It’s been a high-fashion week for Annabelle. Her grandma taught her how to sew on a button (I dug up some silver lame fabric — all I had ) and she practiced several evenings in a row. And in honor of fall (i.e., temperatures below 90) we dug out what I like to call “The Anna Collection” — hand-me-downs from our super-swank 10-year-old pal (daughter of the equally stylish Deborah).
I handed Annabelle a pile of at least a dozen pairs of jeans. We’d tried them on several years running; they never came close to fitting. This year every pair fit! Some are a little too short. Ah, to be tall and skinny (relatively speaking, Annabelle’s still the wee-est kid in her class) and to be able to wear ANYTHING.
Annabelle did a little twirl in a pair of Anna’s jeans — denim appliqued with white satin and seqins, trimmed at the bottoms with tulle ruffles. To die for.
“I wish I had a pair of those!” I said, more to myself than to her.
She stopped and turned.
“Do you think they’d look good on you?” Annabelle asked.
I was dumbstruck. This is the kid who draws everyone as a stick figure, who never calls anyone names, who tells me I’m beautiful.
“Annabelle! That’s not a nice thing to say!” I blurted.
She shrugged and turned. “I was just asking your opinion,” she said innocently.