You know, I thought to myself as I cracked open the first Diet Coke of the morning and washed down a Claritin-D and a multi-vitamin, it’s really really easy to write bad poetry and really really hard to write good poetry.

That is not my point here. My point is this. No one told me when I was almost 7 that there was no way I was going to end up as a poet, no matter how hard I tried. No one set any such limitations — not my parents, my teachers or society.

When you are almost 7, the possibilities are pretty endless.

Enter Sophie. She’s almost 7. It’s been a while since she’s talked about what she wants to be when she grows up, but suddenly, it’s back as a topic of conversation.

Mostly, Sophie wants to be a veterniarian. But the other day she announced, “I be a mother when I grow up!”

That, for obvious reasons, is the biggest heartbreaker of all for me, although I do maintain that I’ll do everything in my power (well, you know what I mean) to make sure that at the very least, Sophie falls in love and has great sex.

The girls had just settled into their booster seats in the car this morning, when — probably motivated by the strong desire to own the large rainbow pack of dry-erase markers we were bringing to Ms. Y — Sophie asked, “Can I be a teacher when I grow up?”

“Of course!” replied Annabelle, whose own list currently includes fashion designer, ballerina, actress, writer and scientist. “You can be anything you want to be, Sophie!”

I didn’t say a word.

But it did occur to me, as I backed out of the driveway and we headed off into the day, that Sophie is already quite a teacher.