If you ever wondered when your child would shift from holding your hand, hugging you, devouring your kisses and even sometimes sitting on your feet while wrapping their entire seated bodies around your legs so you can’t ever be further away than a mini-putt pencil, it is age seven.

Seven years old seems to be the age many of us see a change in our one time pour-on-the-love kiddies to the pretend-you-don’t-know-me-when-Alexa’s-watching, pint sized, master negotiators.

Sure there were hints leading up to this point. I just didn’t see the signs.

Maybe it was the first time my seven year old started a sentence, “Just so you know…..”

Maybe it was when the words, “Can I” and “Can You” were fused together as one, “Ci (pronounced Ky) have some yogurt?” Disapproving grammar glare interrupted by, “Cu (pronounced Q) get it?”

Maybe it was when “Mommy” and “Mama” were replaced with “Mother!”

At four, my middle daughter refused to wear anything with Dora the Explorer even though anytime someone happened to quickly zip past Dora in search of more mature programming, she was the first to ask, “Did that say DORA? Is Dora on? Can we see what Dora’s up to today…..for old time sake? I would be okay with watching Dora today because I think the baby might like it.” An older child, perhaps a sibling has clearly told this impressionable, young girl that Dora’s three-pronged approach to finding the six remaining coconuts on the tree or using alligators as rocks to hop across to the jelly bean forest is simply no longer acceptable in any social setting.

I heard a whisper of “you’re embarrassing me” when I offered to serve some lemonade and crackers to some neighbourhood kids playing outside. I’m still not sure if it was my presence, my brand of lemonade, my rollers tucked neatly under my shower cap, or the bowl with which I was planning to serve the crackers but I distinctly detected a half eye-roll.

Then the other day, it was made abundantly clear I am a loser and have no business showing my face in public if my seven year old has a fighting chance at normalcy.

I arrived at her school mid-morning to deliver some bags to be donated for a fundraiser. I walked down the hall past the library and noticed Hanna’s class sitting on the carpet while listening to the librarian read a book.

I saw her and immediately attempted to wave when my arm was shot down by her laser beam stare. I smiled, she raised her eyebrows and with the balls of her eyes alone, shooed me forward towards the door.

Just like that, with such little warning, we went from, “Mommy will you carry me to brush my teeth?” to “Mother, ci have some privacy? Cu close the door?” and worse, “Who let that homeless Nick Nolte mug-shot look-alike-intruder into the school during business hours? Security!”