This morning I was racing around, Monday-style — trying to unearth suitable items for the lunch boxes and figure out how much Sears would charge to come out and look at our broken (again!) dryer — when I realized that Annabelle was reading to Sophie.

That’s not such an uncommon occurence, but I felt a pang — of several things, mostly guilt — when I noticed Annabelle was reading the book Sophie had been begging (or nagging, depending on your perspective) me to read to her all morning.

The girls were peacefully eating their Cheerios (Annabelle’s with milk; Sophie had requested two bowls — one with milk, the other dry), and without making a big deal out of it, the big sister was reading to the little one.

I’ve always been critical of people with large families who let the older kids do the parenting. But this morning, I got it — and I was grateful. Sophie refused to listen to me (a grudge because I was too busy to read to her?) and so with my prompting, it was Annabelle who convinced her to go to the potty, to change from PJs to dress, to put on her shoes, to quickly choose a toy and leave the house for school.

She was her typically low-key self about the whole thing, but I could tell Annabelle was pretty proud of herself. Not as proud, however, as I was of her. In so many ways, and more every day, she’s my hero.

The topic of heroes came up last week when it was time to choose assignments for Best of Phoenix, the scourge of my professional earth – the phone book-thick, annual compendium I edit (which means create and, sometimes, largely write) and sweat over for many months each year. The idea is to gather all the good stuff in town as a break from the bitching and moaning the alt weekly I work for indulges in the other 51 weeks a year.

It’s always a challenge to keep the material fresh. This year, I asked each contributor to come up with a hero he or she would like to interview. I was thinking along the lines of a well-known politician, or maybe a sports figure, but more than one person wanted to interview Sophie. I thought that was sweet (particularly since she made Ray’s list — some days it’s more fun to work with your spouse than others) but I couldn’t help thinking that — while Sophie’s a terrific choice, to be sure — I’d frankly be more likely to choose Annabelle.

Annabelle is not always patient with Sophie. That’s for sure. They bicker and nag, like any other siblings. One day they’re emerging from the tub literally wrapped together in one towel, and the next day Annabelle’s banished her sister from the bathroom entirely for “being mean.” (Probably deserved, since I have, in fact, heard Sophie call Annabelle “stupid head” on more than one occasion.) 

But more often, I’ve seen in Annabelle this incredible patience and love. She didn’t sign up to have a sister with special needs, and every day (along with the long list of other things I worry about) I worry about her. On some level, is she resentful? Is she getting less attention than she should? Is there teasing going on at school that I don’t know about?

And — the mother’s speciality, pressing the Fast Forward Button — what will happen to my girls in 15 years? It’s one thing to read to your little sister at the breakfast table; it’s quite another to be her life-long caregiver.

I’d be better off focusing on getting the girls to school before the bell rings, which is what I did this morning — with Annabelle’s help. After a successful school drop-off, I headed to the office, where my computer crashed so many times I had to give in and call the IT guy. While he slaved (or something) I killed time by tackling the piles that would cause great alarm were an OSHA representative to stop by my work place.

Amidst the boxes of dusty documents and back copies of Best of Phoenix, I discovered a pile of old snapshots — two, maybe three years old? — of the girls, taken by our good friend Kim.

They are on the lawn, and Annabelle is showing Sophie how to blow dandelions. I stood there for a few minutes, enjoying the past and ignoring the future. Then I went back to cleaning up.   

Nothing like the confirmation that your 7-year-old does most things better than you.

Nine times out of 10, when I tell Sophie it’s time to do her hair, she hollers (lately she’s been looking down, stamping her foot and making a snorting noise — all too similar to a horse, I know) and refuses.

The other afternoon, out of the blue, Annabelle said, “Sophie, it’s time to do your hair.”

And while I’d never seen Annabelle attempt more than a low ponytail on herself (maybe a side pony once or twice — sacrilege in my world, particularly after Napoleon Dynamite, side ponytails are just WRONG) she later emerged with two ponytails of her own, and a sister done up with the same, plus sideswept bangs pinned with Elmo and Zoe clips.

I was blown away.

They were both so proud. I’ve tried it on a couple hectic mornings since, and amazingly, it’s worked — Annabelle’s done her own hair, and then Sophie’s. And Sophie’s let her.

I feel only slightly guilty, and a little jealous that a 7 year old is able to command a. compliance and b. pretty good rubber band action.

We came home this morning from breakfast with my grandfather. It’s going to be 110 today, so options are limited.

“No TV!” Ray admonished, and since it’s Father’s Day, I toned down my objection.

DIdn’t matter — Annabelle immediately invited Sophie into her room. That’s happening more and more, but not always with good results.

Yesterday Sophie got loose in Annabelle’s room for 5 minutes and wreaked the kind of havoc that convinces an almost 7 year old that life as she knows it is over. (Til the mess is cleaned up, which took another 5 minutes; it mainly involved the strewning about of a collection of Neopet cards.)

But today’s another day, and the girls disappeared into Annabelle’s room. At the end of an hour (after several listens at the door) I thought, “Wow, Annabelle’s able to hold Sophie’s attention longer than any of her therapists.”

Moments later, the two emerged. “Sophie had a successful day at therapy,” Annabelle informed me. (Correction: “Miss Annabelle”.) And she handed me a note:

“Today Sophie had a hard day. But tomaro will be better. She needs to stop this behavyer,” Annabelle wrote (on personalized stationery, a nice touch), in a good imitation of Sophie’s therapists combined with a touch of Alexander’s mom, after his terrible, horrible day. (We saw the play recently.)

The two disappeared again, emerging to inform me it’s time for a field trip “to the computer lab to explore Neopets.”

So I’ve got to get off now, and share.

Actually, it probably would have been better if we’d fought more. At least that would have signaled some sort of relationship. With four and a half years between us, and no common interests, we might as well have been living on opposite ends of the planet, instead of in adjacent bedrooms. Through grade school, high school, college, first jobs, grad school and weddings, we had nothing to talk about.

Then we both got pregnant within weeks of each other. Overnight, there weren’t enough hours in the day. Emails ping ponged back and forth on everything from creaky crotches (we both had them) to shower games (neither wanted them). Ben was born in May, Annabelle in July. A year later, Jenny told me she was pregnant again; within a week, so was I.

Kate arrived in April. In May, I called Jenny from my hospital bed and choked out, “They think Sophie might have Down syndrome.” “I’m coming,” she said. Before I could insist that she and her healthy newborn stay away, she walked into my hospital room with Kate in a baby seat, carrying a sweet Gund bear blanket for Sophie and a fake boombox for Annabelle that plays three grating songs. We still have it. Both girls love it. (I don’t think the batteries have ever died. It’s like a Hanukkah miracle.)

I freaked a little when Jenny called to say she was pregnant with her third. Ray wanted another — still does — but I know what the statistics say, and I know that another baby with Down syndrome might not be as lucky healthwise as Sophie has been so far. (Not that Sophie was all THAT healthy, two open heart surgeries down.) For a while, we were back on unfamiliar turf, Jenny and I. That passed.

Sam turned 1 earlier this month, and this weekend the girls and I are here in Denver for a visit. The cousins adore each other. Jenny and I, who never had a relationship with our own cousins (gee, our childhoods are sounding rather emotionally barren, huh?) love seeing our kids together. Both of my girls love Baby Sam so much it gives me pause — but so does the juggling act Jenny and her husband Jonathan have got going with their threesome. (Of course she’s not so busy that Aunt Jenny didn’t have to find the elusive single-serving chocolate ice cream I never did find, although with a tiny Elmo cake. We sang one final Happy Birthday to Sophie.)

What really stops me in my tracks is the relationship between Annabelle and her cousin Kate. Annabelle and Sophie have a terrific rapport. They really do. Sophie teases and pulls hair, but more and more, the two of them will disappear into Annabelle’s room to play together. I’ve never seen a soul as patient and loving as Annabelle, and Sophie adores her older sister. I can even fool myself into thinking our household is normal — til I see Annabelle and Kate together.

These two are truly BFFs, cracking up and playing intricate pretend games; she’s two years younger, but Kate keeps up with Annabelle almost effortlessly. They’re almost the same size; in fact, Annabelle sometimes wears Kate’s hand me downs. I look at them and see soul sisters in a way I fear I’ll never see it with Annabelle and Sophie, no matter how much they love each other.

I don’t know how Sophie will ever keep up. I put Kate and Sophie side by side on bright yellow swings at the park today. Kate’s only six weeks older; you’d never know it, and not just from their physical size.

This afternoon, Jenny and I left Jonathan with all five kids and ran around the corner to get pedicures. The woman sitting next to me in the pedicure chair — pretty, with perfect eye makeup and long red nails — was telling someone else there that she’s been blind for many years. Her service dog was the only thing that gave her away, that and her peculiarly beautiful pale green eyes, with turned out to be prosthetics.

The man talking to her apologized for so many questions, and the woman said no problem, she’s often asked to speak in schools. I was glad, listening to her; she was upbeat in a completely real way, matter of fact about her life. No self pity for her, at least none today.

About halfway through our pedicures, Jenny realized her cell phone had fallen into the water and was soaking along with her feet. On another day, I might have cried over that. I can say the same for her. Instead, we looked at each other and shrugged. Then laughed. (Although everyone in the salon seemed to have a piece of advice for her about how to save the phone, by the end of the evening she’d given up hope. I’m sure we’re headed for the Verizon store tomorrow.)

Watching Annabelle and Kate play on the train together tonight, as we rode Denver’s light rail downtown for sushi, I tried to think of the woman with the green eyes that don’t see, and shake myself out of my funk. Be happy that Annabelle has Kate, I told myself.

I’d like to tell you that it worked.