My 7th birthday was magical. I don't know why it seemed so, but it is one of two birthdays I remember vividly (the other my 18th). I turned 7 on the last day of 1977. Mom sewed me a long dress made of green polyester and white lace. That day I was introduced to my foreverafter best stuffed friend, Heather, who is also known as Holly Hobbie's best friend.
I usually keep Heather on a high shelf in my closet alongside a wooden bear I created in high school shop class, a brown stuffed bear that belonged to a brother, and a plaid cat pillow sewn by my always-a-maiden Aunt Ginnie.
Ever since she could talk, our little gal has asked for Heather to come down. I'll bring Heather down, let our little gal play with her a bit, then place Heather back on the shelf. Heather is a fragile, old thing. She became an amputee a year ago, for Heaven's sake, until I sewed her right foot back on. She's not up to playing anymore.
But when our little gal turned 7 earlier this year, she said, "Now I'll be very careful, since I'm 7 like you were when you got her. So…can I keep her down?"
7 is magical. safe. happy. carefree.
Heather belongs with seven-year-olds. And so, for just this year, she's off the shelf and in the arms of our little 7-year-old gal.