Lucky Number Seven

We have arrived at seven. I say some form of this every year and I mean it every year -- this girl keeps us on our toes. I've been on my toes for seven years. She can make strong-willed and stubborn children look weak-kneed. With each passing year, her independence becomes less of a streak and more of, oh, I don't know... her entire personality. Okay, that's some hyperbole (kindasortamaybe)... she is also hilarious, kind, interesting, creative, focused, emotional, loving, obstinate, fun, forward-thinking, and wacky as the day is long. She can sing the pants off me (not surprising and not much of a competition), she draws and cuts and colors and tapes anything that isn't moving. She creates scenes and moves stuff around (all.day.long... she is my child) and makes up stories. She does math for fun and devours books. Her focus is not always on, shall we say, the more mundane aspects of life (things like remembering to wear underwear or not walking out the door without a coat) and I often feel left in Pig Pen's wake. Her head is most certainly in the cloud more than earth. She drives me b.a.n.a.n.a.s. many days but inevitably it's because she's found something that is far more interesting to do than whatever it is I'm asking her to do. Frankly, taping together a "newly released" song book is indeed more fun than emptying the dishwasher. I hear "wait just a sec, Mom" more times than I blink in a day. But it's those, ahem, dare I say maddening qualities that are ultimately the ones that will make her flourish and succeed. Her wackiness and creativity and insistence that she knows what the hell she and everyone else should be doing at any given moment are the very things that will take her so, so far in this life. It's a balancing act as she gets older -- to know when to reign in some of the out-of-bounds stuff so that she can function responsibly and ably in this world. But, function and thrive and grow and master -- she'll do all that with her own blend of sass, strength, and smarts.

Parenting beyond the toddler and preschool years is incredibly rich and rewarding. I loved the chubby legged waddles awakening of two and three and four (okay less three... but loved two and four!) but older kids are interesting and fun and independent and beginning to be really nuanced and multi-faceted. This stage we're moving into is exciting in different ways. For one thing, I'm less funny and a little more embarrassing. We also become more outward facing and incorporate more external influences in our lives. This brings along a host of challenges but growing our community and our knowledge base is fulfilling. Notions pop out of Molly's mouth now and I wonder "where the heck did that come from?" but it offers so many opportunities to talk about things. And while I'd like to pretend we talk a lot more deeply about some of these subjects, we probably don't really delve yet. But the foundation is being laid for some of those crucial conversations that shimmer on the horizon (why Barbie makes me want to poke myself in the eyes with a hot stick, for instance, is the first layer about confidence and how we relate to our bodies and why she does not need Ken. Or Skipper for that matter. That girl is just a hanger on. Just for instance...). The trick at this age is to keep getting them to come back and talk. It's figuring out how to keep the conversation going for the long haul. Admittedly, it was easier when the world was black and white and I could dictate when the sun rose and the moon set. But easy gets boring and sticky stuff makes life worth living. With Molly, there's never a shortage of sticky stuff.

I don't mean to imply anything but love and respect for my first born. Because, at the end of the day, we have our ups and downs but she is one big ball of delight. I would not, absolutely not, change one single cell in her body. She's a tough cookie that flies so, so high. I'm proud of her, I'm proud of our relationship, I'm proud to have her stand up for herself, to feel strong and free. Yes, sometimes, I wish she would empty the dishwasher the first time I ask her to or that we had worked out a situation with fewer grimaces and grumps, but when I make my mental tally at the close of business, love always wins. Always.

Happy birthday, Molly.