That is the day Oliver was born. Four years ago already. I can hardly believe it. My baby is four years old. Four! I will still carry him around if he asks me, although he asks less and less these days, and, really, I can't carry him very far. He's kinda' heavy. Also, he doesn't really ask to get carried. He walks ahead of you, gets right in front of you, stops walking and turns around with his arms up, so you either have to walk around him, over the top of him, or give in and pick him up.
Oliver is the comedian in our family. He has an uncanny sense of timing, it's pretty amazing. He loves to make us laugh, and he loves to be a ham. IF he's in the mood. He can also refuse to have his picture taken, randomly. It makes no sense to me, really. If he makes up his mind about something, THAT IS IT. There is no changing it.
I could go on and on about what an amazing kid Oliver is. He is sweet and loving, always takes his sister's side in an argument, even if I'm trying to advocate FOR him, tells me he loves me-umprompted-all of the time, and will eat just about anything you put in front of him. Except for scrambled eggs and avocados. Oliver hates bandages. HATES, with a deep, burning passion the likes of which I don't think I've seen before. He finally started going down slides by the end of this summer, before that he really had no use for them. I have no idea why. He is stubborn, yes, but so lovable. He is loved universally, wherever we go--Alison's school, my job, the grocery store, the coffee shop, it doesn't matter. People take one look at those big brown eyes and melt. Unless they are made of stone.
Alison is the person who made us parents, but Oliver is the person who completed our family, and in the most awesome way imaginable. Happy Birthday, O-Mac, you adorable, hilarious, lovable, awesome little man.