Annabelle turned 13 today.

For the last several weeks I teased my first born, asking if she was planning to turn on me the day she became a teenager.

“Eh, maybe,” she replied last week, tossing off one of those looks I used to give my own mother several times a day, long before Resting Bitch Face became an excuse for a bad attitude. I was terrible to my mom for the duration of my adolescence, although it should be noted that for the past several decades, she’s been my best friend, role model and (almost) daily confidante.

I write more about Sophie than Annabelle on this blog — I cut back on AB a while ago, wanting to protect her privacy, but allow me to indulge today, on the anniversary not only of her birth but of a day a surgeon sliced me across the middle, revealing most of my organs to my husband (who didn’t look away quickly enough and is likely scarred for life, and we’re not just talking about a C-section scar) and pulling out a giant, colicky baby. And that was after the epidural didn’t work and that was after more than a day of labor.

Not that I’m counting.

I made a lousy pregnant person, refused to even consider natural childbirth and never did get the hang of breastfeeding. I’d never changed a diaper before Annabelle was born. I didn’t know what to do with her. Or with myself. I chucked my copy of “The Baby Whisperer” against the wall when she was three days old, already a failure, I decided.

But we found our way, Annabelle, Ray and I, and while I’m not at all religious I do wonder if the universe was preparing us for Sophie — a daughter who, in many ways, will never grow up — by making her sister such an old soul.

Annabelle is quiet and kind. She had a recent growth spurt — we almost see eye to eye now — but she’s still among the smallest in her class. This bothers her less than it used to. She is a ballet dancer. She loves to draw. She wants to learn how to surf. She can play Silent Night on the ukelele. She has a giant collection of nail polish, though she rarely wears makeup. She’s the most adventurous eater in the family; the other night she ordered a crazy-huge bowl of Vietnamese soup with who-knows what in it, and slurped it down. Her birthday dinner request: Ethiopian food.

She adores her sister, who loves her back — and also gives her a hard time. Mostly, she doesn’t mind.

Annabelle’s birthday list included items like thread bracelets and a nail care kit, which didn’t seem adequate to mark something as auspicious as entrance to the teen years. She did not ask for an iPhone. In fact, Ray and I were at such a loss for gift ideas that I piled the kitchen table high with hair accessories and baking books this morning, and we each gave her a trip — Ray’s to the Grand Canyon, mine to San Francisco.

She was delighted. At least, she acted that way — and as of 8 am, she hadn’t turned on me. Not yet.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one a little worried about Annabelle becoming a teen. Last night, driving home from Sophie’s swimming lesson, she turned to me and asked, in a small voice, “Mom, even though I’m going to be a teenager tomorrow, will you still treat me like a little kid when I need you to?”

“Yes,” I said, turning my head to hide the tears. “Of course I will.”

Always.

I’ve never considered 11 to be much of a birthday. Shoved between 10 (a whole decade!) and 12 (last year before you’re a teen!) it’s always been an inauspicious no man’s land for me. Of course, there’s no such thing as a small birthday in our house (I blame myself — okay, and my mom) and as it turns out, 11 has been a pretty big deal for Sophie.

This week is big in general — school dance, visits from out of town friends, and the last day of elementary school. I’m a mess and so is Sophie. She’s admitted on more than one occasion that she’s sad to be leaving her school. I feel like this week is slingshot-ing us both into summer, and we’ll free fall til it’s time for junior high to start.

Eleven is big because I see, more clearly than ever, how Sophie is teetering on the brink of adolescence. Her version, anyway. Among her birthday presents this morning were a phone, makeup, Barbies and a cute striped tank dress, but she also received a stuffed Peppa Pig, the star of a show meant for toddlers, and aside from the phone, I have a feeling that Peppa was her favorite gift. At 11, Sophie still sucks her thumb when no one’s looking — and even when they are.

She has been a diva this past week (too much birthday partying, I fear) but she is also wise and kind. Yesterday she dictated a thank you note to her aide at school, who stood in line at the Disney store with a lot of other “Frozen” fans to get her a stuffed Olaf and an Elsa dress, and at the end of the note Sophie added, “Thank you for taking good care of me.”

Last night at the school dance, they played the theme song to “Frozen,” and my friends and I giggled at the little girls belting out the angst-ridden anthem and wondered what these kids have to worry about, anyway. I watched Sophie approach several groups of girls, trying to engage them (with varied success) and thought to myself, she has plenty to angst about. I just hope she doesn’t realize it.

Today, Sophie wore the Elsa costume to school, over her new tank dress. She did not look anywhere close to 11. But she looked beautiful.

See also: For My 11-year-old Annabelle: Things to Worry About 

Annabelle turned 7 today — for real.

For her, it was just another day, after a month of parties, presents and cake. (I’m sure we’re ruining her; what will we do for her bat mitzvah? Her wedding?)

But wait. She DID have a little twinkle all day, which can’t just be from the trip to Legoland or the Annabelle-sized guitar we gave her (it sucks, teaches me not to shop for musical instruments at Target, but she doesn’t seem to care) or the fact that we’re at the beach with her cousins.

I’m biased, I know. I love her down to the snarls in her hair and the skidmark — well, you know where. But if you knew her you’d agree that the kid is wise beyond her seven years, even though she’s sometimes mistaken for a 4-year-old, and can squeeze her butt into 3T jeans.

I’m watching her unpack the “pocketbook” my mother in law gave her — out comes a brooch, a rhinestone-crusted plastic pink electronic thing and some “Calico Critters” — fuzzy plastic animals she picked out this morning at the toy store.

Her hair is in thick, messy braids, tied at the bottoms with pink curly ribbon from a bday package, and she’s put a too-big bracelet around her ankle. She just told her cousin she named one of the “critters” Sweet Tart.

Incredibly, no Bratz. (But several packages of NeoPet trading cards back in the room.)

I’m too tired tonight to do more than just document her, but for the moment, that (and a “good night cuddle”) is just enough.

Which is good, since Gaga needs to check her email.