When I'll become seven years ole?

This is the brat's latest obsession. Becoming a big boy. Turning seven years old is right at the top of things. Turning seven is when he goes to second grade (though admittedly he's going into second grade some months short of seven, to be honest), turning seven is when he's going to have to sleep on his own in his room (this is a decision that is his own, and he has been rehearsing this one, with mamma sleeping precariously on his single bed, spending half the night preventing him from falling off), and turning seven is when he is getting a new Growed Up bicycle.
Mamma though, is in no hurry for him to grow up. She'd rather he stay as he is, precious and still a boy. No longer a baby. Which is what she gets to hear occasionally, when she calls out unthinkingly, "Baby..." only to have a surly faced brat accost her, face twisted into a sulk. "I'm nod a baby. I am a big boy now. Don call me baby."
The other day mamma caught him in the bathroom, happily lathering up his face and running down the toothbrush (thankfully) in his first bid at shaving. "See, I god hair on my face. I haff to shave it. Or I'll gera beard."
And then there is also the prospect of the seven year birthday party. Which has already been planned yet again at Papa John's because it is "easy to reach for everybody." Isnt he the most considerate friend ever, the intentions though, mamma soon realised werent altogether nobel but also had a lot to do with accessibility in terms of more frens turning up and "den I'll ger more presents."
The gift list expected from mamma and pappa has also been chalked out in great detail. Whatever mamma or pappa deny him right now, he consoles himself by saying "You'll ger it for me for my birdday?" On receiving an affirmative reply, he goes off happy. Now its for mamma and pappa to keep track of the long list they've committed to for said birthday or risk being called liars.
And finally, its the sudden gasp in Mamma's throat when she realises that her cuddlable little boy is almost four feet tall. And truly no longer her little baby. And wants to bathe on his own. Sleep on his own. Make frens of his own choosing, disregarding mamma's sound and concerned advice on which friends are appropriate or inappropriate, which mamma categorises purely based on aggression levels. Decide how he wants to be entertained. Choose the activities he finds interesting. Mamma cannot make all the decisions on his behalf anymore. The boy is all growed up. And it is time for mamma to keep those scissors ready for that umbilical cord.