“I still can’t get used to the fact that you’re in the eighth grade,” I say as I pass Jimmy the salt and pepper. “When I sat down to put all the dates from the school calendar into our family schedule, I kept looking for seventh-grade events.”
“I know,” Jimmy agrees. “It’s weird.”
“I think I know why it seems odd,” Amy pipes up from across the table. “I think you just got so used to Jimmy being in seventh grade. After all, those were three of the best years of his life.”
Rimshot. Sisters. Sheesh.
“Ignore her,” I say, as though he has to be told to do this. Ignoring her is one of Jimmy’s most reliable coping mechanisms, a tactic I support because it keeps him from beating her up.
“Anyway, eighth grade is going to be great,” I say, shooting Amy a raised eyebrow.
“Yea,” Jimmy says noncommittally, “I guess so.”
His reticence is understandable. When seventh grade came to an end in June, he had coped through one of the most challenging years a boy can have. Friendships shifted and changed as peers began morphing into gangly, awkward renditions of their former selves. Some guys got cell phones and screen names and MySpace pages; others just got surly.
Summer came just in time to rescue my son from the prepubescent clutches of middle school hormone overload. He was due for a long break, and he did what every growing 13-year-old boy does to while away the summer: He ate.
And he ate.
And he ate.
When we went out for fast food, he asked if he was allowed to order enough to get full. He ate recreationally. He added “fourth meal” to his daily diet.
Not surprisingly, he grew two pants sizes and a shoe size.
Having watched Jimmy evolve over the course of the past three months, I thought I was prepared for the overall change in his eighth-grade class as this group of young teens resumed school a week ago.
But what did I discover as Jimmy and his classmates gathered on the sidewalk in front of the school? Something was amiss. The eighth-grade boys were appropriately gawky and disproportioned. But the girls … the girls were just plain scary.
There was big, fluffy hair. There was makeup. Lots of makeup. There were high heels and short skirts and purses (no doubt full of extra makeup).
Jimmy and his eighth-grade pals seem to be matriculating with miniature versions of Paris Hilton, though I noted no one had a Chihuahua tucked in her bag. That’s a relief.
I’m not all that shocked to see that the eighth-grade girls have spent the summer learning to apply eyeliner. With two older daughters, I know girls work hard to speed up the clock, appearance-wise. Fortunately, on a scale of one to five — where one is “must I brush my hair?” and five is “why can’t I get fake fingernails?” — my daughters generally landed at about a three.
But now I’m looking at this bunch of young women through the eyes of the mother of a boy. Realizing that girls mature sooner than boys doesn’t diminish my concern that Jimmy’s female classmates could easily pass for licensed drivers, while he exudes all the savvy of a deer in the headlights.
Come to think of it, a deer in the headlights is more sophisticated than your average eighth-grade boy.
The experts say this time of life is a period of “latency” for boys — they’re still consumed with sports and bathroom humor and not so aware that all around them, hormonally charged females of the species are prancing and preening to get their attention.
During this time, girls undergo puberty and experience the social yearnings that go with it, while boys still need to be told to bathe. With soap.
I hope this is true because if my son pays attention to the girls who walked into the building with him on the first day of school, he may land back in seventh grade, where his sister thinks he still belongs.
Of course, nature tends to trump all motherly concerns as far as these things go, and I’m not one to attempt to alter the normal progression of the seasons of life. In fact, I’ve told Jimmy there comes a time when you simply have to go to math class and sit next to a girl who looks old enough to be your baby sitter.
Moreover, there’s not much I can do at this point but keep a careful eye on my son and watch for signs that he needs advice on how to handle the strange creatures sitting at the other end of the lunch table or hanging around his locker.
One of these days, those girls aren’t going to look so scary — not to him, anyway. In fact, given the pace at which my son is growing, I’m guessing they’ll be pretty appealing before the first marking period comes to a close.
Then again, maybe I should stop feeding him quite so much. No need to speed things along, after all.
Columnist Marybeth Hicks, a wife of 20 years and mother of four children, lives in the Midwest. She is the author of “The Perfect World Inside My Minivan — One Mom’s Journey Through the Streets of Suburbia,” a compilation of her columns. She uses her column to share her perspective on issues and experiences that shape families nationwide. Visit her Web site (www.marybeth hicks.com) or send e-mail to marybeth.hicks@comcast.net.
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