I've lived a lot longer than my seven-year-old, so I have a longer frame of reference, so I could possibly argue that. But who wants to argue with a happy-seven-year old? Besides, it was still a pretty darn good day.
We saw family.
We saw more family.
We saw friends.
We stood at the top of the world and looked down into the clouds.
We ate ice cream.
We splashed in puddles.
We listened to old mixed CD's in the car and got excited to hears songs we hadn't listened to in years and sang at the top of our lungs.
We explored the city in the rain.
We ate pizza from a mediterranian restaurant.
We played I Spy and tried to trick each other.
My youngest has fallen in love with the city. The lights, the buildings, the people. Her excitement brings a smile to my face, but saddens me as well, because part of me knows as soon as she's old enough she'll want to leave our little town for bigger things. She marches to her own beat and I fear small town life will not hold her for long.
My oldest is much more cautious, much more leery to try new things. She likes routine, doesn't like risk. But like a trooper, she stood on the glass floor, and even bounced a little. And, as she proudly told me later, she 'didn't puke.' There was never any doubt, babydoll.
They really are something, these girls of mine.