She sat down at the counter for breakfast and smirked. “Last day of being eight.”
She was waiting for me to say something sappy. “Get your backpack, babe, and get packed for school. Let’s get totally ready for the bus and then we can ruminate on the matter of your birth.” She rolled her eyes.
As she packed her stuff she said “I am going to be nine tomorrow but I am still very immature.” I looked up from making lunches. “We are studying the duties of local government and every time…” that’s as far as she got before I started laughing. “I know, right? Duties. I am the only that laughs. In my whole class.”
“Do you think you will still laugh when you’re nine?” I asked her.
“Yeah. Because that is only one day from now and we have state duties and national duties to talk about still. But I’ll laugh really quiet.”
I am not sure how to break it to her. There is an incredibly good chance that she will not ever grow out of this potty humor phase. At 38 years old I am still yukking it up over here.
You will get an appropriate birthday letter this week but for today – enjoy being eight. Maturity is overrated. Pierced ears will surely fulfill your need to grow up a bit, no need to stop laughing at poop jokes abruptly.