I must confess: I’m not a fan of 8-year-old boys. This isn’t exactly news; I wasn’t particularly fond of 7-year-old boys, so it stands to reason that their older counterparts wouldn’t surprise me either. But the level of chaos? Ugh.
Every summer afternoon, as my husband returns from work, I find myself wandering between the sink and the fridge, muttering, “Is it five o’clock yet? Five o’clock?” because, let’s be honest, Mama could really use a drink.
Describing the specific things my son does that drive me up the wall is a challenge. He finds joy in teasing his sister, hurling mean comments during timeout, and even delivering a playful punch to his brother’s solar plexus while chuckling. He begs to play Monopoly or baseball in the yard, and even when I reluctantly agree (I enjoy baseball only slightly more than I enjoy Monopoly), he still manages to be a nuisance.
Tonight, during our reading time, a cherished tradition between us, he curled up, distractedly fiddling with the edge of his blanket. “Are you even listening?” I asked, only to be met with a loud, absurd fart followed by a blanket flap in my face. And oh boy, did it reek—like grown-up, I-just-ate-jalapeño-poppers-and-drank-a-pitcher-of-beer stench. “Seriously?” I exclaimed. Just then, my husband walked in, announcing, “Geez. It smells like monster farts in here!” He chuckled as our son gleefully waved the blanket and rolled away, bursting with laughter.
Not long ago, I encountered a woman at the library with her 8-year-old son, an adorable blond boy who looked like he could either be the hero or the villain in a horror film. “How’s summer treating you?” she asked. “Well, it’s been two weeks for us, sooooo…” I rolled my eyes. “Oh my god,” she said, “We just started yesterday, and it’s…” She glanced at her son, who was nonchalantly touching the videos, his expression cold and reproachful. “It’s hard,” she whispered, looking as if she feared for her life. “Mine is a total pain in the ass,” I admitted.
“My friend texted me yesterday and said she’d already cried! I told her I’d cried TWICE!” she confided. “Thank god for texting and friends.”
At times, I wonder if I should lean into tough love and tell him he’s such a nuisance that I need a break from him. I’ve even declared, “I don’t want you playing with my other kids because you’re such a rotten bully.” The irony? He’s one of my kids too! Yet his snarkiness feels toxic.
Then I ponder if my own snarkiness is contributing to the problem. Should I try that therapy technique for troubled teens, where you hold them all day until they feel loved? I think I heard about it on NPR.
Just the other day, I stumbled upon an illustrated book he created. It featured a picture of us reading together with the caption, “Reading Harry Poter.” And then, “At the beetch.” (That’s BEACH, folks. He’s not entirely lost!) Another drawing depicted a square cage with two figures entwined, captioned, “Dansing at the grosery store.” It reminded me of those rare shopping days we shared when the twins were in preschool and the baby slept in her carrier. I’d make a big deal of “punishing” him by dancing in public to the store’s Muzak. He’d pretend to hate it, but we’d both end up laughing uncontrollably.
This past weekend, we loaded the family into the minivan and headed north to escape our daily grind. On the first clear day, I took my stand-up paddleboard while he paddled alongside me in his kayak, his head swiveling as he discussed everything around us—from the colors of the lobstermen’s buoys to the best times for them to return to the dock. I shared stories of sailing with my sister as kids, explaining the importance of the tiller for steering and how the boom could swing and hit you unexpectedly if you weren’t careful.
Perhaps this will be my annual refrain: Why I Dislike 9-Year-Old Boys, Top 10 Reasons to Want to Punch 10-Year-Old Boys in the Throat, and so forth. Yet, as I navigate this new phase filled with frustration, I hope that before I explode, I’ll remember the face of my firstborn—the grocery-aisle-dancer, the kayak-adventurer, the read-one-more-chapter cuddler—and realize he’s still in there. He’s finding his way through life, just like the rest of us lost souls.
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In summary, navigating the complexities of parenting, especially with 8-year-old boys, can be a wild ride filled with ups and downs. While they may drive us crazy at times, it’s essential to remember the joy and love they bring into our lives.
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