After two tardy slips this week, I was determined to get Sophie to school in plenty of time to make the bell, and in my rush I didn’t notice that she’d left the house in patent leather party shoes and sweatpants.

It wasn’t until she’d leaned over from the backseat for several goodbye kisses, handing me the rest of her cranberry juice and climbing out of the car that I noticed her glasses slipping down her nose or the fact that her Olivia the Pig backpack — the one she dug out and insists on using, even though it was her backpack in first grade, or maybe kindergarten — looked ridiculous on the back of a fifth grader.

Just half an hour earlier, we were giggling and taking photos of today’s outfit, Sophie posing like a fashion model — or what she thinks one looks like — in her silly poodle tee shirt, with our pet poodle on the floor behind her. That was in the bubble of our kitchen.

The school is a bubble, too, a place she feels comfortable, “home” for the last six years. But as I watched Sophie head to the playground, I  cringed. Almost immediately, she bumped into a gaggle of girls, fellow fifth graders, kids she’s been in school with since kindergarten (some even pre-school), girls who used to invite her to their birthday parties.

I watched Sophie stop next to the girls, hesitate, lean in a little. I watched them completely ignore her.

It happened in a matter of seconds. I rolled down my window, wanting to yell to her — but what?

“Hey Sophie, no time to stop. You better rush to class.”

“Hey Sophie, don’t worry about them! Just keep walking! That’s what I did when I was in fifth grade.” 

“Hey Sophie, I love you.” 

In the end, I didn’t say anything. As quickly as I rolled it down, I rolled the window back up, embarrassed. Other cars were waiting. As I pulled away, I saw Sophie hesitate another few seconds, looking hopeful, then she shuffled toward the playground, her party shoes a little too big, hair in her eyes. It was that hope that was so hard to see, hope that by the fifth grade has been beaten out of all the other kids, who have figured out their rankings on the social hierarchy and know better than to cast a wishful gaze in the direction of someone more popular.

Those girls didn’t laugh at Sophie, or say anything mean. They just looked past her as though she wasn’t there. I am guessing if they hadn’t, she would have asked a million questions, invited them all for sleepovers, offered them my cell phone number and a paintbrush from her collection. Too much. I get it.

But what does Sophie get?

It won’t matter next year. All of those girls — a huge percentage of the entire fifth grade, in fact — will be going to the academy across the street, the one the district started to compete with charter schools, the one that requires As and Bs. The one I could sue to get Sophie into — if I wanted. Some days, I want to. Today, pulling away from the school, I did not.

“It’s April! Then May!”

I rolled over in the bed and followed the script.

“And what happens in May, Sophie?”

“MY BIRFDAY!!!!!!!!!!!”  

I have created a monster.

(Apologies to Sandra Boynton. I love her “Birthday Monsters” board book.)

I blinked and stretched, trying to wake up.

“Vanilla on the inside and chocolate on the outside!”

OK, so we’ve got the cake plan.

To be fair, this is of my doing, as you know if you’ve read this blog much (um, the name might be a giveaway). True, we’ve already got a theme for Annabelle’s party (and her birthday’s in JULY) and yesterday I did book the music guy for Sophie’s “pretend” slumber party.

But really, even I admit that things are getting out of hand. Sometime in the middle of the night, last night, I swear I woke up to the musical stylings of  Sophie — singing the birthday song.

And Ms. X confirms that the birthday mania has spilled into the classroom. Yesterday Sophie told Anyssa to buy her Littlest Pet Shop characters for her birthday. And, Ms. X added, she’s been telling certain kids they can’t come to her party.

Ooooh. Not cool.

“Tell her the entire class will be invited!” I told Ms. X. Oh yes, she said, she has been. But, she reports, Sophie says she doesn’t want Aiden to come because Shawn and Aiden argue all the time.

We both had to admit that’s sort of sweet. But everyone in the class will be invited. And then some. (This could be a logistical nightmare, I realize. Our house is not that big.)

Hey, you only turn 6 once.

And now for some spring fashions. Speaking of Aiden from Sophie’s class, yesterday we were driving to school and the topic of Aiden’s new haircut came up. The kid showed up this week with a full-on mohawk — head shaved completely except for a dinosaur-esque ridge on top.

“What do you think of Aiden’s mohawk, Sophie?” I asked, trying not to let my own position show.

The answer came back loud and clear.

“I don’t like it.”

Hmmph. Very strong in her opinions. I’m finding that more and more when it’s time to get dressed in the morning. Annabelle will pretty much wear whatever you toss at her (unless it’s a special occasion or the fashion bug bites extra hard) but Sophie wants choices and more and more, she rejects the offerings.

The good news is that we have a near-unlimited supply of clothes, particularly for her since she’s smaller. I’m not sure where some of this stuff originated, like the Old Navy “Queen Bee” tee shirt. It’s absolultely adorable, but no way could I ever have put Annabelle in it. When Sophie pulls the Mean Girl thing, everyone thinks it’s cute; she has an excuse. (Although the way this birthday thing is going, I might have to hide the tee shirt.) Not so much with the other girls, which does make me wonder who handed this shirt down — and did their daughter wear it much?

Then there are shoes. Sophie’s getting pickier there, too. The other day we realized that Annabelle’s old brown Converse fit her. So the girls were shoe twins at school.

We were all delighted and I got a little nostalgic. Years ago, when Sophie first had orthotics and I was fighting the clunky white sneaker look, my dear friend Trish suggested Converse.

“Brilliant!” I yelled, right there in the middle of the Nordstrom shoe department, and we procured a pair in hot pink — only to have Dorcas the Physical Therapist reject them as unsteady.

The brown fit nicely. (Hopefully they’ll fit with the new orthotics that are now ready to be fitted — Dorcas convinced the guy to make the shoe inserts.)

So I’ve created a birthday monster and a fashion monster and, I realized this morning, a book monster.

I was getting Sophie out of the car seat when I noticed blood on her lip. Turns out it was coming from her thumb. She’d managed to give herself two paper cuts, just on the way to school, from a “Snow White” book she grabbed on her way out the door.

She got a little blood on her favorite Dan Zanes tee shirt before I could stop her from wiping her fingers on it, then we stopped at the nurse’s office and laid in a supply of Band Aids before it was time for drop off.

A long, monstery morning.