Exactly why my children all need to wake at the exact hour of their birth on their birthday is unclear. However, having been down this particular block a few times, it was not surprising to be nudged by my daughter at 4:56 am on Saturday. After giving her a kiss and wishing her Happy Birthday, and inspecting her for birthday sparkles, I pulled her under the covers for some birthday snuggles.

Where did this long-limbed, long-haired, giant teethed girl come from? Where is the baby I could fold neatly into my arms?

By 5:15, we had already watched with bleary eyes as she tore open her presents on the foot of our bed. She was thrilled with the American Girl doll and Trixie Belden books we had chosen, as well as the bike basket and horn from her siblings. With that out of the way (and the day already off to a roaring start) we got up and had breakfast.

I attempted to bake a cake, but for some reason, it developed major fault lines, and crumbled as I tried to frost it. The more I tried, the worse it got. The finished product resembled a sponge hacked apart by a jackhammer, and then splattered with mud. We all had a good laugh over it, and then ate cake for a mid-morning snack.

I had planned an outing to the paint your own pottery place in town, and had invited two of her friends to come along. While the plan was to take my son along, he was in full tantrum mode long before the party, and when he collapsed into a nap, I shrugged and left him home with my husband and youngest.

The pottery studio was strange. The woman running it never turned the lights on. Despite running a birthday party for a large group of very young children, she never turned on any music or even cracked a smile. It was obvious that she didn't like kids. At one point, she snarled at my little charges when they came close to a shelf. "Be careful, or your mommy will end up owning this store!"

Okay then. Thankfully, we escaped without having to become business owners, and made our way to the ice cream store next to the pottery studio. We enjoyed giant cones and opened presents, and then made our way home, to find that my son had awoken prematurely from his nap and was mighty in his anger at being excluded.

Lesson learned: no more birthdays where mommy might have to purchase the store, and also, no excluding siblings for at least a few more years.

After a birthday dinner of finger foods, and a bakery cake to replace the monstrosity that I produced earlier, we snuggled in bed and read the first few chapters of the next Trixie. Right before she snuggled down in her blankets, she whispered "I can't believe I'm seven!"

I know how she feels.