Oliver, Ollie, The Big O, My Dessert is now TEN YEARS OLD.
He went to bed last night saying that his last day as a nine year old wasn't so good. There had been arguments at school about handball and one kid mouthed the "F" word at him when Oliver objected to his idea for their group project. Today is the first day of California standardized testing at school -- who wants to take tests all day when you've been alive for a decade? When Henry reminded him that he was born at 1:15 in the afternoon on the 10th which technically gave him at least another morning until mid-afternoon to be nine years old, he perked up. Do you have a watch I can wear, he asked me. I want to tell the teacher when I'm ten.
Oliver, Ollie, The Big O was my Dessert, my little last baby who nestled his baby head in the space between my chin and shoulder and rested there for what seemed like years until he pushed himself down and became the fired-up, nearly impossible, brilliantly funny, thrilling child he is today. I've written about him here and here if you're new to my blog and need some dessert.
Happy Birthday, Oliver!
I love you so much it's outrageous.