During breakfast yesterday morning, Zibbit picked up the glass of water I had set in front of her and said, “Mom, after this I don’t have to drink ever again. This morning I found out my mouth makes its own water, so I can just drink that!”

Babs, who was listening to our conversation from her seat on the other side of the table, froze. After a moment she set down her spoon and looked at her sister with pure, unadulterated disgust.

“ZIBBIT,” she said, “YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT SPIT.”

“Oh,” giggled Zibbit, and she drank her water, finished her breakfast, and moved on with her morning. It wasn’t so easy for Babs. She spent the rest of the morning rolling her eyes and shaking her head and muttering under breath like somebody’s old, disapproving grandmother. She’s seven now, which means she now realizes that her family is made up of a bunch of drooling, twitching idiots.

It was a swift, silent transition, almost overnight, as if The Knowledge Fairy came to her while she was sleeping the night before her birthday and sprinkled glitter into her hair, whispering, “You’re old enough now, darling. It’s time you saw the truth.” Babs woke up and found herself the only rational being in a house full of chimpanzees. The looks she gives me now are vile. I can almost smell her distaste smoldering in the air between us. I get these looks when I remind her to brush her teeth at night, finish her dinner, or do her homework. She’ll glare at me for a moment, and then growl in a low, dangerous voice, “You don’t have to remind me of that anymore, Mom. I’m SEVEN.” I respond with something weak and over-used, along the lines of even if you’re seven I am still your mother at which point she rolls her eyes so violently I’m afraid they will spin all the way around inside her skull, sighs dramatically, and stomps out of the room. Zibbit, well aware of her new position as The Child Who Does Not Hate You, takes this opportunity to climb into my lap and ask me how many freckles I have, giving me loving pats on the cheek. I bask in her littleness for a moment before reluctantly shuffling after Babs to remind her that I still love her even when she’s mad at me.

“I love you very much,” I say, “and it’s ok for you to be mad but I want to remind you that you still need to be kind and respectful to your family.”

“I KNOW THAT!” she yells at me and I want to grab her and open her mouth and look down her throat to try to find the little girl I know, the one that this creature has apparently eaten. Six was difficult with its sudden growth spurts and the realization that sometimes you don’t have to go to school if you pretend to be very sick, but Seven is just a plain, old asshole. The problem with Seven is that it knows you’re in charge, but it doesn’t have to like it and it will sure as hell make sure you know that. Seven is cold and mean and distant. Seven makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a fork and sell them on the black market so I can fund my escape to Brazil. I’m counting down the months until we reach Eight, which I hear is lovely and sweet and helpful, and hoping I can make it until then without causing irreparable damage to one of our psyches.

I have to go pick her up from school now, and I’m tempted to arrive laden with presents and candy and maybe a puppy, anything to make her like me again, but I know that will just cause more problems. She’ll blame me when the puppy shits on her pillow. So all I can do is smile and try to hug her even when she wrenches out of my grasp and never let a day pass without telling her how much I love her. And then pray very, very hard for Jesus to make next February come faster.