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Being seven is so last year
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This is serious business.
As some of you know, my daughter recently turned eight. Although I had to abandon my initial plan of having a Bollywood-themed affair (next year?), I still think I did quite well channeling my inner party planner. Well, except for the part where al the girls had to wash the make-up off their faces, and I accidentally licked cold cream off my hand. I thought it was frosting. Who knew that stuff would burn that much? However, I managed to sneak into the bathroom and spit, spit, spit; I don’t think anyone noticed at the time.
Of course, now that the festivities are over, the thank you notes have been written, and all that’s left is a few sad deflated balloons, we are faced with the reality of having an eight-year-old running around the house. As usual, she changes her colors the minute she changes her age; there is no slow and careful process. She is eight and she will behave as eight. Now. Immediately. If you want a grace period, go somewhere else. It’s time for us to reassess her behavior, and see what we’re dealing with.
We’ve noticed eight-year-olds aren’t very funny. Life is serious, and filled with rules and conventions. They can’t just run into the playground and do whatever comes to mind: they have to stand around for ten minutes first, discussing what is going to happen to who, and which things are not allowed. They can’t wear the blue dress today because, it is Tuesday, and they only wear that dress on Mondays or Thursdays. They agree with their friends that everyone will wear a pink hair-thingy to school tomorrow; never mind that they’re not sure they have one: they will tear apart the house to find something pink to stick in their ponytails. They are about as flexible as Queen Victoria.
During recess, they form secret clubs with complicated by-laws, and membership is not optional. Officers are elected, and parameters are set; it is as if they are founding a miniature country, and they spend so much time talking about it, they hardly get to the actual playing. Apparently, the eight-year-olds are in the planning stage.
Usually, when I pick Isabella up from school, I ask how school went. I want to hear about homework, whether she learned anything new, if she ate all her lunch. I am rethinking this. Lately, asking about her day is like answering the phone and finding out it’s someone you don’t want to talk to. I am bombarded with endless rules and regulations, descriptions of the latest secret society and which kids were elected as leaders. The worst part is, I’m expected to remember all the details lest the world comes to an end.
And here I thought I was off the hook for a while; organizing a fabulous birthday party, getting her cool presents, and all those cupcakes: where is my afterglow? Shouldn’t she be talking about this great party for at least another couple of weeks? So I decide to rebel. She may be consumed by day-to-day playground politics; I am going to ignore it and think about that party some more. Once a day, I plan to stare off into space and utter the words: “Wasn’t that party great?” That way, I’ll get some credit, even if I have to give it myself. With a little luck, she’ll be so consumed by tomorrow’s playground board meeting; she won’t even notice how desperate I am.
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