Updated: June 3, 2021
Originally Published: August 22, 2010
Honestly, I’m not a fan of 8-year-old boys. This isn’t exactly a new discovery for me—my fondness for 7-year-old boys was pretty low, so it stands to reason that 8-year-olds would be just a larger, more obnoxious version of the same. But oh, the chaos they bring!
Each summer evening, as my husband rolls in from work, I find myself staggering between the sink and the fridge, muttering, “Is it five o’clock yet? I could really use a drink.”
It’s tough to pinpoint exactly what it is that drives me up the wall. For starters, he has a knack for teasing his sister and hurling unkind words during his time-out sessions. When his brother is engrossed in his toys, he’ll sneak up and deliver a playful jab to the solar plexus while cackling madly. Sure, he whines about wanting to play Monopoly or baseball, but even when I give in (and trust me, I despise baseball just a tad less than Monopoly), he still manages to be a total jerk.
Tonight, while we were enjoying our nightly reading session, he curled up away from me, fiddling with his blanket’s edge. “Are you even listening?” I asked, trying to hold onto this cherished tradition. Instead, he turned towards me, let out an ear-splitting fart, and waved the blanket in my face. Oh, the smell! Like a mix of jalapeño poppers and bad beer. “Seriously?” I exclaimed, just as my husband walked in to say goodnight.
“Wow, it smells like monster farts in here!” he laughed, while my son was doubled over in laughter, flapping the blanket like a flag.
Not long ago, I bumped into a familiar face at the library. She was there with her own 8-year-old son—this perfect mix of angelic and mischievous that you’d expect from a horror movie. “How’s summer treating you?” she asked. “Well, we’ve been at it for two weeks, so, you know…” I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Oh my god,” she replied, “we just started yesterday and it’s…” She glanced at her son, who was casually inspecting the video section with an unamused expression. “It’s hard,” she whispered, looking like she might bolt.
“Mine’s a total pain in the neck,” I admitted. “A friend texted me the other day saying she’d already cried! I told her I was on my second round!” Thank goodness for texting and supportive friends!
Sometimes I’m torn between tough love and just telling him he’s such a nuisance I can’t bear to be around him. I’ve even told him, “I don’t want you playing with my other kids because you’re such a little bully.” And yet, he’s one of mine too. But honestly, his snark is like poison.
I even catch myself wondering if I should try that technique they recommend for unruly teens—where you simply hold them close and shower them with affection until they realize they’re loved? I think I heard about it on NPR.
Just the other day, I discovered an illustrated book he had made. It featured a picture of us reading together with the caption “Reading Harry Poter,” and another that read “At the beetch.” (That’s BEACH, folks. He’s not all that bad!) There was even a drawing of a square cage with two figures inside, captioned “Dansing at the grosery store.”
It reminded me of those rare grocery trips we took when the twins were in preschool and the baby was asleep in her carrier. I’d promise to “punish” him by dancing in public to the store’s Muzak. He’d always pretend to hate it, but we’d end up laughing together, spinning down the aisles to the beat of the Copa Cabana.
This weekend, we loaded everyone up in the minivan and headed north to escape our daily grind. On the first clear day, I paddled on my stand-up paddleboard while he kayaked alongside me, his eyes darting everywhere as he chatted about the colors of the lobstermen’s buoys and all sorts of engaging details. I shared stories about sailing with my sister when we were kids, explaining how the boom could knock you out if you weren’t careful.
Maybe next year I’ll be writing about why I can’t stand 9-year-old boys or the top ten reasons to avoid 10-year-olds altogether. But amidst the frustration, I hope that in those moments before I lose my cool, I’ll see the face of my firstborn: the grocery aisle dancer, the kayak buddy, the cuddle-up-and-read-one-more-chapter kid—and I’ll remember that he’s still in there, just like all of us trying to find our way through this wild ride called life.
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Summary:
Navigating life with an 8-year-old boy can be a rollercoaster of emotions, from the chaos of mischievous antics to those fleeting moments of connection. While the challenges can be overwhelming, it’s essential to remember the joy and love that binds us, even as we face the ups and downs of parenting.