There are times I’m really grateful that Number 7 has lots of older siblings.
Since she is always trying to keep up with them, she’s a little more advanced than many other four-year-olds.
She is totally water safe and can swim. Like she’s ready-for-the-swim-team kind of swimming.
She’s been totally out of Pull Ups, even at night, for almost two years, she gets herself dressed, and she uses a shoe horn to easily get her sneakers on. (I know… a shoe horn? What the hell?)
She can whip a baseball and has been able to pump herself on the swings since she was two.
She knows how to pack a lunchbox and fill her own water bottle with ice and water from the fridge.
She’s independent and proactive and resourceful and not afraid to stick up for herself.
I know this is a result of being the youngest of seven, and I’m grateful for all that.
But when I tell her it’s time to brush her teeth and go to bed and she looks at me and says,
“Mom! Don’t get all up in my grill again,”
well, those are the times I’m thinking it might be nice if she were an only child.