Honestly, I struggle with 8-year-old boys. It’s not exactly a shocking confession; my feelings about 7-year-old boys weren’t much better, so it’s only logical that 8-year-olds would prove to be just as challenging, only with a bit more height.
Every late summer afternoon, my husband returns from work to find me hovering between the sink and the fridge, mumbling, “Is it five o’clock yet? Five o’clock?”—because let’s face it, Mama is in need of a little something to unwind.
Describing the specific antics that drive me up the wall is tricky. He teases his sister incessantly. He hurls mean comments during timeout. When his brother is absorbed in his toys, he delivers a playful punch to the stomach, chuckling at the chaos. He begs to play Monopoly or baseball, and even when I oblige (I can barely tolerate either game), he still manages to be insufferable. He wants to give up the game when he’s losing but mocks others when he’s ahead.
During our reading time tonight, he turned away from me, toying with the edge of his blanket. “Are you even paying attention?” I asked, cherishing our nighttime reading tradition. He rolled over, let out a loud fart, and then waved the blanket in my face. The smell? Let’s just say it was reminiscent of a post-party feast of jalapeño poppers and beer.
“Seriously?” I exclaimed as my husband walked in to bid goodnight. “Wow, it smells like monster farts in here!” he chuckled, while my son erupted with laughter, waving the blanket and rolling away.
A few weeks ago, I bumped into an acquaintance at the library. She was there with her 8-year-old son, a striking blonde with those captivating blue eyes that could belong to either a charming hero or a menacing villain in a movie. “How’s summer going?” she asked.
“Well, it’s been two weeks for us, so…” I rolled my eyes dramatically.
“Oh my god,” she replied. “We just started yesterday, and it’s…” Her gaze shifted to her son, who was casually trailing his fingers along the videos, casting her a look that could chill. “…hard,” she finished quietly, almost as if confessing a deep secret.
“My son is a total handful,” I admitted.
“My friend texted me yesterday saying she’d already cried! I told her I’d cried twice already!” she confided.
Thank goodness for texting and pals.
Sometimes I wonder if I should adopt a tough-love approach and let him know he’s such a nuisance that I don’t want to be around him. I’ve even joked about not wanting him to play with my other kids because he can be such a bully. And yet, he is my child too. It’s a vicious cycle of snarkiness.
Then I ponder whether my own sarcasm is toxic. Should I embrace that therapy method for unruly teens, where you just hold them all day long, showering them with love until they know they’re valued? (I swear I heard that on NPR.)
Just the other day, I stumbled upon an illustrated book he had created. One page showed us reading together, titled “Reading Harry Poter.” He also had a drawing of a “Dansing at the grosery store,” reminding me of those rare outings when it was just the two of us shopping, a few years back. Those days when the twins were in preschool and the baby was asleep in her carrier, I would promise to “punish” him by dancing in public, to the tunes of grocery store Muzak. He would feign annoyance, but we’d both end up laughing uncontrollably.
This past weekend, we crammed everyone into the minivan and headed north to escape our everyday grind. On the first clear day there, I took my stand-up paddleboard for a spin around the island, and he joined me in his kayak. His head darted back and forth, and he chattered about everything—the colors of the lobster traps, the schedules of the fishermen, and more.
I shared stories about sailing with my sister in our childhood, explaining the importance of the tiller and how a miscalculated boom could knock you silly. There’s a moment in sailing when the sails lose their power, just before they fill again and propel you in a new direction.
Perhaps I’ll find myself writing annually about the trials of 9-year-old boys or the ten reasons I want to throttle 10-year-olds. Yet, as the frustration mounts, I remind myself of the boy I love—the grocery aisle dancer, the kayaking buddy, the cuddler who begs for “one more chapter.” He’s navigating this maze of childhood, just like the rest of us.
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Summary:
Navigating the challenges of parenting an 8-year-old boy can be a rollercoaster of emotions. From the playful antics that drive you up the wall to the cherished memories that remind you of the bond you share, every moment is a mix of frustration and love. As you journey through these years, it’s essential to find balance and remember the little joys amid the chaos.