Two days ago, Ben threw his smoothie into the baby bassinet and clapped for himself. When I told him "No," he threw his blocks on the floor, screamed, and then kissed me on the mouth.
He sits in his old bouncy seat nearly every day, and he's been trying to climb into the bassinet, despite the consequence of a time out. When I read him his "I'm a Big Brother" book, he turns the pages quickly so the story is over, then hits the book so that it falls onto the floor. He still loves the alphabet book, except for the letter "B," which features a photograph of a baby. "B is for baby," I tell him. He turns the page.
Many people, people who must have forgotten what it was like or who had more mild-mannered children, tell me that Ben will love being a big brother, that he will share and coddle the new addition. These are the people who didn't tell me how painful breastfeeding is or how desperately tired I would be when I had Benjamin, people who only remember the good and who are in denial about the bad.
"No he won't," I want to tell them, but they look so hopeful and happy. I don't want to ruin it. So instead I say, "I hope so." And I do. I really do.
But I'm not counting on it.