Never, in the history of my children being school aged, have I been emotional about their moving up the grade ranks... Oh, I've been surprised that suddenly I had a Kindergartner, or a 3rd grader or my Lord, a middle schooler... but never hit hard by the reality.
Until this year.
And it's 8th grade that is doing me in.
You know what 8th grade means, right? It means high school is literally lurking around the corner, waving it's grown up wave at my son. And once we're in high school it's just a fast track to college to his own apartment in a new town to jobs and dearbabyjesus please give me a time machine so I can just go back as he goes forward.
Back to his chubby toddler cheeks and curls and snugly little body that napped with me.
Back to Thomas the Tank Engine and booster seats and sippy cups.
Back to when I was the most important person in his life... I'm selfish, I want, in so many ways, my little boy back.
But that isn't going to happen. And so I have to send him to 8th grade. And a little further out into the world.
I love him so much and I worry about how much I want to still teach him... how much I want to share with him... and I know what a fucking maudlin drama ass I sound like.
And so I'm going to strive to make his world a little smaller this year... a few less hours with his friends and a few more hours with me... because finally, finally I see it... what everyone tells you from the minute your child is born... it really does go too damn fast.
I didn't take this photo... I stole it off one of his friend's FB pages...