Dear Jack,
You've now reached the ripe old age of eight. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but HOLY HELL YOU'RE INSUFFERABLE. I've been taking an informal poll, though, and I'm pretty sure it's not your fault. ALL eight year olds are insufferable. Apparently, we've entered the "tween" stage. "Tween" is a detestable contraction that means "not old enough to drive but definitely old enough to be an a-hole." You want to be in charge. You want respect and the right to use enormous words to describe things. And you really, really, REALLY want a Nintendo DSi.
"Mo-OM!" you say, "All my friends have one!" Unfortunately, your mother is a horrible person who lives to make you unhappy. You're not getting one. Yes, I know Aunt Jacqui got one for your cousin Isaac. No, I don't care.
Wikipedia says that "eight is the natural number following seven and preceding nine." I say that eight is the year my inquisitive, intelligent, gregarious oldest child turned into a sullen, indignant, bossy know-it-all.
"Jack," I say, "It's 7:45."
"Actually, Mom," you reply, "It's 7:42."
Don't get me wrong, I love that you can tell time. I just hate that you refuse to round up.
I cannot get over the change in you. You even look older. I know you're thinking "Duh, Mom, I'm growing up!" Just bear with me a second. Last year you were rounder, shorter, softer. More baby than boy, despite being seven years old. Suddenly I can't keep you in clothes. You've grown actual cheek bones and a solid, muscular body that is never still. You eat like a teenage grizzly bear. You've grown nearly two shoe sizes and you want your hair long so you can wear it in a pony tail. It won't be long before you start writing poetry about how no one understands you.
What happened to my baby? And no, I will not ever stop asking that question. As your mother, I am legally entitled to wonder that, out loud, as many times as year as I want, even when you're 60. Also, don't think that I don't love you just because I said that you're an insufferable tween. Because I do love you, oh sweet baby Jesus do I ever. You're the boy that started it all.
Do you remember when you were smaller, four maybe, and you invented the "I love you 1,000 ... " game? You would say, "Mom, I love you 1,000 ... Transformers!" Or trucks, or Legos--or whatever thing you valued most at the time. "I love you 1,000 robots! I love you 1,000 acorns!" you would say, and giggle. And I would say that I loved you 1,000 chocolate chips or kisses or planets or birthday parties with sprinkle cupcakes, and then you would giggle some more. Little boy love is the only kind worth having (in my opinion, obviously I'm terribly biased). It's the stickiest, most tackling-est, soul-wringing-est kind of love there is.
You're still that little boy underneath, but I see you burying him under more and more bravado. Instead of "I love you 1,000," you have Harry Potter books and Pig Latin and soccer at recess and a secret, desperate desire to be a grownup. You no longer want to me to muss you hair or tell you that you're adorable. "I'm pretty much over school," you tell me. "Math is too easy. I've outgrown it." And in your Snoopy t-shirt that reads "Allergic to School," and blue jeans and black Converse and your Buccaneers hat on backwards--it's easy to believe you.
What I really wanted to tell you is this: don't be in such a hurry. The things you think will set you free when you arrive freshly minted at adulthood are not all rainbows and unicorns (or in your case, Nerf guns and video games, please forgive me my unnecessarily girly metaphors). Just be a kid. You're damn good at it.
We're almost halfway there. I love you beyond all reason.
Love,
Mom
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