You have sincerely been the toughest, most stubborn of them all. You’ve brought more struggles, more tears, more less than stellar mama moments than any other year yet. You have forced this mom to spend more time reading and rereading books such as The Explosive Child, The Challenging Child, Raising Your Spirited Child. My efforts feel fruitless. Seven, I’m tired of your irritating sock seams, your beloved wardrobe that you suddenly hate in its entirety, your lack of flexibility, your emotions that are oh-so much bigger than you. I’m tired of your endless tears that escalate into full on meltdowns…Three didn’t even give me this much of a fuss. All in all, Seven, I’m tired of you making me feel like the world’s biggest loser of a parent. I’m tired of you making me feel like a failure. Seven, you have officially stripped Three of the honor of being Pure Hell of the childhood years.
But Seven, you have also been funny in ways that give me belly laughs. You have been sensitive, kind, generous and compassionate beyond measure. Seven, you have given out as much love and empathy as you need for yourself. You are the baby whisperer, the animal whisperer, the bug whisperer. But not the mama whisperer. That would be awesome. You are thoughtful, even when you are selfish. Your snuggles, Seven…they are even more sacred to me than Three’s, because I know that they may not always be around forever. You are talented and creative, Seven. So much more than what you ever give yourself credit for.
Seven, we will be parting ways on Saturday. I know that, in twenty years, I’m going to look back longingly on you; I will wish you were around still. But not now, Seven…not now. Right now, in this one fleeting moment, I am actually doing what parents are NOT supposed to do: I’m wishing the time away. I’m looking to Eight for hope and sanity. I’m hoping that Eight is much easier on us all than you were. It’s been real, Seven…real crazy, that is.