Welcome to the "seven" club

Shreya, my beautiful girl,

Today you are seven. Seven years old! So far as you are concerned, this means you can now get on and rule the world. And I think you are probably right. 
Not sure if this is something to do with your age that you act quite a diva now. You like the spotlight, love attention and soak in its glory. I worry at times that this might just hamper you becoming the person you could. But I guess that is just a mother worrying about something for lack of something truly worrisome.
I guess I don’t need to. You have your heart in the right place and that matters a lot to make this world a little better place. I remember your kindergarten teacher in Canada telling me once, "This girl stands for herself and is capable of fighting her own battle". I see those comments coming true. You stand for yourself and always ready to fight for the underdog. Never ever change, whatsoever.

This year you started big school, to Grade one. And I can’t help but feel bereft. My little baby spends longer hours in school and joining the rat race. But hardly there was any transition hiccups. You were ready from the word go. I hear people worrying about sudden shift in syllabus from grade 1 but all thanks to you that we, as a parents, have hardly felt that shift. You were and still is your teacher's pet. "Her sincerity is something which stands her out and you are blessed to have a child like Sanchita", was exactly what was told to me by her new teacher and I could not help but just give a nod while trying to hide my tears.

When you do something you know I disapprove of, you walk up to me and pull me down for a kiss. Every time you do not clean your mess. Every time I scream like a banshee. Every time you do not finish your tiffin. Every time I find you without socks. You kiss me on the forehead to shut me up, and walks off. Again, without your socks. I groan in frustration. You definitely take after your father.

Before I forget, I have to mention that there is an increasing streak of fair play and diplomacy that you have started showing off late. So if I grab a hand and drag you in for a hug, you will not just submit but twist around and plant a huge kiss on my forehead (in the sweetest, almost paternal way). And I’ll say, “I love you, my little queenie’ and you will nod, accepting it and add, ‘ Yes, and Papa loves me too’ . 
The other day we all were lazing on the bed in one of those rare moments of peace, a book in my hand, a dry leaf in the your hand, S poring over a newspaper and I turned around and squeezed the living daylights out of you and say, ‘You’re my life’. You solemnly responded with ‘Yes, and Papa's life too’. Just so that your Papa doesn’t feel left out, simply because he’s not verbal and demonstrative.
And while we’re on the topic, can I add how much I love these moments? 
We’re now at a stage where you are old enough to be absorbed in whatever you are, at the moment. And yet you are young enough to still think of your body as a part of mine. Arms and legs entangled, soft cheeks pressed against my arm, thoughts unselfconsciously expressed.

In your own childlike way, you surely calms me down, Shreya. You make me see what is important and what is merely a frill. With your ancient wisdom, you makes me a better person. And isn’t that what it usually boils down to? What the other person makes you feel? Well, you make me want to be a better person. Create a better world for you.

We shifted house two months back and quite interestingly in our new complex most of the people know us as "Shreya's parents". You are undoubtedly our celebrity. 

We’re gradually falling into one of those legendary volatile mother-daughter relationships, both so alike in temperament. There are days we hug and kiss each other until our mouths dry up and other days when I scream and you stomps around the house with a scowl painted on to your face. The man of the house take one look at the tempers flaring and wisely decides to ignore and not take sides.

I don’t know if women are born wise and nurturing, but for all the running around the house, clowning around, you instinctively knows when someone is unwell. Mimme? Why are you making that face? Is your leg hurting? Is your head aching? And you run around plumping pillows. Foot rubed to put me to sleep on a day that you noticed me limping, scolds your father if he works with laptop on his lap, runs to bring a cushion to put that laptop, talks to Twinkle when she looks gloomy, comforts her like no one else does.

The other morning I oiled your hair and  you sit there with your hair up in a clip, in your pajamas. You’re engrossed in that very rare treat, the iPad, tapping your sock clad feet in time to the music and all of a sudden you’re not 7, you’re 17 and I feel my eyes shining with tears. This is it. It’s over. I had just this much time to be mother to my baby. Darling, you’re growing so fast. I spend more and more time with you, clinging to what it is that I seek from motherhood, but it slips through my fingers and rushes on. I have no complaints. I have received more than I ever thought I would.

Happy Birthday my little Brat – I love you more than life itself. I am so proud that you are mine.

Love you for ever,
Mimme