In just two months, my boy will be nine.
I just got used to saying that I have an eight years old son.
What is nine supposed to look like? I’m not sure since this is my only child and even the students that I have taught for more than two decades have always been younger than that.
Nine at my house is almost five feet tall.
Nine at my house is giant shoes and too short pants.
Nine at my house is Sponge Bob and Adventure Time and Johnny Test.
Nine at my house is jokes about body parts and those noises coming out of said body parts.
Nine at my house is Mine Craft. Lots and lots of Mine Craft.
As I think about this list, I think these describe many “Nines.” I would fully expect these same things to possibly describe your “nine” or maybe even yours.
These are the expected, the easy.
The more challenging “nines” at my house are those that make myTBP unique, intense, particular. These are the struggles that we tackle; however, it’s hard to hate these things because they are the parts that make him…him.
Nine at my house is frantically trying to cover ears when the dogs bark or the smoke alarm screams because of popcorn gone wrong.
Nine at my house is questions and worries about the Earth running out of water, the inevitable death of our elderly terrier, the presence of God.
Nine at my house is an impressive vocabulary that seems to be useless when he needs to react quickly to express his own frustrations or anxieties.
Nine at my house is a nose that can detect when the dogs need to be let out immediately or someone nearby needs a shower or a different perfume.
Nine at my house is wanting to be independent and respected, without doing the hard work.
For much of this year, we lived through a great deal of damaging words and self-loathing thoughts. That was eight. Eight was rough.
I might not know everything, but I know that is NOT supposed to be eight.
Now that we are homeschooling, these last few months of eight have seen more smiles, more laughter, more standing up tall.
This is good.
I have great hopes for nine.