Still Gen-X, and still parenting.

Hard to believe, I know.

Contrary to popular belief, almost seven year old girls still need parenting. I know. It stinks. You'd think we'd be done with all this by now, have her set up in her own apartment, and so on and so forth.

But no. There are laws and things that suggest no matter how grown up a child THINKS she is, it is still illegal to leave them to their own devices for extended periods of time. Like while we're at work.

So the battle continues. Some days are better than others. Living with a miniature pseudo-adult isn't always the easiest task. She disdains bedtime, places very specific orders for her meals, and basically acts as if she is the Queen and we are the lowly servants. She hates brushing her hair, but insists upon looking adorable. Autocratic, demanding, disrespectful, and waaaaaay too big for her girls' size 8 britches. Trust you me.

I've seen her with my own two eyes demonstrate beautiful manners. Please and thank you and even "no thank you, it's not to my taste." I've heard rave reviews of her behavior when she's been away visiting people who didn't have anything to do with her conception.

But that's an anomaly around here. Where did we go wrong? Was it when we let her sleep in our bed in infancy? Was it nursing her on demand? Rocking her to sleep while singing lullabies? Is it the complete array of Disney programming available 24/7 that's only suitable for sarcastic teenagers? Ah-ha! By jove, I think we've got it!

Where is imagination? Where is childhood? Where does this propensity toward boredom on long hot afternoons come from? Bored? Seriously? Okay, let's go load up the truck and bring all those enormously-expensive-but-not-worth-a-fraction-of-what-they-cost plastic toys to someone else's house. Because I'm tired of tripping over them while they collect dust around here.

Noooo? You're saying no? Alrighty then. Turn off the television, turn on your brain, and go PLAY. Be a kid. And don't drag me into it, either, because do I look like a kid?

Truth be told, almost seven is a lovely age. Almost seven can choose clothing off the rack, try it on, and drop it in the cart. "This one fits, Mom." Almost seven goes to church and reports, "When people do bad things, it makes God cry." (Heh-heh, ammunition!) Almost seven loses her first tooth and runs around like a small, crazy person who's just won the lottery. (How come she never gets that excited when I offer her a dollar?) Almost seven can kick my butt at the game Up Words, and spell the word S-E-X while giving me a sideways look and explaining, "It's a word, Mom. And it's not a swear word, it's a love word." (Do I hear myself being parroted back at me? Oh yes, I do.)

Summer is tricky for the parent trying to rewrite a novel. So far there's been ½ day summer school, ½ day acting camp, ½ day supervised playground including swimming and arts and crafts (thank the powers that be for that one), A full week of day camp (all day – bless the stars). We're heading into a two week void, but somehow we'll persevere. Then two more weeks of Y camp, soccer practice and games, and then, thank my happy stars, SCHOOL. Second grade.

Next year she'll be able to read my personal, private text messages even BETTER.

So long as she stays away from my novels. Because I'm not ready to answer those questions. Ever.