Getting Older

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My son’s favorite word is “sarcastic”.  Like this morning, when he said he couldn’t believe how fast the school year had gone by.  I agreed enthusiastically.

“Are you just being sarcastic?” he asked me, suspiciously.  I had to convince him I wasn’t. 

Or like when he used it even earlier this morning.  Last night I was tripping over toys on the way to kiss him goodnight.  And I lamented over the messy room, though in a sort of more nagging voice than a lamentful voice.  And he told me not to worry about it, to wake him up 10 minutes early and he would clean it up.

“10 minutes?!?” his sister said incredulously.  “That’s all you’re going to need?”

“That’s it,” he said.  “Trust me Mom, just wake me up early and I’ll get it done.

This morning, true to my word, I crept into his room at 6:50 am to wake him up.  He stirred a little as I shook his shoulder.

“Time to get up honey,”  I said.  “You have cleaning to do.”

“Mom, don’t you know I was being sarcastic?” he said without even opening his eyes. 

Boys are funny.

What’s also funny is he’s growing up.  My 8 year old boy is not a baby anymore.  Tonight was his Open House at his school.  I watched him as he took off with his friends, my little boy who likes to hold my hand occasionally when we go places was suddenly too independent to hang with me.  Instead he was off, rough and tumbling with the other boys.  And it’s funny watching him with his friends.  The whine that he saves for me is totally gone.  In its place is a voice that’s a little bit deeper and stronger.  It’s obvious that he’s in charge out on the playing field, instead of letting me be the alpha dog when it’s just the two of us.

After perusing all the classrooms and letting him get in one more game of ball, we all went out for ice cream.  He ended up with most of the ice cream on his face and clothes.  I got some napkins to wipe his mouth for him, and instead of holding his face still while I cleaned, he put up a major fight.

“Mom!  I got it!” he said as he wiped a crumpled napkin over his mouth, missing every single dirty spot.

“Come on, just let me do it.  Hold still,” I said, dying to do the lick and spit mom technique to get the chocolate stain completely off.  We fought about it till I won, and I got the very last of the stickiness off his face.  He sat there scowling, totally wounded from losing the battle.

“Mom, you totally embarassed me in front of that girl,” he said, nodding in the direction of a cute little 8 year old girl licking an ice cream cone.

Oops.

Well, that was sudden.  It happened almost overnight.  But when?  When did my baby get too old to baby?  And when did I become the mom that embarasses her kids to death? 

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