when you’re 8

When Zach was younger, and he wanted to do something that I didn’t think was appropriate, I would tell him he could do it when he was 8.

I thought I was being funny and that 8 was a long, long, long time away.

We would all joke about what a red banner year Zach’s eighth year would be.

Well, eight came sooner than I thought it would, and I’m starting to regret how casually I threw out that age.  Why didn’t I say 15?  Or better yet 21?  

But I said 8 and that is only 4 short months away.

What bugs me the most is not the things I promised he could do, but the fact that he is actually turning 8.  

It happened so fast.

And lately I’ve been feeling uncharacteristically sentimental.  

I’m not one of those women who ooh and ahh over babies.  I don’t wish with teary eyes to have another one in my arms.

I remember the hellish nights and the isolation I felt when my boys were babies.  I don’t long for that again. 

But I would like to hit a pause button and have them stay this age a little longer.  

They are at that perfect age where they are becoming more independent, but still think Steve and I hung the moon it the sky.  

How much longer will Zach yell after me, when I drop him off for school, that he loves me?

How much longer will he enjoy Luke and I calling back our love for him?

How much longer will he want me to read to him and tuck him in each night?

How much longer will his face burst with happiness when he catches a glimpse of me at the end of the school day?

I know this time is numbered.   Before I know it he’ll be 8, then 18. 

So my suggestion to all you mothers (and fathers) out there is to not wish this time away - enjoy every stage.  

Because before you know it they will be 8.

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