This week, my only child turns eight.  While this isn’t a momentous milestone, it feels like a transition to me.  My baby…toddler…preschooler…kindergartner… is now my little boy with his own opinions, thoughts, questions, stubbornness (I have no idea where he gets it), and an incredible sense of humor.  I love him because he is outgoing but also introspective, courageous but with a sliver of trepidation that causes him to reach for my hand or look to me for answers before acting on impulse.  He is cautious but not afraid to try…with friends, with school, and even with himself.  I see him stand along boundaries and question the next move.  And I applaud with my heart when he takes the leap.

With this transition of turning eight, I felt a need for change.  In my home, we have two master bedrooms and two smaller bedrooms.  This past weekend, we moved him to the other master bedroom, redecorated, gave him a TV, video games and video chairs, and told him that was his new room.  He went to my sister’s house the day before while we worked on it until midnight and then the next day we covered his eyes, led him up the stairs and said, “Here you go!”  And he went…jumping on his bed, rocking in his chairs, and laughing, as if to say, “Thank you for letting me grow up a little right now.”

 When we decorated the nursery eight years, we put him in one of the smaller rooms.  It felt safe, like that’s where an infant should be.  Even during the dark midnight feedings when I would be dreary-eyed and wander by instinct down the hall like Pavlov’s dog reacting to his cry in the baby monitor by my bed, that room was a haven.  Sometimes I barely opened my eyes as I lifted him from his crib, fed him and rocked him back to sleep. 

I realized while taking down the decorations from his walls this past weekend that every bit of him was reflected in that small room.  His first drawings of Scooby Doo.  His Tae Kwon Do trophies.  An old Thomas the Train chair sitting ragged in the corner.  An enormous plush Elmo, stuffed with love into a corner of the closet – present but hidden so his friends wouldn’t see it.  A library of books ranging from Dr. Suess to The Magic Tree series.  Oh how he grew in that room! Like a construction crew, my husband and I toiled, taking piles of old toys and clothes to charity and trash to the dumpster.  His old room was transformed into a beautiful new guest room; his new room now the next chapter of his life.

When the dust settled, I stopped and looked around, projecting into the future on a day when he might be headed off to college.  I saw an older, more aged version of myself looking around his room and remembering the day when we led him up the stairs and said, “Here you go!”

What would I wish I had taught him before he left our home?  The very things I believe he has already grasped.  Never be afraid to try…with friends, with love, and even with yourself.  When you stand on the edge of your boundaries, be wise enough to stop and think.  Pull back when your gut says no.  Jump with all of your might and courage when your heart says yes.  And know, no matter what, know that you are loved.

Turning eight isn’t a big deal, really.  No major milestone, right? Yet I feel like I’ll remember this birthday forever.   Over the years I have struggled with guilt, self-doubt and worry about my role as a mother.  I have sometimes belittled myself because I work.  Worried that he somehow lost out because I wasn’t there 24/7.  But I seem him – thriving, and I remember that I’m doing okay too.  Last night I heard him sing to himself in the shower.  A happy kid.  And I sighed, thankful.

I hear that the next ten years are the tough ones.  God grant me the grace. The patience.  The love.  And the wisdom to remember that he is struggling to remember when to jump, when to leap, and when to hold back.  And also the wisdom to know that as a mother, so am I.

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