A letter to my eight year old.

It’s getting harder, all this. This is hard. There. I said it.

 

I thought if I just came right out with it — that this is harder, eight years in, than I ever thought it would be — maybe it would seem less true.

But no.

It’s all true. It’s very hard.

 

We talk so much about teenagers.

I see the tug of war going on inside your fourteen-year-old brother: the kid and the man fighting for space and dominance.

When will it be you, like it’s now him, the slow build of childhood into — all of a sudden — a fully formed half-adult who grunts and dates and breaks out and sprays so, so much cologne?

 

We talk so much about tweens and toddlers and newborns and new graduates, all the momentous milestones and precious, meaningless moments.  

 

Why don’t we talk more about eight year olds?

You’re nearly as close to middle school now as you are to preschool.

You’re expected to add and subtract and sit still and speak with kindness and sometimes, I know, you forget the words or lose what little semblance of control you have over your days and your expanding, exploding mind. You yell. You cry. You make weird noises for no apparent reason and at inopportune times.

It’s hard to navigate this world you’re in, isn’t it.

Hard to know what to do and how to act and who to trust.

Hard to name, let alone contend with, the big emotions you come by so naturally.

And so you push at every boundary, toe every line. Test all the patience and rub up against every last nerve I’ve got, creating friction like an electric shock, so that sometimes all I can bring myself to say is zzztt.

It’s hard to parent you. To know what’s best for you. To be confident I’m guiding you forward instead of holding you back or stifling or overstepping or, conversely, not doing nearly enough.

 

And yet.

Through it all comes the quiet voice in the back of my mind while I watch you sleep, or play soccer, or write your stories, or give me an executive-level sales pitch on why you should be allowed to play Fortnite.

We’re right where we’re supposed to be.

I go to bed a lot of nights aching from the effort of being your mom. I’ve never wanted to not screw something up so badly in my whole life.

And I go to bed every single night knowing, at least on some level, that I’m doing okay.

Because you’re doing amazing.

You are such a happy kid.

You are so enchanted with the world and curious to find your place in it. To make your place. You exude confidence (okay, arrogance) and are utterly delighted by the stupidest, funniest things. Mostly farts. Still. Still with the farts.

You have friends and hobbies and talents and goals.

You’re growing up my love, and even the words are enough to make me tear up from the sense of impending loss.

When will you have your first real crush? A true best friend? How much longer ‘til you want to be a hundred places other than home with me? When will you last curl into my side so I can rub your back and whisper twinkle twinkle while you drift away from me toward… what?

 

I know it’s not my job to steer you. So I’ll try to show you instead. I’ll dole out hugs. I’ll help where I can and yell when it gets to be too much and listen and laugh at your cleverness and, honestly, sometimes, probably your farts. Mostly I’ll just try to keep up as you go wherever exactly you’re meant to go.

 

I’ll just try to keep up, even when it’s hard.

How I love you, Emmett.