Here we are again…September 15. The anniversary of the day that I first became a mother. And this year, the day that my precious baby boy turns eight years old.
Sweet fancy Moses. Eight years old. So just how old does that make me?
Ahem. Moving on.
Dear AE:
A few weeks you asked me to stop calling you “dude”. That’s not my name, you said. Please don’t call me that anymore. I promised I would try – and I will – but oh, kiddo. I’ve been calling you that for as long as I can remember. And I tend to use it far more often than your actual name, which may be part of your issue. But in all honesty, baby, you should just be glad that I finally stopped calling you by that other toddlerhood nickname. Because if you think Dude is embarrassing, imagine what your friends would say if they heard me call you Goo.
You’re getting to that age, I think. The one where your parents are less your heroes and more your annoyances. I’ll try to avoid embarrassing you whenever I can, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’m turning into your Nonna, after all, and so it is inevitable.
I just can’t emphasize enough what a terrific kid you are. Your sister is old enough for me to realize that man, have you ever been a total walk in the park. I mean sure, you have your moments. You get grumpy, and obstinate, and sometimes you are a pain in my ass, but overall I couldn’t ask for a more awesome son. You’re agreeable, and cheerful and well, EASY.
And I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again – you are the smartest kid I know. No, scratch that. You are the smartest person I know, and I can’t wait to see what you plan to do with all those brains. Because it could be anything. You could be a doctor, or a lawyer, or the next Bill Gates. But you know what? If you want to be a garbageman, baby, that’s okay with me. As long as you’re happy and you’re doing what you want to do in life I promise to support you, no matter what.
It’s harder for me, the older you get. I mean, I’m fine with you getting older – I’ve never been a “baby person” and I far appreciate the mental challenge of parenting older kids as opposed to the physical strain of running around after little ones (like your sister, OMG). But I feel us growing apart. You’re not my baby anymore, that is obvious. And since I don’t share any of your current interests, it’s becoming difficult for me to find anything to discuss with you. You love to talk at me about video games, but to be honest I really hate it when you do that. I don’t know what any of it means, so it sounds like you’re the teacher from Charlie Brown cartoons. Wah wah wahhhhhhh.
It’s just much easier for your dad to talk with you about all manner of things, and you seem to prefer that anyway. He’s Dad, after all. He’s supposed to be your hero. But I’m rapidly becoming that woman who merely washes your clothes, fixes your dinner, and makes you clean your room and also behind your ears. Dad gets to do all the cool stuff – like take you to sporting events and play video games.
I guess it will vary from year to year. Your interests will change, and maybe someday soon we’ll have something in common. And I don’t have any idea how the relationship goes between teenage boys and their fathers, but if it it’s anything like that between teen girls and their moms – maybe my day is coming. Either way I’m fine for now, because you still bounce up to me at random intervals, apropos of nothing, to give a hug and say with all sincerity I love you, Mom.
I love you too, kiddo. More than words can say. Happy birthday.
