Oliver is One

This time last year I could be found mall walking. I had a regular route by this point, a route that not-so-coincidentally brought me past an Auntie Anne’s 14 times in an hour. This was partly due to the fact that there are approximately 27 Auntie Anne’s in this mall (okay, 3, but still- 3? In one mall? Seriously?), and so if I didn’t want to pass one, I’d have had to limit my route to just the Target, Dollar Store and Karate place on one end. But it was also partly due to the fact that I was about to finish up my 41st week of pregnancy, and yet… still no baby. I waddled that mall every day that last week, in the desperate hopes that it would trigger something to just bring active labor on already, for the love of Auntie Anne! I mean, I’d been having contractions– painful contractions– for weeks by this time. I was even multiple centimeters dilated. And nothin’.

I wouldn’t go into labor until Christmas Eve afternoon. That is the day that my little Oliver chose to officially join his family, and DUDE we have not been the same since. Finally, FINALLY I am not the only one in this family to go back for seconds after we’ve had dinner! He’s a healthy eater, my boy. (I may have mentioned this a time or two before.) He has, on more than one occasion, eaten the dinner that Ethan either couldn’t (due to his walnut-sized stomach already having been filled) or deigned too “yucky” for his sophisticated tastes (wherein “sophisticated” = MORE KETCHUP PLEASE BRING ON THE KETCHUP), in addition to his own. This makes him squishy, and roly-poly, and I love it. I have been known to snack on his belly, thighs, neck and fingers, and of course, go back for seconds.

Most days, he wakes up laughing. This has a lot to do with a bad habit we’ve gotten into: he wakes up at about 5:30am. Neither Jeff nor I feel this is an Acceptable wake-up time. BUT if we don’t go right in and get him, he will have his older brother up, too. Which means that instead of just being up early with a baby, we will be up early with a baby and a small monster, who fight and yell at each other. So Jeff goes in and gets him before the monster has been awoken, and brings him into our bed, where we spend the next hour or so pretending that Oliver will fall peacefully back to sleep, and then so will we. It never happens this way. Instead, Oliver lies there harassing whichever parent happens to be closest: poking them in the eyes, smacking their cheeks, pulling their hair, sticking his fingers in their nose, ears, mouth, whathaveyou. And all the while, giggling. Bouncing and giggling. He is always up for a laugh, and will quickly figure out if he’s done something funny so that he can do it again. He is totally secure enough in his babyhood to don the ladybug hat and mask if it means getting a laugh.

We are so lucky to have him. Not only because lots of words rhyme with ‘Ollie,’ making for a plethora of nicknames (ballie… dolly… my personal fave, tamale…), but you know, ’cause he’s cool. And he’s funny and weird at the same time, so he fits right in. And also, he rocks an awesome head of hair first thing in the morning. So happy birthday to my one-year-old baby Oliver. I wish I could slow time, just a little. But since I can’t, I’m going to try my hardest to enjoy every moment. Every poopy, mysterious-swallowed-item,which-brother-hit-which-brother-first, tear-filled moment. From what I hear, I’ll be wishing I could have those moments back someday.