Dear Oliver,

My third, my youngest, you are always being told what you can and cannot do, what you are and aren’t, by your big siblings and by me. But despite what we say, you do as you see fit. You dive deep into things that interest you and don’t give up until you’ve mastered it like solving the Rubik’s Cube in under 40 seconds and listing every single country in the world in under 6 minutes. You kinda love dance and you kinda like flag football, absolutes mean something to you so you are rare to use them. But your friends, your entire crew of fourteen boys, your girlfriend, your cousins and aunts, and us, absolutely think your funny and clever, smart and sweet, thoughtful and sincere. In some ways I am easy on you and in some ways the hardest and since you are fourteen sometimes you want nothing to do with me and sometimes want me to be everything for you. When I look at you and see how much you’ve grown and how much you are changing, I sometimes get sad because you are my baby but not a baby anymore. And I’ll ask you to cuddle with me and you’ll say “No Mom, that’s weird” but then you’ll relent and give me a hug for as long as I hold on.

By my third you’d think I’d have figured some things out but I still make mistakes, I say the wrong things and I try to define who you are and what you can and cannot do. But luckily you hear what you choose to hear and you know exactly what you can do.