My son gets his size from me. I expected that; I just didn’t expect him to get it so quickly. He’s not a year old yet–he actually has a way to go still–but he’s rapidly approaching the size of a full grown adult… elephant. (I’m exaggerating, but not as much as you might think.)
When we put him next to other babies, he looks like a member of a different species. Perhaps a species that grows bigger by absorbing other babies. It’s a little bit frightening, so we keep a bit of distance between them. Soon he’ll be able to crawl though, and then we might need to lock other babies outside. That’ll work until he discovers that he’s strong enough to crawl through walls.
If he had green skin, we would license him to Marvel. He has a somewhat limited skill set–they would probably need to tailor their movies to include more suckling and falling over–but he’s getting better at smashing.
All of this is a surprise. We’re not sure why. Our daughter has always been large, something I should really stop saying before she becomes a teenager. We take her out in public and worry that people will think bad things about her, because she seems like an obnoxious and immature eight-year-old. In fact she’s merely an energetic but conspicuously enormous three-year-old.
When I sort laundry, I have trouble telling my daughter’s clothes from my wife’s. Admittedly, that might be more my problem.
In any event, we’ve joked that my son is as large as he is because God knew he would need some sort of advantage to survive growing up with his sister. Being a mastodon gives him a certain degree of sturdiness, which is a useful defense against the unregulated affections of a three year old who thinks full speed collisions and climbing on a person’s head are a signs of affection.
Granted, I pity her when the tables are turned in a few more months.
Additionally, imagine how big God will have to make our next child to survive life with both of them!