When she responded positively, Oliver let out a relieved breath; one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Now came the difficult part. Explaining without being too big of an oaf and insulting her. He figured she'd probably be a lot less inclined to help if he insulted her. "Okay. You're a mother. With three sons. And you do ... mom things, I guess." He offered her an apologetic look at his severe lack of descriptive skills. He played Quidditch, he didn't write sonnets on his Mother's daily habits. "What would you want for your birthday? You know ... other than a colour charm to hide any grey hair you children may or may not have been responsible for giving you."
Personally, he couldn't imagine how the woman had managed not to package them all up and simply forget all three of them at the market. He still sometimes wondered if she'd attempt it. "I thought maybe a new cloak? Or maybe a book? But then their's new stationary as well." Oliver ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Surely this shouldn't be that hard of a decision. "All I can really say with some assurance is that Quality Quidditch Supplies was a bust. She has many a broken trinket to reminder her who her son is, she doesn't need a Jersey too."
After a moment, he realized just how much information he'd tossed at her and flushed some. A hand automatically reached up to tug slightly on his earlobe, a habit left over from his childhood that indicated his embarrassment further. "Sorry. Didn't mean to dump that on you."