What the Crap Is 8 Years Old?

I’m going to be really honest. I have never felt more mentally challenged, emotionally exhausted, or completely inadequate than I have parenting my eight-year-old son.

Now, before anyone jumps in with “Just wait until he’s 11” or “Oh, 16 is even worse,” I hear you. I’m sure there are big, wild, emotional years ahead. But here’s the thing. I’m not there yet. Right now, I’m in year eight. And I am struggling.

I feel like a mom who’s fairly seasoned in toddlerhood. Two-year-olds? Been there. Done that. Survived tantrums, potty training, clingy phases, and full-on irrational rage over the color of a cup. But eight? What the actual crap is eight? No one warned me that age eight comes with the emotional fire of adolescence and the logic skills of a squirrel with too many acorns.

Axel is a whole person now. He has thoughts. Big ones. Ideas and opinions, and a fierce sense of justice and independence. I love that about him. Truly. I can see the man he’s going to become.

But sweet mercy, parenting him right now feels like trying to coach someone who thinks they invented the game. He’s convinced I know nothing. And I mean nothing. I, the woman who literally made him. Carried him. Fed him. Taught him how to wipe and zip and speak and tie and pray. Suddenly, I know less than Google and his eight-year-old best friend, whose mom “lets him climb the roof and eat Lunchables in his Xtratufs. Why can’t I?” Meanwhile, I’m over here just trying to keep him alive and preferably off the roof.

The backtalk? Constant.

The boundary testing? Relentless.

The logic? Painfully flawed, but delivered with absolute confidence. Which, I am glad he has, but sometimes… just no. You cannot put every single fan in the house next to the playset to create a strong enough wind to form a tornado, nor will it be big enough to launch you into the air!

I try to hold it together. I really do. But some nights, I lie awake wondering,

“Am I screwing this up?”

“Am I a good mom?”

“Why does this feel harder than it should?”

I haven’t felt this level of parenting whiplash since he was two or three. But back then, I expected it. Toddlers are wild cards. This? This hit me like a rogue Nerf dart to the eyeball.

Whatever the reason, this season has been hard.

And if you’re reading this thinking, “Oh my gosh, same,” then hi. Welcome. You are not alone. Because here’s the truth. I love my son. Fiercely. I see his heart. His fire. His humor, tenderness, and the goodness bursting from his soul. But parenting isn’t just about loving your kids. It’s also about holding boundaries, managing your own nervous system, and learning how to respond to tiny humans who sometimes feel like emotional tornadoes, literally and figuratively.

So here I am, in the thick of eight, just hoping I’m not ruining my child. Hoping I’m not raising a future daredevil who thinks wind tunnels can be homemade with three box fans and a dream, but let’s be honest, he will probably be a daredevil. I hope I am doing at least one thing right.

And to the moms with older kids, if you’ve made it past eight and still have your sanity and your kid turned out okay, please chime in.

Seriously.

Tell me it levels out. Tell me he might stop trying to engineer natural disasters in the backyard. Tell me I won’t always have to negotiate basic safety like I’m in hostage talks. Because right now, I’m not sure if I’m raising a child or surviving one. Maybe it is both. 

One thing I have loved to watch, was him develope his own sense of autonomy and of course style. Currently we have a thing for extra long socks for every occasion.