I had to stop reading the squid stories. It’s gone from bad to worse — by yesterday the New York Times was reporting that jumbo, flying, carnivorous squid are pulling masks and oxygen tanks off divers up and down the San Diego coast.

We were safely back in Phoenix by then, and upon reflection, I must tell you that really, squid were not the scariest thing on the beach last week.

I’m far more frightened of a typical six-year-old.

It’s not like I don’t walk amongst them on a regular basis, but seldom do I find myself in very close quarters with one for an extended period of time. That happened last week, when we vacationed with my parents and my sister Jenny and her family — including Ben, 8, Sam, 2 and Kate — 6.

My niece Kate is just about 6 weeks older than Sophie. My first memory of her is burned into my psyche — Jenny walking into my hospital room, carrying Kate in her bucket seat. She caught the first plane to Denver after I called to tell her about Sophie, hauling her own newborn.

(Jenny’s a way better sister than I am — a way braver one, at least. No way would I have taken my newborn into a dirty, smelly hospital. To be fair, Jenny is a hospital social worker, so she’s not freaked out by all things medical the way I am. Still. She’s one hell of a sister and friend.)

Kate and Sophie grew, one faster than the other. I know there are differences between Sophie and her peers, but it’s one of those smoke and mirror things — until I’m confronted with some quality time with Kate, I can sort of make those differences go away. Diminish a little. But Kate is so strong, so smart, so on.

And so close to her cousin Annabelle.

Only once or twice during the week together did I feel compelled to pull Annabelle and Kate aside and ask them to include Sophie. It wasn’t like that, not really. It was like they were in a different orbit. Sophie didn’t seem to care at all when the other girls took a walk up the beach (don’t worry, within eyeshot!) by themselves, or ran up to the room together to pee. Or did a complicated craft, or told silly stories, or — you get the idea.

Sophie was perfectly happy in the company of adults, or Baby Sam, as we all call him, who soon won’t be much of a baby anymore. (She, of course, had to be watched like a hawk. She’ll still run off if she can, and needed a lot of coaxing up and down stairs.) I didn’t really even think much of it til we were back home, and my girls were back to their ways.

We walked in the house, and the two of them went straight to Annabelle’s room, where they played together for a good 20 minutes. (A miracle!) Last night, Annabelle painted Sophie’s nails. This morning, she gently chastized her for chewing the polish off. They bicker, but they cuddle. They are friends. Sometimes.

At one point during the beach week, I did say to Annabelle, “I’m glad you’re having so much fun with Kate! Hard to believe she’s the same age as Sophie, isn’t it?”

Annabelle looked up at me. “Kate has her Kate Things, just like Sophie has her Sophie Things,” she said, more wisely than I could ever dream of putting it.

Still, it makes me melancholy for what isn’t. That said, Jenny and I barely spoke a civil word to one another til we were both pregnant for the first time. So there’s some perspective for you — and for me.

And maybe by next year’s beach trip, Sophie will have caught up to the other girls, at least a bit.

If not, that’s okay, too. It’ll have to be.