Seven means Barbie cakes and pink guitars and ruby slippers and scooters with frillies on the handles. Seven means missing teeth and new teeth and loose teeth.
Seven can't be six anymore, but can still read Now We Are Six anyway, and can especially like the Buttercup Days and Forgiven poems.
Seven means that you've finished your math primer and you know how to count by 2's, 3's, 5's, 10's and 100's. Seven means that you know that Lake Superior looks like a wolf's head, and that Benjamin Franklin had an almanac. Seven means that you know all about gravity and Sir Isaac Newton and prisms. Seven thinks King Arthur is boring, until Mama starts to read, and then she has a lot of questions and some very strong opinions about Sir Kay and Morgan la Fay and Vivian.
Seven can tie her own shoes and slice her own strawberries. Seven can rollerblade and practice her voice lessons. Seven can do a pas de chat and a grand plié and a tendu.
Seven has a bed of her own with a pretty pink, yellow and white quilt, but can still sleep with her big sister, if she wants to (and if big sister allows), especially when the heat goes out on a cold, snowy night. Seven loves Polly Pockets, lip gloss, stripey leggings and yummy-smelling lotions.
When you're seven, everything is very big, and everything is very possible, and everything is very important.
If you want it to be.
