I sit here in my living room, a cup tea cooling too quickly on my coffee table. I am lamenting the ruin of my once-clean house.
Ruined, you ask? By what?
A gaggle of 6 and 7 year-olds. That's what.
There were so many children in my house yesterday. It was Brianna's birthday, and I was just so pleased that not all of the children invited showed up. Six was enough. I have no idea how parents with more than one child deal with that. Stronger folk than I, says I.
Brianna is a whole 7 years old now. She insists, now that she is a whole 7 years old, that she is more mature. 7 year-olds use manners, she tells me. 7 year-olds are responsible, Mom.
I give it a week.
However, something that 7 year-olds apparently do is vibrate with excitement at opening gifts. I've never seen Brianna that excited before in her whole life. She literally shook, and then shrieked. Loudly.
We had it coming. We bought her a remote control BB-8, which came at the last possible minute. She's been loving steering it around the house (and man, what a marvel of engineering that thing is for a kids toy) but Sean and I are just waiting for the right opportunity to scare the life out of the cat.
I feel that that should be filmed for posterity.