It hardly seems possible because, you know, I’m practically still in high school, but Simon turned 10. We’ve been parents for a decade. He’s been teach us for that many years. It doesn’t make any sense to me, and yet I can’t argue with the math, nor with the evidence that my butterball of a baby is old enough to help out quite a bit with my other (less buttery) butterball of a baby.
We talked about what 10 year olds can do and decided that they could probably ride their bikes to the library by themselves (a little over half a mile). They could probably go to the grocery store to buy a few things (on our same block). They could be left home alone for over an hour. And they can be left in charge of 1-year-old brothers for . . . not very long. They can also, with supervision, make ice cream. (Though, sadly enough, they haven’t really done it yet.)
And while all of those things could happen, the only big change we’ve made so far is to let him use real dishes, instead of the plastic IKEA kidsware. Haha. It’s a silly thing, but we wanted him to feel and see that he is growing up, and that we notice it too.
I would love to write a novel about all of the wonderful things Simon is and does, but I don’t think that could really do justice to the boy and what he means to our family. Even if he has started rolling his eyes at me occasionally and being embarrassed by our family. Sigh. They really do grow up so fast.