Seven is a lucky number they say. I barely remember my seventh year. Only impressions. I could situate myself in the larger chronology of childhood. I had not traveled to France yet, the Iranian Revolution had not occurred yet and we were two years into the Lebanese civil war.
I remember being in third grade like you, a november child with the same energy, but not as fiesty and concentrated as you. I was less grounded, more of a dreamer. Perhaps less passionate than you are today. I was a ballerina and a horseback rider but you outshine me. I certainly didn't draw and paint and create the way you do.
What I wish for you is a life of opportunities that you will learn to seize. Your parents, like mine, will not treat you any differently from their sons and will expose you in the same way, if not to more things considering we get the uni-sex opportunities and the additional feminine ones.
Please remind me to be an open-minded parent, please ask me for indulgence because creativity cannot thrive without those two factors. Yet all along, allow me to steer you in the right direction (isn't your name Syraat which means the right road). For you, I try to be the role model (perhaps with half the accomplishments I wish for you): fearless, competitive, vibrant but also kind and feminine.
I wish you a lovely seventh year.