Oliver Duncan Lowell Rukavina turned 12 years old yesterday. We celebrated with breakfast the day before with uncle, aunt and cousins, and then, last night at supper, with a sushi supper with friends new and old.
One of the things about Oliver is that he doesn’t do anything halfway: he either does it, or he doesn’t do it, and the transitions between one state and other more “blamo” than “gentle evolution.”
This has been true of many things — sitting up, crawling, walking, Googling — and it was true of being born too. Oliver, after two days of unconscious teetering on the edge of life, just, one morning, turned on as a healthy, full-formed, fully present little kid:
That was, by coincidence, the day he got his name, meaning the nurses could stop calling him “Baby Male Miller.”
Raising Oliver with Catherine is a tremendous joy; I can’t imagine my life without either of them. Happy Birthday, Oliver.