This column is quickly approaching its eight anniversary with the Village News. I know I cannot believe it either. When I first began writing this column, it focused on my then two- year-old son.
The trials and tribulations of moving him out of our bedroom, and upstairs (not to mention my neurosis about him moving into his own room) was clearly documented in the pages of the VN. His love of Transformers, the movie Cars (and its soundtrack), melt downs in the Chester branch of the public library, starting preschool, and becoming a big brother. You all have been around the block with us a few times!
I have written about his fear of dragon flies, and how I used to have to carry him to the car in the spring with his eyes shut tight so he did not see them, or the time he decided he was Ironman and wore his costume everywhere, especially on trips to Target. Stories of him singing along with his dreaded “Wiggles,” and “Wonder Pets” soundtracks in our brand new mini-van, the first tooth that was lost, the first hair cut (when I cried at all of the beautiful blonde curls on the floor), and of course, when he got to meet his baby sister for the first time.
I do not write much about my dear boy anymore, he is getting so grown up now, things embarrass him and I prefer not to be on the receiving end of his wrath. The boy just celebrated his 10th birthday, TEN YEARS OLD folks! I can hardly believe it myself. Instead of singing to “Cars” and “Wonder Pets” he now listens to Imagine Dragons and the Beatles. He has an appreciation for Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and is taking guitar lessons so he can start a band (I know, it’s so cute). As you may have read, he no longer has any baby teeth left to lose, and has exactly one year left until middle school approaches. He wears deodorant (when I remind him), is growing peach fuzz on his upper lip, and refuses to cut his hair. He is almost as tall as I am, and wears a bigger shoe than I do. It’s painfully clear he has gone from “little boy” to the dreaded “tween.”
I say “dreaded” lightheartedly, he is truly a sweet and kind child. He is not disrespectful, he plays with his little sister (unless they are fighting like cats and dogs), and he loves to read, write, and draw. Give the kid a blank notebook and a sharpened pencil and you have given him everything he could ever want. He loves his apps on his Kindle, and sticks to the rule of “technology only on the weekends” pretty well (when this was enforced there was quite a bit of sighing and eye rolling, let’s be honest here), and he loves to make up games outside with his sister. I love that he still loves to “play” and at any given moment you will hear blasting and explosive noises coming from his room as he has Transformer battles (his love for Transformers has extended far beyond what I could have imagined).
The boy is growing up; he has one foot firmly planted on the side of childhood, and the other hovering precariously over the “teen” side. It will not be long now before both feet are planted firmly on the other side, far away from Transformers, playing with his sister, and Pokémon. I dread that day, and cling to his innocence, and hope that is just slowly slips away, and is not jerked out from under him. I love my darling boy, and no matter how big he gets, I will always see that sweet little boy, with the golden curls and the pacifier dangling from his tiny mouth, making appropriate noises as he pushed his cars back and forth across the floor.
