Happy First Birthday Oliver Finn!

 How, oh how, can you be one today, Oliver?!  You were never tiny, but you still fit into the crook of my arm.  You came out a large lump, a mass of boy that surprised us with your heft and charm from the very beginning.  You charmed your sister, your parents, your grandparents, your aunt and uncles.

You smiled early.  Crawled early.  Walked early.  Ate mightily from the start and laughed easily and early like we were all simply jesters in your majesty's royal court.  You are my serious little boy.  Your smile has to be earned, much like your dad's, but it creeps across your face and into the most charming little boy grin.  Usually followed by a sound that can only be described as sounding like a seal.

And you slept.  Oh, how you have slept.  Thank you.

You are mischievous.  You pull cords and carbon monoxide detectors and night lights out of the wall sockets with a grin and a look of glee.  You throw food.  And peer over the side of the tray on your high chair to watch as Fiona gobbles it up before one of your tired parents can stop her.

You dance.  A bobbing and bending at the knees that cannot be given justice by description but simply enjoyed whenever a beat comes on the radio or when Zoë and I sing a song in the car or in the living room.  Your whole body shimmies as you pivot on your left foot (the only one you will pivot on thus far).







You insist upon feeding yourself.  Hands, spoon, fork, it doesn't matter.  You want to do it yourself.  Even when you squeeze the veggie pouch too much because you're excited and it squirts up and into your hair, you do it yourself.  You've mastered a quick stab of food with a fork and feeding yourself yogurt with a spoon.

You play with anything Zoë is playing with.  You just want to be near her, doing with her.  And even when she's had it up to here with you following her around, you persist.  I love watching you watch her across the dinner table, or peer across the vast space between your carseats when she's trying to keep you awake on the ride home.  The way your whole body shakes with excitement as you clap and laugh and shake your head at something she does or says.

You laugh and run towards the door when Dad walks in after work.  You stand on tip-toe and watch him leave the house or work in the yard.  You body slam him, all 26+ pounds of you falling on his abdomen (or elsewhere...) with a giggle and then you stand up to do it again.

And, you love me.  You run to me, you whine for me, you insist on Mama holding you over everyone else.  You are becoming so independent, I see it more and more everyday.  But you still come back to check in with me; get a quick hug and then you're off running again.  I love that you back up to me to sit on my lap.  For the first six months of this past year, I responded to "aren't you so glad you have a boy?" with "I'm glad I have an Oliver".  Which, was my way of saying that I didn't know if I was too keen on this boy stuff yet.  Well, I've changed my mind.  You are my boy, my little man, my monkey, my baby.  My backwards-hat-wearing, crawl-around-in-the-dirt, food-shoveling little boy that has stolen my heart.

I'm devastated to technically no longer have a baby in my house.  Nor will I ever again until there are grandchildren playing with the few toys we've already packed away to keep for them.  I hope you know how much I've cherished this year of your baby-hood and how much it changes my own identity to know you are no longer a baby but instead a toddler.  I'm not sure how I'm going to remember how you smelled, slept, or snuggled but I hope these pictures and words can remind me even when you're taller than me and writing words of your own.

I love you sweet boy, my Oliver Finn.