Lady, when I was seven years old, I wanted to be a fireman. Or a cowgirl. Or maybe a nurse, because I had just gotten a new doll for Christmas (back in the Dark Ages of 1970 you didn’t get multiple dolls for Christmas, you got one, or at least I did), and I had been wrapping it in pretend bandages. I believe the doll had become injured after a karate fight with an evil Communist spy, or maybe Godzilla.
Anyway, my point is, why is this woman worrying about what her seven year old daughter says about anything? She’s seven. Next week are we going to get an article about how she’s been unable to sleep because her little girl told her she was going to be an astronaut instead of a stay-at-home mom? “All I could think of was the Columbia disaster. I found myself feeling guilty for wanting her to decide to get married and stay home to raise her children…”