Seven is the age when kids are at their best – or is it?

Is there anything more insufferable than opening a column about parenting by quoting Aristotle? Perhaps not. And yet, in an era of Instagram feeds fit to burst with white-linen-clad earth mothers roaming the countryside accompanied by their spotless, daisy-chain-making toddlers, I feel safely middle-of-the-road in my unbearableness.

“Give me a child until he is seven,” said the Greek philosopher (apparently – I wasn’t actually there), “and I will show you the man.” The maxim was later adopted by Jesuit priests and became the foundation for Michael Apted’s famous but controversial Up series, in which he documented the lives of a group of British children, beginning in 1964 when they were seven and following up every seven years.

Seven is widely regarded as the age of reason, when a child’s brain development, both emotional and cognitive, makes them capable of rational thought. By this age, they’ve generally extended their circle of influence beyond the family home. Their vocabulary usually encompasses several thousand words, and they’re beginning to grasp the unspoken social cues and norms that dictate the lives of their parents and carers.

As my son approaches his eighth birthday, I’ve been reflecting on the significance of the year just past. For me, these 12 months have been the sweet spot of parenting. I’ve forgotten the exhaustion of the baby years and am delighting in acquainting my son with theatre, sport and books with chapters – not lift-the-flaps.

He is sufficiently grown up to be independent in the basics, while at the same time sufficiently naïve to still think I am cool.

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Just last week, we ducked into the hairdresser for a quick trim and the overzealous cutter turned my son’s curly mop into a blunt crop with short back and sides. As she finished, the hairdresser leaned towards the mirror, asking what my son thought, her face snug next to his. My boy whispered, “I love it”, which earned a beaming smile in return.

We paid quietly and began walking down the strip of shops. Thirty metres on, my kid turned to me, with eyes full of tears, and said in alarm, “Mummy, I do not love it!”

Seven is a more conscious and considered age, and the acceleration of understanding has been rapid. I’ve watched in awe as this human being, who I helped create, has learnt to better regulate his emotions, to practise empathy, and process disappointment more privately. Gone are the days of exhibition-like tantrums. They have been replaced with deep breathing, bargaining and quiet tears. His little fears have faded and bigger worries, harder to calm or solve, have emerged.