Sunny is seven today.
Yesterday,on her last day of being six, she refused to pronounce a single R, because it was the “wast chance I’ll evew get to do baby tawk, Mama. I hafta be big tomowwwow.”
Dear heaven, I hope so.
As bittersweet as it is to know that I’ll never have another six-year old . . . I think I’m ready for seven.
I’m pretty sure she is, too—she rode her bike, all by herself, for about half a block at a time, while Jane decorated the birthday cake she’d baked for her little sister, also all by herself.*
Happy birthday, my Sunny girl.
And yes, the pop-tart is all yours.
*Except for the gray parts of the cat, which are made of gumpaste. Gumpaste, for those of you who have never worked with it—you lucky, lucky people—is hateful, evil, sticky stuff and because I couldn’t find any ready-made in gray, my hands are still a faded, patchy, inky black from the food coloring I worked into it. Never. Again.