Eight

This is new territory for me. I think I like it.

My sweet little babies and toddlers have become a lively pair of precocious, funny, opinionated, gloriously independent children. They can set up a board game and play it together, put on their own episodes of Word Girl and Pokemon (and turn the TV off when it’s over), disappear into their world of imaginative play for hours at a time. The Boy reads Harry Potter while Little Grrl pores over books at her desk, making up stories to go with the illustrations. There is an elaborate workstation of crafts and coloring. There is a basement full of Legos.

And tomorrow, The Boy turns eight.

Eight was kind of a milestone for me as a girl. That’s when I remember really coming into my own – not just as a child, but as the person I would grow up to be. I loved writing, biking, Girl Scouts, Roald Dahl books, and immersing myself in my own world of imagination. I started really seeing and feeling things – full-hearted joy, nostalgia, a deeper appreciation of music, dreamy plans for my future (in which I hoped to live in New York City and drive a baby blue Pinto with its own CB radio).

This won’t necessarily be The Boy’s experience of eight. But he’s coming into his own, too. He carries himself like an older child, more confident and sure of the way. He politely questions my logic. His “helping” around the house is actually helpful. Every Thursday, he curls up to watch Community with me, just like I used to watch Rhoda with my mom. Maybe Abed Nadir can be his Rhoda Morgenstern. Who knows.

I will always love the baby-and-toddler years, of course. They were sweet and poignant and so much fun. They brought out strengths in me I never knew I had. But I love the pensive-yet-hilarious young people living in my house today. I can’t wait to see who they become.

Come to think of it, I can’t wait to see who I become in this new phase of parenthood. Maybe there’s hope for that baby blue Pinto yet…