My baby girl turned seven last month. Seven. It's half-way to 14 and a third of the way to 21. My 35-year-old self says that seven is not very old, but the mom in me knows better. Seven is very, very grown up.
In the month since Maguire turned seven, I've noticed a subtle shift. She has a newly-acquired patience for her brothers, which is a feat that many never achieve. Roj cries, and before I can get there, Maguire has soothed him. Gannon asks to play with her stuff, and she says yes. Someone pushes or hits or scratches, and she does not retaliate (at least, not as much as she used to). She tells me that she'll keep an eye on Gannon and snuggle him if he's lonely for Ryan and me when they stay with Grandma and Grandpa for two nights. She notices when one of her friends is struggling or sad, and she offers her help and support.
Seven is wise and mature and kind.
She's not so much a kid, as a little girl. She's gotten tall, and she got her ears pierced. She wants to wear bracelets and dangly earrings, like Nanee.
She pays for her snack at the pool by herself, no need for me to wait in line with her. She wants to go to the tennis courts behind our house without a grown up. She wants to cross the street alone.
I know this is the way time works. I know that she's supposed to do this, and I'm so very proud of her. But sometimes, more often than I care to admit, I wish for the tiny baby we brought home from the hospital seven years and 34 days ago.
Love,
Momma T.
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