let's hear it for the boy

I've been thinking about how so many of my blog or FB status updates concerning my darling son Oliver recently have some negative connotation. The lead-in to Friday's is one example. No question, the boy is a going concern, but sometimes I think I dwell a little bit too much on how ... shall we say energetic? ... he is and I might come off sounding a little, er, ungrateful. I guess sometimes stories with a slight negative spin seem funnier or require venting or just somehow seem more post worthy.

So today, without any special reason in particular to inspire this, I want to take just a moment to rave about my son Oliver. Wolsey. Ols.

So far in my life, I don't think there's been anyone who's inspired such high levels of emotion in me. From the feelings of desperation I had when he was on the operating table at four days old to the giddy happiness we share when dancing around the room to Great Big Sea's Donkey Riding, to levels of anger that make me think my head will explode, this boy has a way of tapping into emotional terrain that has previously been unexplored. For better or for worse.

He's not a big one for cuddles, our boy. I think he finds them confining, or perhaps something that gets in the way of adventuring. So I have to sneak them. When we're reading, for example - one of his favourite pastimes - he'll cozy himself in under my arm and, if his mood is especially congenial, let me stroke his hair. Only before bed, or if I'm saying goodbye, will he condescend to hug and kiss me. A kiss on the lips, a nose kiss and a head bump, in that order, is his crazy little ritual.

While he has a silly streak, he's mostly a serious boy. He grows bored of toys within minutes, and loves to get in there and complete grown-up tasks. When the washing machine needs loading, he's there. I'm planning to get him a child-sized broom and dust pan for Christmas (how un-romantic!) in the hopes that maybe he'll leave the big one alone ... until he's older, anyway. This afternoon he helped Kyle sweep the front entrance and prepare the "garden" for winter.

I wouldn't go as far as to say he's one of those "old soul" type kids, but he certainly has a way about him in conversation that cracks me up. It's like he doesn't realize he's small. When you ask him a question he'll answer "yes," or "jes," with the intonation of a sage.

He loves stories about when Mamma was a little girl, or when Da was a little boy, or when Oliver was a baby or when Ammers was in the hospital (which is really about when Oliver visited her there), and asks to hear them over and over. And over.

Right now, as I type this, he's sitting on the floor reading a Little Golden Book - soaking up the pictures, examining each page carefully, sometimes smiling to himself, before turning the page. Little, unassuming moments like this overwhelm my heart with love.

Oh, I could go on and on and on ... but I know it won't interest you as much as it does me. But then I guess today's post is more for me, this time. And for Oliver, who will appreciate the knowing - at least someday. Because he's that kind of boy.