On July 16, the oldest child in our house turns 8.  This shouldn’t seem like that big of a deal.  It’s still single digits.  Our state and federal governments confer no additional privileges upon 8-year-olds.  She won’t change schools.  It should just be another number signifying that she’s still a decade away from moving out (i.e., not soon).  Right? Not to me. 1983–the year I turned 8–was huge.  In a way, it was the beginning of my childhood.  That fall, we moved to Hendersonville, Tennessee after moving 6…