This weekend we celebrated my first born’s seventh birthday. Somehow 7 is so grown up but so little, all at once.
Seven is still the age of princesses and pink and magic.
But she is tall enough to ride all of the rides at the amusement park.
She’s still little enough that she doesn’t care if people see her cry.
But she is old enough to articulate the fact that tomatoes are culinarily a vegetable but botanically a fruit.
It is big enough to ask “can I read the Wizard of Oz for a bit before bed?”
But it’s still little enough that my heart races when I lose sight of her for more than a few seconds at the water park.
She looks so big when she is holding her baby brother’s hand so he stops crying at the end of a long road trip.
Next to her dad though? Shes little enough to be scooped up and carried from the truck to the house.
Her vocabulary is vast and she no longer calls the Golden Arches “Old McDonald’s” but I’m terrified of the day she no longer says “reg-lee-ar.”
She still likes to snuggle in bed but doesn’t need to be tucked in every night.
She’s losing teeth but Santa is still very real.
She’s afraid of the dark but crosses the street to her best friend’s house every afternoon after school… and I don’t even watch anymore.
Tall enough that her head tucks right under my arm pit.
Strong enough to hike miles in the mountains.
Smart enough to read text messages over my shoulder.
Capable of making her own breakfast.
Brave enough to ride roller coasters.
At seven years old she is so very grown up but I don’t think she will ever quit being my baby.
