So the lad turned three years old this weekend.
We went down to Oregon for a big ol' party with his favorite cousin, who celebrated her fifth birthday last week, too. The theme was Mexican - it was a fiesta of sorts, with Mexican food and Mexican beer. Our hosts made "burrito" cakes for the birthday kids. The burrito was pretty clever - the inside was a jellyrolled cake. The "tortilla" was ganache, rolled into an oblong shape and draped over. The "salsa" was made with strawberries, with bits of banana and kiwi for color.
They even made a piñata. (Rule #1 for anyone who ever wants a piñata at any sort of party: always make sure that you a stick strong enough to handle some bashing. The kids were using a plastic broom handle, and it bent before the piñata dented. Eventually, we had to resort to a wooden shovel handle.
Oliver had a blast. Because we were on the road for his birthday, he didn't get his big birthday present until we came home. I don't want to speak for Oliver, but I think it was worth the wait.
I'm going to have to write another post in depth about what it means that he's three. He has changed so much in a year that I can't even grasp all of the changes. He's a little person now. We can talk to him, he can carry grocery bags out of the car, he comments on our conversations.
He's a big boy now. It's preposterous to call him my baby anymore, and yet I still get to carry him sometimes to his bedroom, draped over my arms. And sometimes, I sing him lullabies to get him to sleep just like in the early days. And sometimes, when I lay down in his big boy bed and watch him fall asleep with his arm slung over me, I just watch him. I watch my baby as his gentle breaths come and go, his tiny lips moving slightly with each breath. And I see the adult that he will become, and I see the baby he is and he always will be. He's an amazing person, this thing of wonder, this boy of mine, my beautiful son Oliver.
Wonder - Colin Meloy
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