Seven and Nine. That’s how old my girls are, and these are the best ages. But you know? So were six and eight, and five and seven and four and six. Any age combination including a three year old was decidedly not the best age. The “terrible” twos were a breeze for us, but the threes? Not so much.
Every year, new things come up and old things fade. No more tiny girls needing juice, they can get it themselves. No more zipping zippers and tying shoes. Instead, we’re driving to soccer games, blowing through chapter books, and looking out the window to make sure they’re still on the block. Yes, seven and nine really are the best. Right now we have the perfect balance between girls who still need us, but girls who don’t need us too much. Girls who play on their own for hours, but still check in with us on their own accord. Girls who still want to be just like their mother (god bless ’em) and marry a man just like their father. Actually no, they want to marry our cat. They call him “the boy of their dreams,” and that works for me. (See? little enough to want to marry a cat. Big enough to feed said cat. It’s perfect.)
Every year growing up, my mother declared that my sister and I were at the best ages, and I believe she even said it when I was 16. (Whether or not she said it when I was 17, however, cannot be confirmed.) But every time she said it, I felt proud. So, I have started telling my girls that their current ages are “the best ages,” too. And I mean it.
Times like this are in my future, I know, so check back in with me in about eight years and we’ll see if I’m singin’ the same tune.