Eight is Great

I remember, a long, long time ago when a co-worker told me that whatever age my son was at the time of that conversation was an OK age but wait till eight-nine-ten. I remember she said that they are so good at that age. That they are lovey and sweet and not teen-like snarky. And this has come to fruition. My son is eight and he is quite fabulous. He is fond of telling me how much he loves me. He tells me that I am the best mom in the world and I don’t disagree. And the thing is. I feel the same way about him. He is just sweet and cute and I love being with him.

My big confession is that my son has been camped out in my bed for almost a week now and neither one of us can seem to do the big break up. It all began with sickness. He ran a fever for four days and slept in my bed the entire time. When his fever finally broke, his dad came down with the same illness. Dad ended up sleeping in our son’s bed and the eight year old remained where he was. We kept threatening to put him back in his own bed but he has developed a really effective ploy where he falls asleep in my bed during TV time. Then he looks all cute and snuggly, so much so that his dad just says, “well, let’s just leave him for one more night.” This has happened for the past three nights. And while part of me knows that I am being suckered, this other part doesn’t care. I love just watching him when he is asleep with those ridiculously long eye lashes and that crazy vein that is so visible in his right eyelid. I’m not sure how it happened that this guy has managed to turn my heart to mush. But he totally has.

Tonight however, the big move happened and he is snuggled into his own bed. I believe that it was the promise of making tunnels in his bed with his dad. Whatever it was, he is there. And while I know it is the right thing, I will miss him just being with me. And maybe that is what it is, why it’s been so hard to put him back in his own bed. Because at some point in the future, he will be further and further and for him the thought of crawling into bed next to me will be, well, gross. I know that this is the way it is and the way it should be. And this is OK because I am relatively certain he will continue to turn my heart to mush, just in different ways.