By: Amanda Richards
Updated: June 3, 2021
Originally Published: August 22, 2010
I have to be honest—I find it difficult to like 8-year-old boys. This isn’t exactly groundbreaking news, considering I wasn’t particularly fond of 7-year-old boys either, so it stands to reason that 8-year-olds would be just as challenging, only larger in size.
Each summer evening, my husband walks in after work to find me overwhelmed in the kitchen, frantically checking the clock and whispering, “Is it five o’clock yet? I could really use a drink.”
Describing what drives me to the brink with my son is complicated. He enjoys teasing his sister, making snide remarks during timeout, and when his brother is immersed in play, he tends to deliver a playful punch to the gut. He begs to play Monopoly or head outside for baseball, and even when I reluctantly agree (I’d rather watch paint dry than play either), he still manages to be insufferable.
He loves to quit mid-game if he’s losing and taunts his siblings when he’s ahead. Just the other night, while we were reading together, he rolled away from me and began fiddling with his blanket. “Are you even listening?” I asked. Our nightly reading time has been a cherished tradition, something we both used to enjoy. Then, without warning, he let out a loud fart and waved the blanket in my face, filling the air with an odor that could only be described as “adult after a night of too many jalapeño poppers and beer.”
“Are you serious?” I said, shaking my head. Just then, my husband walked in to bid goodnight and exclaimed, “Wow, it smells like monster farts in here!” He laughed, and my son rolled away again, cracking up.
A few weeks back, I encountered a familiar face at the library—an acquaintance with her own 8-year-old son. He had the kind of striking looks that could either make him the perfect hero or villain in a horror film. “How’s summer been treating you?” she asked.
“Let’s just say it’s been two weeks of chaos for us,” I replied, rolling my eyes. She responded, “Oh my god, we just started yesterday, and it’s…” she glanced at her son, who was eyeing her with a mix of indifference and judgment. “It’s tough,” she whispered like she was sharing a secret.
“Mine’s a total pain in the neck,” I admitted. “A friend texted me yesterday saying she had already cried, and I told her I’d cried twice this week!” We both nodded in understanding, grateful for the solidarity that comes from shared experiences.
At times, I wonder if tough love is the answer—should I tell him he’s such a nuisance that I need a break from him? I’ve even gone so far as to say, “I don’t want you playing with my kids because you’re such a bully.” The irony is, he is one of my kids too, and his penchant for snarkiness can be toxic.
Then I ponder if my own snarkiness is the problem. Maybe I should try that therapeutic approach where you hold them close all day until they feel loved? It sounds nice in theory, but I’m not sure how practical it is.
Recently, I discovered an illustrated book he had created. It featured a drawing of us reading together, captioned “Reading Harry Poter,” and another that said “At the beetch” (that’s supposed to be BEACH, mind you). One drawing depicted a square cage with two figures and the caption “Dansing at the grosery store.” It took me back to the days when we would shop together, just the two of us, while the twins were in preschool and the baby napped in her carrier. I used to promise him “punishment” by dancing to the store’s Muzak, twirling down the aisles to the rhythm of Copa Cabana, ignoring the glares of stock boys and the elderly shoppers. He would act like he hated it, but we would end up laughing together.
This weekend, we packed the family into the minivan and headed north to escape our daily stresses. On the first clear day, I took my stand-up paddleboard around the island, and he joined me in his kayak. His enthusiasm was infectious as he chatted about everything he observed—the colors of the lobster traps and the schedules of the fishermen. I shared stories about sailing with my sister as kids, the importance of steering, and the moment just before the sails would fill, propelling us forward in a new direction.
Perhaps next year I’ll write about Why I Find 9-Year-Old Boys Challenging or The Top Reasons to Avoid 10-Year-Old Boys. Each year, as the frustration mounts, I hope to remember the smile of my firstborn—the grocery aisle dancer, the kayak explorer, the cuddly reader—and recognize that beneath the chaos, he’s still finding his way through this life, just like the rest of us.
Summary
This article reflects on the challenges of parenting an 8-year-old boy, filled with humorous anecdotes and relatable frustrations. It explores the conflicting emotions parents face, the connection between love and annoyance, and the moments of joy amidst the chaos of raising children.
For further insights on parenting and home insemination, check out this excellent resource on donor insemination at American Pregnancy as well as tips on sleep schedules for infants at Intracervical Insemination. If you’re interested in home insemination options, please visit Home Insemination Kit.