On Saturday, my oldest will turn seven. S to the E to the V-E-N.

Everybody throw your hands in the air and bounce with me!

When I was struggling through the terrible "threes" with this girl of mine, my friends with older children all shrugged and smiled. "Just wait until she turns six. Six is a thousand times worse than three. You'll see."

I shot these know-it-all, so-called friends looks that should have melted their faces off, had they not been battle- hardened by blasts of fury from their own years with a six-year-old. I mean, come on. What could be worse than a three-year-old, face down on the mall floor, shattering the light fixtures with her shrieks?

Someone once told me that every other year is a great one. Which means that the in-between years suck. The first year was tough. The second, not so bad. Three was a tantrum-fueled ride. At four we had a good year. When she turned five, it was still good. Great! We broke the pattern! Smooth sailing, people.

And then she turned six. Have mercy.

This last year has seen the rise of The Drama to new heights. I was misled by her apparent understanding of the basics for getting along in this world. She understood it, sure. And she hated it. Why must she be a commoner? Where is her staff? Why has her royal family abandoned her with these people who look like her, and yet do not accept her for who she is? Why? WHY?

As the school work picked up, and the group of friends she made in kindergarten were scattered into four different classrooms, she has struggled to find a happy balance. She has grown tremendously this year, socially, emotionally and physically, and every little gain was hard-won. This has been a painful year, judging from all the outbursts and tears.

She stood in front of me this morning, face beaming and flashed me seven long fingers, a physical trait passed on from her father, along with her perfect, cookie-ears and pointed chin. Her excitement is contagious. I shot my stubby fingers into the air, copying her stance. We stood there, hip jutted forward, shoulders back with giant grins and seven wiggling fingers.

It feels like spring has finally arrived, and my girl is blooming again. Maybe all that lucky seven nonsense isn't so ridiculous after all.