Abigail turned seven this week. (Seven! Seven!) Actually, I’m okay with seven. Six felt like a huge leap out of little-kid-dom; seven feels like what’s next. No big deal.

This may have led to the Parenting Low of the Week, when Abigail turned a mournful face toward me and murmured that she might be unwell. I went on to explain that she was unlikely to actually be germ-sick, as this isn’t really the time of year for getting sick, and we don’t know anybody who’s been sick, and also she had no symptoms of illness whatsoever.

She raised her eyebrows, more than a little disgusted. “I’m not sick. I said, I miss being six.”

“Oh,” I said lamely. “I thought you said you must be sick.”

She settled for a hug and an acknowledgment that six was fun, though seven is sure to bring more good things.

The birthday itself was taken up with admiring a new bike (yes, another new bike; the kid keeps growing, and apparently the bike’s supposed to fit her height! who knew?), eating special food (cashew butter and honey sandwiches cut into shapes at lunch, with corn on the cob on the side; pesto pizza topped with tomato—though she won’t eat the tomato—at dinner), and answering a telephone that rang and rang with well-wishing friends and relatives. By noon, Abigail was carrying the phone around the house so she’d be ready to greet her adoring fans at a moment’s notice.

When my mother called to wish Abigail a happy birthday, she asked me whether I could believe my baby was seven.

“Yes,” I said.

“But doesn’t it feel like she was just born?”

“No,” I said, “But I live here all the time. My perspective may be skewed.”

And so it may. But seven is shaping up to be pretty delightful anyway.