The girl behind the table just looked me, not comprehending my joy at arriving before the official Late Time of 6 pm. “You’re here to get Annabelle, right?”

I was surprised. They require you to show ID in exchange for the kid, at the afterschool program Annabelle attends. That’s fine with me — I don’t want someone else walking off with her. And I didn’t know this staffer.

“Oh, you look just like her,” she said, smiling at my frown. “Or, I mean, she looks just like you.”

Best compliment ever is when anyone says either of the kids looks like me, considering I could stare at them both for hours on end, marveling at their beauty. (And yet, I look at myself in the mirror and increasingly see my grandfather’s face — not a good look. Go figure.)

That exchange got me thinking. I’ve been computer shopping this week. Well, okay, the truth is that after years of agonizing over the thought of switching from a PC to a Mac, the actual shopping consisted of 18 minutes at the Apple store — where, upon learning that one laptop’s battery will last 7 hours at a time  while the other’s will last just 4, I announced, “Ring it up and give me all the technical support I can buy.”

For the other 17 and a half minutes, I let the hipster in the turquoise tee shirt drone on about operating systems and RAM and memory and “the next generation”. Which is what got me thinking yesterday afternoon, as I watched Annabelle demonstrate her hula hooping skills before agreeing to grab her backpack and head home, that she’s definitely a step above the old system. Like the Mac I’m picking up later today, she’s the new and improved generation.

And yet, there are some system quirks deep in our shared DNA that even Steve Jobs couldn’t upgrade.

I know I’m her mom, but Annabelle’s one cool kid — and in dozens of ways I never was. She’s incredibly kind to her sister, something I didn’t master til my mid-thirties, at least, if ever (that’s up to my sister to determine, of course). Thanks to Ray (with a nod to his mom) Annabelle will eat all sorts of vegetables, and she shows some talent at piano. Shee can draw and dance (thanks to my mom — the talent skipped me, damnit) and she has an ability to make friends that surpasses that of anyone on either side of the family. I watched her on her first day of kindergarten and thought, “She’s not me, thank god.”  

And yet, as the end of that piece I did for the local NPR station reveals, sometimes she totally is me. I had a feeling it would all start to emerge in earnest in third grade — and I was right.

Third grade, as I recall, is when things started getting tough for me. Not impossible, just not impossibly easy. I’ve watched Annabelle sail these last three years of elementary school and wondered when she’d hit the wall. She hasn’t — not yet, and not by a long shot — but I can tell, a week and a half in, that this year won’t going to be easy, either.

Already, Annabelle’s managed to come home without her reading log and to lose her assignment “agenda”. Her teacher is absolutely wonderful — clearly a sweetheart who’s made it clear she likes my kid. But she’s also made it clear that she won’t stand for any shenanigans. Third grade is a big deal.

Annabelle knows it, and she’s flustered. Just like I was — and have been, ever since. The other day before school, as the kids were lining up to head into the building, Annabelle ran up to me in a panic. “I can’t find my Me bag!” she bellowed, the tears starting in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s at the bottom of your backpack.”

“NO IT’S NOT!”

I took the backpack, opened it, and dug out the Me bag — a collection of things from around the house that she was to share with the class.

“OK,” she said, but she didn’t move. The tears started to flow as she looked back toward where her class had been. Luckily her teacher had noticed her leave the line, and was kindly waiting for her. I gave her a tight hug and off she ran.

“She’s so sweet!” the teacher told me the next day, when I stopped to thank her. “It’s so cute, she always comes up to me to make sure she’s doing things right.”

Oh no, I thought. I know exactly how Annabelle feels. To this day, I can remember that panicked feeling (to tell you the truth, I still get it when I have to do something like, oh, learn how to use a new computer) in school, that urge to double check.

I’m glad she double checks, but there’s one habit I’ve got to break Annabelle of, and soon. The other day, again it was at aftercare, I was chatting with a mom, watching the girls run around for a few final minutes. Annabelle decided she wanted another carton of milk, and from the across the room, I noticed her approach one of the aftercare staffers. He was talking to a parent.

Annabelle stood next to him, and when he didn’t immediately notice her, she began gently tapping him on the arm with one finger, hoping he’d look down. I dragged her away, promising milk as soon as we got home, and later at dinner, explained.

“You can’t do that!” I told her. “And here’s why. When I was in fourth grade, I used to do that to my teacher, Mrs. Bigler, and one day she yelled at me to stop. Then I realized I was really bugging her when I did that. She didn’t want to be interrupted.”

I remember her really letting me have it, but the truth is that Mrs. Bigler probably asked me to stop in the gentlest of ways — I can still remember her wrinkly, freckled skin and short sleeved polyester pantsuits and the fact that she was very, very kind. But the admonishment was a hot poker in the psyche — I was that sensitive.

And so is Annabelle. I don’t know how to change that, short of getting her an extra 21st chromosome, because Sophie certainly doesn’t share that quirk with us. The other day she yawned, and looked exactly like Ray. But for the most part, she’s her own person. Not much of her neurotic mom in there.

Which will serve her very well, when she gets to third grade. Or has to learn how to use a new computer.