In many, many ways, I am happy about my kids growing up. It is wonderful, in fact, to see them learning all kinds of new things--how to cook, how to find their way through the neighborhood to a friend's house, doing their own laundry, not needing help in the bathroom, sleeping through the whole night, making some money in their latest business venture, figuring out the things that interest and inspire them. Yet, at many of the milestones we approach--a birthday, a new stage, the end of a school year, the "first time ever...," I still get teary and think about how everything goes by so fast.
So, here I am again with only a few days left as the mom of a seven year old. There is something special about being seven, I think. To me, it’s the last bit of being a little kid. While I love the perks of having big kids, I know I’m going to miss a whole lot about the little kid stage. Perhaps because I’ve heard too much about eight year old girls being teen-like, staring to mature quickly, getting an attitude, I am more anxious for my baby girl (and me) in this new stage than I was for my boys. Plus, this is the last time I’ll ever have a little kid. I’m going to miss seven.
Seven is the last tiny bit of baby lisp I can hear when you talk. Just barely. It will be gone in a moment.
Seven is knowing the very best day means playing all afternoon with the neighbor, eating cheeseburgers and s’mores for dinner, and having a sleepover with your brothers in the fort you made.
Seven is calling at least one day out of every week "the best day ever."
Seven is still, just barely, small enough for me to pick you up when you sit on the countertop and wrap your arms around my neck or fall asleep in the car on the way home from the park.
Seven is still (mostly) unfamiliar with mean girls, brand name clothes, cliques, or body image issues. Seven doesn't wonder if she's too fat or too tall or too hairy or too anything. She is magical, powerful, and amazing.
Seven knows how to do a pull-up on the monkey bars and can make it all the way accross without stopping. Seven knows how to do a cartwheel, dribble a soccer ball, and do 18 different jump rope tricks. Seven alwyas runs as fast as she can.
Seven is having a boy for a best friend without wondering why the parents of the six girls coming to your sleepover might not want him there.
Seven is crawling into our bed to snuggle when you wake up and insisting Daddy carry you down the stairs on his back every single morning.
Seven is knowing you want to be an artist and a spy and a mom someday, but only of adopted kids, since you know how that works, and that IS. NOT. HAPPENING.
Seven is writing a letter to the tooth fairy asking her name, what she does with the teeth she collects, and what she likes best about her job.
Seven is knowing how to read but still wanting to sit on my lap and be read to every night before bed--Pete the Cat, Froggy, Pinkalicious, Junie B, and the very best--Piggie and Elephant.
Seven is a neon colored bandaid on each knee. All spring, summer, and fall.
Seven is finding a friend (a worm, caterlippar, or ant) to hold as we hike through the woods. The whole way.
Seven is telling me every night at bedtime, "Good night. Don't let the bedbugs bite. And if they do, whack 'em with your shoe."
Seven is being my baby just a minute more.
