At nine-something this morning, Oliver will officially be four years old. I say nine-something because I can never remember the actual minute because I was unconscious at that particular moment in time. C-sections with general anesthesia are like that.
He is a sweet one, Oliver. A good family friend likes to say Oliver is an absolutely perfect mix of his brothers Porter and Liam. Playful like Liam, quirky sense of humor like Porter, and the tie that makes his brothers look related to one another. Because it’s true that before there was Oliver, Porter and Liam really didn’t look like brothers.
He was a surprise to all of us but really, this family is complete in a way that it would never have been without him. This boy that loves Doc McStuffins and light sabers and things with wheels and soccer balls. This boy with the highest pitch cry I have ever heard come out of a baby’s mouth. This boy that instinctively reaches for my hand every time we get out of the car. without. fail.
Oliver is a wonderful person in his own right. That fact cannot be overemphasized enough.
His turning four, though, makes me retrospective about this journey of motherhood I’ve been on for now eleven and a half years. I’ve grown as a mother–as a person– because of this boy. And I’ll be forever grateful to him because of that.