1 Mother 2 Another

Every day this week Maddie presses me
about her upcoming birthday in some fashion: asking if it’s
too late to add to her wish list (yes), wanting to know if
I’m getting stuff done for her party this weekend (of
course), and wondering aloud whether or not she’ll look
significantly different on the morning of her birthday.


‘Cause she’s aging and all.

Maddie’s the last of her close
friends to have a birthday; everyone else in her group is already
seven and she’s still dragging along at six. She’s used
to it by now, of course, but when your friend has already been
seven for, oh, eight months now, it’s hard for said friend to
muster up an appropriate amount of enthusiasm for Maddie’s
sake. Rather than blazing the way, Maddie is constantly playing
catch-up.


That’s ok with me.


Seven seems a rather big age. Nothing you can do to dress seven up
as even remotely toddler-like, or preschooler-ish. Seven is a
number thrown around for early-onset puberty, or child prodigies
holding concerts at Carnegie Hall. Seven is an age, in short, at
which Things Might Be Expected Of You.


I don’t think I’m ready for this.