My son, who will turn 5 in February, is freakishly strong.  He can lift one of my husband’s 15-pound weights—with one hand—and carry it up and down a flight of stairs.  But, tonight, he announced that his superior strength isn’t sufficient; therefore, he will start lifting weights daily.

Two days ago, while he and I were organizing his bedroom, I asked him where he would like the baby’s crib to go—either parallel to his bed, which would result in about three feet between the bed and crib, or along the wall opposite his bed.  With no hesitation, he said the crib most definitely needs to go along the opposite wall because “babies get stinky.”

Tonight, after his bath, we walked into his room, and he pointed to the wall, asking if I remembered that the crib will go there. 

“I remember.”

“I will put the baby in his crib,” he said.  Then, with arms outstretched and palms up, he mimicked carrying a baby, explaining, “I will carry the baby, and I will climb up on my stool and very carefully place him in his bed.”

“That will be a big help.”

But, as we talked before he fell asleep, he said, “I need to lift weights every day to build up my strength.  I have a lot of strength now, but the baby could be so big that he is bigger than my strength.”

“Yes, babies do grow very fast,” I said. 

Of course, I’m not going to let my 4-year-old lift weights, but I am thrilled that he is so excited about his brother’s upcoming birth, that he’s not fazed by having to share his bedroom, that he’s telling me nightly about what he will teach him and how they’ll be friends and play guns together because “boys like guns.”

I can’t wait to see my son in action as a big brother.  And he can’t wait to be one. 

Tonight, he asked, “What day will be baby be born?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “I wish I did.  It will be a surprise.”

“I wish I knew too,” he said.

Sixteen more weeks to go…