It's one thing when your child is safe in her bed down the hall. It's quite another when it's time for them to flee the nest. How far do we let them fall before we catch them?

I think about the next female that might look over at him in a car. A faceless girlfriend. He is too adorable for words, with his dimples, endless brown eyes and that shaggy surfer hair that curls just right. He is no longer the fat baby who hated being in his car seat.

Luckily, the more I walk on the parenting tightrope, the more confident I am that I'll be able to stay centered. It's not like I have a choice. There's no way I'm going to fall and fail my daughter. I am her rock, her home base, her safety. I am her mother.

One day, I was (over) preparing to have a baby, and now I have a 10-year-old. I can't really tell you how the biggest chunk of his childhood has already happened and is already in the books, but it is. It's done. I hope it was good.

My daughter's squeaky voice broke through the boys' rants and stated "Yeah, well I can jump REAL high AND fart!" The boys were stunned into impressed silence at my little girl's feat. I appreciated that she still thought farting on demand was the way to impress a boy. I'll take it as long as I can.

Their simultaneous blossoming has taken the form of them all needing new shoes at the same time but this time it was different. This time I could see the culmination of many life experiences coming full circle and I could see them revealing the individuals that they are growing up to be.

When I see you walk the streets of New York, it makes me cry. You look like you fit right in and that you are your own, independent person. It's as if you were never a baby who fell asleep in my arms. You look like you just showed up one day, fully-formed. It's amazing and incomprehensible.

The precise moment my own innocence was lost is a mystery. To which it is doomed to stay for as much as I reflect back on my youth I simply cannot -- will not? -- process the required innocence-losing memories.

Esther is seven. Yet her seven is nothing like her sister's seven two short years ago. While I've now enjoyed nearly 730 days of "sevens" in my house, there's no stereotype I can share with you that perfectly captures this magical age. It turns out that seven can be complicated.