She is 7

She tied her damp pool towel around her neck, using the short width so that the rest would trail behind her like a Super Cape. There was much dashing and flapping of the WalMart blue terrycloth on our walk home from the neighborhood pool. At 7, she knows the way and doesn't need to hold my hand. At 7, she is old enough to look both ways before crossing the street but young enough to still play pretend for 20 minutes with nothing more than a towel.

I had to snap this picture. I had to. It was one of those moments where I was literally standing beside myself in time; looking back from a time where she is 16 years old and taller than I am. Looking back from an age where she is away from me more than she is beside me. Looking back at myself and my baby and shouting "CHERISH THIS."

I did. I cherished this perfect moment in which my youngest child is still a CHILD.

She has the most lovely splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
She has almost as many spaces in her mouth as teeth.
She wears shiny black, hand-me-down soccer shorts paired with fugly winter boots and a super-diva-ish purple star shirt (and she wears it all with confidence).
She brushes my hair and puts it into the strangest concoction of braids and then asks me to do the same to her own hair before we go to bed so that our hair will be wavy and beautiful in the morning.

She is amazing.

She is 7.