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.