Scary stories from a lovely place
My Little Deer is three years old today.
As of Friday little Oisín is no longer my youngest son, he is now my middle son, the middle child in our family. Perhaps in true middle child fashion, I feel as though his birthday is too low key. We gave him a cool present and his Irish grandparents lit candles and sung him happy birthday over Skype. I think we’re having hot chips for lunch. And I’ll probably let him eat as much candy as he wants this afternoon. But other than that, my mind is certainly focussed elsewhere.
It’s been interesting holding another little darkish skinned Irish baby in my arms this week. A few times I’ve called the new baby ‘Oisín’. I had a weird experience this morning sitting in bed next to the new little guy while holding Oisín and helping him open his present. As I stroked Oisin’s hand I was struck by how big it was, how un-baby it was, how he is not a baby, not a toddler, but a boy, still little, but certainly closer now to being a big kid. I expected to be holding a skinny, little, wrinkly baby hand. My baby boy is not my baby anymore.
Oisín is like his dad in so many ways. Dark, likes motorbikes and utes, talks in his sleep, is an extrovert and cute. And a little bit manipulative with the cuteness. He’s also a bit impulsive and gets bored easily. He loves his older brother and making orange juice and cutting up fruit. He is scared of chickens and wind. He is wonderful.
Happy birthday kid.