I tucked Alexander in to bed this evening, and he called me back for more kisses. His last eight year old kisses. He told me how he was always the littlest one in the house and Jane is better than him at everything. It’s frustrating.
He told me that being eight was wonderful, that there were three perfect games, well two really, one on Mother’s day, and one was a bad call and everyone knows it, but the world counts it as a perfect game. He speaks in code, Major League Baseball is the benchmark.
I told him that I was proud of him, that I think this year he’s gained control of his emotions and he’s getting to be quite generous. I told him that generosity is a sign of maturity, and it’s fun to watch him mature. He told me more about the Yankees.
In the last 364 days he’s made new friends. He told me about a few kids at camp that he’s quite certain that he will be friends with forever. My heart soared. He told me about learning cursive, and what it’s like to be the fourth tallest kid in the class.
I told him that I love being his mother.
I almost understand football enough to nod at the right parts of the story. He rewards me by telling me some of his dreams, though most of them he keeps private.
My son the private child.
We were waiting for the light to change today, and he leaned into me. For the first time I realized I was leaning into him. He’s big enough for that now.
Tomorrow my boy is nine. Our lives are perfect.