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.

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.

Over the recent school holidays we tackled conversations no parent wants to have, yet every parent is determined to get right. My son and I spoke about death and its finality in a level of depth he’s never reached before. I explained the significance of Anzac Day, as I have in years past. But this year, the stories of young soldiers killed had an impact that outlasted the biscuit-making. We discussed the upcoming Voice referendum and the history of Australia that not everyone wants to face up to.

Gone are the days of exhibition-like tantrums. His little fears have faded and bigger worries, harder to calm or solve, have emerged.

The concept of truth has become more complex. Children of five or six will still unintentionally blur fact with fiction, unaware of where the real world ends and the one in their heads begins. Whereas seven-year-olds have started to use the truth – and mistruths – more intentionally. Questions about teeth brushing must be asked multiple times to illicit the real answer rather than an unnecessarily false one.

Seven has been a year of discovery for my son and rediscovery for me, as I again have time to appreciate things like that first goal during basketball season, the accomplishment of reading a novel without pictures, and the emotion and sensory pleasure of live music and theatre.

I know that the significance of seven goes beyond age to cross cultures, religion and science. There are seven classical planets and seven colours of the rainbow. Muslims host a seventh-day naming ceremony for babies, and Hindus describe seven worlds in the universe and seven seas in the world.

So, is it any wonder that for so many parents and carers, me among them, seven is the best age? Or the best age, at least, until they turn eight.

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