When I was growing up, seven was somewhat less than fun. When I was seven, my two-year-old niece passed away. I remember sitting on my mom’s lap when she told us what happened and being nigh inconsolable. A few years later, when my sister was seven, a girl in her class was killed in a car accident. She and her family were on their way to church when they were hit by a drunk driver. Her seatbelt snapped, she was ejected from the vehicle, and their van rolled right over her. I remember thinking when we went to her visitation that she looked like she was seventy, not seven.
But thankfully, seven has been a perfectly lovely age for my kids thus far. Tomcat competed in his first Pinewood Derbyat the age of seven. He even came in third place – not too shabby, especially since neither of his assistants (Seymour and Aunt M.) had any experience in Pinewood Derby racing. Tadpole got a new little brother at the age of seven and was tickled pink because a new little brother meant she didn’t have to share her bedroom. She was, however, disappointed that she had to give up her bunk beds. Apparently she hadn’t thought of that when she said she wanted a brother.
I hope the age of seven will be equally uneventful for Cricket and Thumper. But then again, who knows? By that point, I’ll have teenagers running amok and things are never uneventful when there are teenagers on the loose.
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