and interacting with her more as friends.

Of course I sat there wondering what Ms. X isn’t telling us, though I hear from her nearly every day. (Again, my neurotic tendencies.) I know things are far from perfect. On Monday morning, Annabelle tripped on the playground before school. Of course she was standing right in front of me when it happened. (Don’t you love being there to witness your kids’ injuries?!) I grabbed her hand, then Sophie’s, and started marching to the nurse’s office.

It wound up being close to nothing, but Annabelle did get a bloody lip, which startled both Sophie and me. Halfway to the nurse, we passed two good mom friends; they agreed to walk Sophie to class. “I’ll be back to say goodbye!” I called to Sophie as I hustled Annabelle away.

In the nurse’s office, Annabelle was washed and Band Aided. The bell rang. A few moments later, I heard the quietest knock possible on the door. It took me a minute to even realize what it was. I opened the door, and there was Sophie. She marched in the door and walked directly to Annabelle, giving her a hug and examining her wounds. Before I’d had time to react, the door swung open and in walked Ms. X.

“Sophie, that is not all right! You are not to leave the classroom!” Ms. X said, in her perfect stern kindergarten teacher way. Sophie followed her out the door, sheepish. (My friends had deposited her in the classroom just fine; the escape happened later.)

In some ways, Sophie’s actions were totally appropriate. She was worried about her sister. But they were also completely unsafe. Ms. X assured us yesterday that Sophie’s not the only kid in the class with challenges — far from it she said, laughing. But of course I worry.

I will always worry.

Ray hadn’t seen the bulletin board with Dan the Flying Man. I haven’t read the book, but I’m guessing Dan is a character who flies. Ms. X asked each of the kids to draw themselves flying, and stapled them up in a line. Ms. X pointed out Sophie’s flying figure — a happy blue shape, not as complex as the others’, but way better than she would have done in July, that’s for sure.

And my favorite part is that she’s up there flying with her classmates, keeping up. She looks pretty good.

And now for a little comic relief.

(How about that economy, eh? I’m only glad I understand so little of what’s going on….)

The fifth and sixth Beatles appeared in the kitchen on Saturday afternoon, courtesy of a wig originally designed to fit a Build A Bear animal and a blow up guitar from a Bar Mitzvah party last year.

“I like the nerdy one on the right!” I shouted to my friend Deborah, as I struggled to see past the crowd to the stage, avoiding the beer bottles rolling around our feet at the Vampire Weekend show last night at the Marquee Theater in Tempe, Arizona.

“You know which one I like!” she shouted back, and I did. The keyboard guy, for sure.

(Here’s a picture I took — but you can’t see anything, so I’ll include another better image of the band.)

I then had a sudden flashback to the last concert Deborah and I saw together — The Wiggles, 2003 (or so), Gammage Auditorium in Tempe — and a similar debate over the cutest member of the male foursome.

Now that’s pathetic.

(For the record, I recall that we both liked Anthony, the Wiggle in the blue shirt, til we saw his fake tan on stage.)

That Vampire Weekend concert is the kind of event I didn’t think twice about in my carefree youth, but which now requires planning and scheming akin to a military maneuver. Despite the fact that our music editor at New Times later labeled it a kiddie concert (he saw a couple kids there) this was definitely an adult event, if only for the f-bombs VP drops in song after song. My kids stayed home. (Hence the maneuvering, changing of schedules, hiring of babysitters, cajoling of sad-faced girls, all for less than 4 hours out of the house at regularly unscheduled time.)

It was worth it.

Vampire Weekend is an overnight sensation, a college band with a fabulous first album (sort of Paul Simon/Elvis Costello/indie-pop-rock-with quirky lyrics and strong, odd melodies — you see why I never made it as a music critic) and as it turns out, an odd group of followers.

Deborah, our pal Michele and I fell for Vampire Weekend when the album came out last spring (these guys are such cool nerds, they met at Columbia in New York, where Michele and I went; Deborah spent years in the city) and when tickets went on sale, I grabbed three.

The band was wonderful — joking that someday Phoenix and Tucson (our musical rival, Tucson always wins) would merge into Phucson, playing their entire album as well as some promising new songs, and belting it all out really well, despite the way-too-strong bass that literally shook our chests (that’s something that never happened in my 20s and 30s!).

I was worried I’d be the oldest person at the show. I wasn’t, not by a long shot, nor was I the geekiest, most out of placed or the worst dressed.

But if I don’t get out more often, I fear just that description is in my future. And the Wiggles don’t count.

As soon as we walked into Old Navy and I saw that there were no shopping carts, I knew it would be a short trip. It had already been a long day (note to self: Sophie’s still not ready to sit through a full-length feature film in the theater) and while I constantly battle the pros and cons of kid containment, frankly it would have been easier to shop for fall clothes for the girls with Sophie butt-down in a cart.

Instead, she had the run of the store — literally. And by the end, she also had some black feet. Somewhere along the way, Sophie removed her sparkly silver tennies and Cookie Monster socks (Annabelle dressed her that morning) to try on some flip flops. It took a while to find the shoes; the socks are gone forever.

We did find some fall separates (I then had to explain to Annabelle that while it is technically fall, she would not be comfortable in a sweater dress on a day expected to top 100 degrees) and a few clearance items (love Old Navy) and I documented a striking moment that wouldn’t have occurred if Sophie had been confined to the cart.

I’m not sure the photo will capture the poignancy, or if I can adequately explain it in words. My 5-year-old marched into the store and stopped smack in front of a mannequin in a striped sweater and too many accessories. She looked it up and down, then gently took its hand, and just stood there, looking around.

At first I thought, “Oh Sophie! How could you not know that thing is plastic! It doesn’t even have a head!”

Then I watched her face — and watched her approach each mannequin in the store, in turn, and stop to hold hands — and realized she knew exactly what was up.

She had a gleam in her eye — it was her own little performance; Sophie was exploring her world in her own Sophie way.

I’m glad there wasn’t a free cart at Old Navy that day.