Kate is running around the living shouting, “GO WILDCATS GO!”. Emma received High School Musical Two on DVD for her birthday from yours truly. It’s playing on the TV right now.

And Emma is seven years old.

Michael is standing in his crib, gripping onto the side, holding on for dear life, saying, “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no” over and over again in between shouting in his patented war cry kinda way. He’s watching Kate and listening to her Wildcats cheer. I think he thinks he’s joining in.

And Emma is seven years old.

I love it when all three kids are happy and getting along and feeding off of each other in the same room. There’s something chaotic and magical about it. And like any good fly on the wall, I’m always sure they don’t see me peeking from around the corner. It would make them all aware of another presence. It would ruin the magic.

And Emma is seven years old.

My bed is covered with cards and new clothes and toys and candy, candy, candy. Rock actually tidied up the girls’ room this afternoon while I was out with Emma and Kate and my task tomorrow will be to organize and put away all of the birthday gifts. No small task, to be sure. But well worth it. Emma got a lot of pretty cool stuff but not TOO much stuff, if you know what I mean. And a lot of it was clothes, which she wanted, and that’s pretty easy to put away.

And Emma is seven years old.

There are two small half eaten birthday cakes in the fridge. One is chocolate and one is vanilla and both of them will be calling my name in a little while. Just as soon as my earlier sugar high drops and my blood sugar levels return to normal. I fully anticipate feeling drained, with a dragging punk rock ass. And that’s when I’ll indulge! Ha! With some ice cream on top because it’s just that kind of day. And because I figure, if I pushed her out, I should be able to eat cake to commemorate once a year.

And Emma is seven years old.

Rock is playing ball tonight. It’s a late game. Not until nine o’clock. I’m past saying that I wish I didn’t feel relief when he leaves the house. He commented to me yesterday that even the kids seem to be in better humor when we’re not together. I’m past feeling bad about that. But it does still feel weird.

And Emma is seven years old.

The world is spinning but my time stands still.

My Emma is seven years old.

How the fuck did that happen?