Oliver at 6
Almost two weeks ago, there were half a dozen pirates running around my house, jumping and leaping and ‘arrrgh’-ing. And there was Oliver, giving them orders as to what was happening next. “Ok guys, guys, it’s time for cake now!” “Ok, everyone be quiet! I’m going to open my gifts!”
His confidence in social situations boggles my mind. He walks into the school yard and has no problem talking up older kids he doesn’t really know. That is not me. By a long shot. I hide in my phone or coo at the baby so I don’t have to talk to their parents. The shyness gene got passed to Callum and by-passed Oliver completely. I am glad for him.
Other than that personality feature, he is very much like me. Too much, sometimes. We clash. I suspect him of doing things that I know I would have done when I was little. Often, I am correct.
He tests my patience, he gets up to no good all the time, he talks back, he still has a tantrum-y breakdown if he doesn’t really like what we have to say. He can be completely exhausting.
He loves his brothers passionately, he easily takes his imagination and runs with it, he asks very intelligent questions, he’s always thinking, he’s reading and reading and learning to write properly and asked me to quiz him on multiplication earlier, he can’t stop moving and running and jumping and dancing and singing. He sleeps deeply after every exhausting day.
Happy 6th birthday, Oliver. Keep moving. Wait, stop. Okay, go.