Mabel. Oh, Mabel mine. Happy sad girl. Puppy lover. Your fringe is in your eyes again and your shins are scraped. You still don’t go much for shoes, especially if there’s a pile of leaves to be jumped in. You’re a natural teacher, a committed animal-lover, a linguist. You speak fluent opposite, excellent gibberish, and your command of Russian is impressive. (Seriously.)
You hate princesses but you spent half an hour surfing Frozen clips on YouTube yesterday. You don’t like girly things, but you haven’t thrown out the pink half of your wardrobe yet. You don’t want to be limited, that’s all: you’re an equal-opportunity lover and hater of pink and blue, of bracelets and beyblades. You complain that your brother gets all the best stuff, but then you pick out the American Girl doll and know exactly which outfit she should have.
You think you can have everything. Keep believing that.
You’re a fun lunch date, even if you do only want fries and ketchup. You and your brother, when not fighting tooth and nail or driving us nuts staving off bedtime, can be the most hilarious double act around. You’re a serious goofball, a crazy gorilla on Broadway, and did you know that meatballs are very rare in Australia?
You’re seven. Seven is the most magical age I can think of. Remember your magic. Use it well. You will always make me proud, no matter what you do, because I struck it lucky when I got to be your mother.