It means you end up doing a lot of things on your birthday you'd rather not do. Like getting up, completing homework, keeping a schedule - crap like that. Max's eighth birthday was today, all day, but really, it was Saturday, the day the above picture was taken. I'm still in kind of stunned disbelief that he's eight. And that's still younger than all of his friends, most of whom have been eight for months now. The last big birthday bash for one of these guys in the picture was back in early August, I think. But here, for your consideration, is how Max spent his last weekend as a seven-year-old.
On Saturday, he got up at 8:30 or so, watched a NEW Phineas & Ferb episode (time travel!) and ate pancakes. He then went to the Hillwood Strike and Spare where he spent the next three hours and change bumping bumper cars, shooting his friends with lasers, playing games, roller skating, eating pizza and cake, and winning pointless crap. It was awesome, and I have a blister on my hand from the bumper cars. Max had the high score in laser kills three games out of four. Abby does not like bumper cars. After that, we hung at a friend's house for a while and played with swings, mud, and balls of various kinds. After a hurried Five Guys meal, we hit a pre-season Preds game (Thanks, Keith!) where Max showed what he assures me is a respectful but newly attentive interest in the dancers. We crashed late that night after opening some presents and playing some Pokemon.
Sunday - He spent some of his gift money and built stuff. Football was watched, and Ron's delicious red beans and rice were consumed. It was far lower key.
Max at eight is wondering when we will let him swear ("You have to pick your audience and situations very carefully, and even then, it's not a good idea to get too comfortable with it."), loves building toys the best, but will construct things to play with out of almost anything else and will study the instructions (when available) for options and variations, but still cannot follow a conversation if TV interrupts his train of thought. He is a master speller, often invents new games with his old games, and reads constantly. He does not like school, but enjoys his gifted classes more this year than last. He thinks about time travel, black holes, space, alternate dimensions and theoretical physics (though he wouldn't call it that) a lot. He is picking up flag football, and managed 50 catches in a row last week without missing one. We practice together. He has begun to eat huge amounts of food. Max does not understand why people sculpt when they could just paint, and has finally seen the value of a good villain in fiction. He both loves and is massively annoyed by his sister. Of his three goldfish, Rick, Spot, and Demon, Spot is over a year old. He is a slob whose room often has a mess than goes from the door into the bed. He typically sleeps on three books and at least one dirty pair of socks. Max doesn't talk during movies, but he screams a lot when playing around, and the sound will break your skull. He can't remember the names of people he doesn't care about or hasn't seen in a while. He loves sour candy, orange and lime sodas, Pokemon, Spider-Man, Teen Titans, and the aforementioned Phineas & Ferb. He is weirded out by twins, religion, and country music. Girls are both awesome and gross, depending upon whether he remembers to think of them as girls. He is often the leader of games his friends play. He likes "jazz, hip-hop, rock n' roll, and computer music." He thinks Mos Def is possibly the greatest entertainer on the planet, and wants a Mos Def T-shirt. He never sleeps without music on and a flashlight in his bed.
Of course, there's more. But giving you all of it would be cheating.
Happy 8th, Max.