One Year.

I want to be happy; I should be cursed for crying. My baby is one. One year old.

I never thought I'd feel this way; the bittersweet division of two wants. I want him to grow, flourish, develop. Yet.

I want him to stay one forever.

I keep telling myself the best is yet to come. That I have 4 more years of 'baby' (6 is my cut-off point; that is when they stop being cute and start being annoying).

We went for a walk yesterday. It was the first time the weather has been nice enough to go out since Oliver became a pro at walking in shoes. I set him down at the top of the driveway and encouraged him to follow me. He took one wide-eyed look at the 'big, outside place' and immediately whined.

But, being the trooper that he is, he reluctantly walked down the driveway, clutching one of my fingers with his fat little hand. Then he saw his Daddy at the bottom of the driveway and he was a little braver.

We walked a small section of our little street. When he had Mommy on one side and Daddy on the other, clutching each of our fingers, he was brave, stomping and humming, so proud of himself, excited to be out in the sunshine.

But as soon as we let him go, he was a leach around my leg.

I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy this show of dependency; Oliver is the type of boy who would rather be free than cuddle. I take what I can get from him.

In moments like these, I'm sad knowing that one day he'll be too big to grab my legs and hide. Even though I'm just in the beginning of his life, I can't stop myself from thinking about him as an adult. Some people miss their lives by rushing through them; I think I miss mine by thinking too hard about it. I try to enjoy the moment too much--and I end up feeling sad.

We had a nice weekend--it is utterly heartwarming to see a community of people gather to celebrate the life of my son, to honor him. I see genuine smiles and laughter from people that aren't his biological family when he dances with one shoulder and my heart is warm and full; to know that people love him who don't have to love him is my own secret victory.

I often tell Ollie that he is perhaps the most loved boy in the world. It's been my mission this year to build for Oliver a community of family; so that he will never be able to question whether he was loved or not. His biological family alone adores him, worships him in a way I hope isn't reserved for the first born.

But, that love is something familiar to me. I am special to my family and therefore my children are special.

There is nothing that stitches up the wounds of a family like a new child. I've seen it first hand. The love of a child cleanses the bitterness; heals old, festering wounds; unites us in a way that before would have been impossible. I, too, have been changed. I can't help but love the people who love my child.

So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.

Now he can call the dogs and ask for Dada and dance to the opening music to the 'Office'. He can walk across the room to give you a kiss when you ask for one and throw his bottle out of the highchair on purpose; he can do wrong and know he's doing wrong; he can miss you when you leave; he is happy when you return.

One year.

By the end of our walk, we stood at the open mouth of our driveway. Oliver relaxed as soon as we were in our yard, his yard. I remember the first time we tried to play outside--he could barely stand in the grass with shoes on. Now he can navigate over the uneven stones of the path with ease; pulling himself up when he stumbles.

We watched with amused and amazed eyes as Oliver caught a glance of his kitties. He rounded the corner of the house and went out of view. We waited to hear his cry when he realized he was alone. After a few moments of silence, we peeked around the house. We laughed at our one year old chasing the cats up the driveway, completely alone, without a care in the world.

When we finally snuck up behind him, he was shaking the fence and saying his hello to Boo on the other side. He didn't even acknowledge that we suddenly appeared; maybe he knew we were near the entire time. Or maybe he considers the cats the comfort equivalent of his parents.

Either way, it was so Oliver we couldn't help but beam with pride.