In a little over an hour, I’ll be taking LilZ to his first day of 8th grade. I offered to hold his hand and walk him in to help him find his classroom, but he turned me down. He’s independent like that. My brave boy.
This means he officially survived seventh grade. I’ve documented my horrid memories/experiences of 7th grade several times, so the fact that he made it through alive? Means I’ve done something right as a parent. He even finished the year out with his first ever straight-A report card.
He asked me if him starting 8th grade made me feel old (No – but you ASKING me does!) and I honestly said, “No.” Starting middle school? Yes. Turning 13 and therefore a teenager? Yes. Next year when he starts high school? Definitely will. But this year? Not too climatic for me. I remember the excitement of 8th grade. Being the oldest in your school and impatiently counting down the minutes until you are a high schooler. Being terrified and excited for the entire year. This will be a good year.
This summer has been awesome. I couldn’t have planned a more perfect maternity leave. I got to spend an entire summer with all three kids at home. I doubt that will ever happen again. I hope I did a good job doing fun stuff all summer, even if it was the same fun stuff every day. As evidenced by the million pictures I have of the kids playing in the 12-dollar pool from Wal-Mart. I’m hoping LilZ will look back on this summer fondly and not as That Summer I Was Stuck Home With My Nagging Mom, My Annoying Sister, and My Crying Brother.
I’m thinking not.