I must admit, I have a strong aversion to 8-year-old boys. This sentiment didn’t develop overnight; I found 7-year-old boys equally challenging, so it’s no surprise that their older counterparts would be just as difficult, only more boisterous.
Every late summer afternoon, my husband returns from work to find me hovering between the kitchen sink and the refrigerator, bleary-eyed and muttering, “Is it five o’clock yet? I could use a drink.”
Describing the specific behaviors that drive me to distraction is challenging. He playfully teases his sister, makes snide comments during time-outs, and when his brother is engrossed in his toys, he finds it amusing to deliver a well-aimed punch to the solar plexus. He begs to play Monopoly or baseball in the yard, and even when I reluctantly agree to indulge him (I have a slight preference for Monopoly over baseball), his behavior remains less than pleasant.
He often wants to quit games when he’s losing and taunts his siblings when he’s ahead. Just last night, during our cherished bedtime reading ritual, he turned away from me, toying with his blanket. “Are you even listening?” I asked, hoping to engage him in our special time together. Instead, he rolled back towards me, let out a loud fart, and waved the blanket in my face – a truly unpleasant odor, reminiscent of someone who just devoured a platter of jalapeño poppers. “Seriously?” I exclaimed, as my husband entered and jokingly remarked, “Wow, it smells like monster farts in here!” My son laughed hysterically while I just sighed.
A few weeks ago, I bumped into an old acquaintance at the library. She was with her own 8-year-old son, who had the kind of striking good looks that could belong to either a heroic child or a mischievous one in a horror movie. “How’s summer?” she asked, and I replied, “Well, it’s been two weeks, so…” rolling my eyes for emphasis.
She responded, “Oh my god, we just started yesterday, and it’s…” Her gaze shifted to her son, who was casually inspecting the videos, and she whispered, “It’s hard.” I could see the worry etched on her face. “Mine’s a total pain,” I admitted, and we shared a laugh about how our friends were already shedding tears over summer break. “Thank goodness for texting and friends,” we both agreed.
In moments of frustration, I often contemplate employing tough love, telling him he’s such a nuisance that I don’t want to be around him. It’s odd to think that he is, in fact, one of my own children, yet his snarky remarks can feel toxic. Then I wonder if my own sharpness is equally detrimental. Perhaps I should try a more nurturing approach, similar to techniques suggested for difficult teens, where you simply hold them close until they understand they’re loved (I swear I picked that up from NPR).
Recently, I stumbled upon an illustrated book he had created. There was a drawing of us reading together with the caption “Reading Harry Poter,” and “At the beetch.” (That’s supposed to be BEACH, for the record. He’s not all bad.) There was also a depiction of a square cage with two figures intertwined, labeled “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 used to promise to “punish” him by dancing to Muzak in public. He would commit some minor offense, like slyly adding gum to the cart, and I would twirl him around the aisles to the Copa Cabana, all while he pretended to hate it, and we both ended up laughing.
This past weekend, we packed everyone into the minivan and headed north to escape our everyday stresses. The first clear day we had, I took my stand-up paddleboard out, and he joined me in his kayak. As he paddled, he eagerly shared his observations about the lobstermen’s buoys and their routines. I reminisced about my childhood sailing adventures and explained the importance of the tiller and the boom.
As I reflect on each passing year, I anticipate the challenges that lie ahead: “Why I Can’t Stand 9-Year-Old Boys,” “Top 10 Reasons I Want to Yell at 10-Year-Old Boys,” and so on. Yet, in the moments leading up to my frustration, I strive to remember the essence of my first-born child: the grocery aisle dancer, the kayaking companion, the bedtime cuddle enthusiast. He is in there, navigating his own journey just like the rest of us.
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In summary, parenting an 8-year-old boy presents unique challenges filled with moments of frustration and humor. Despite the tough times, it’s essential to remember the joys and connections we share as they navigate their own growth.
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