At four, you can operate kitchen-grade heavy machinery.
At four you can wear a spacesuit all day.
At four you can hang on my leg as I make you a Dorothy dress while you wear said spacesuit.
At four you can proclaim that "people must still believe God is in the sky because look at how tall that church spire is - the people really want to try and reach him". And disavow any religious interest when your sister proclaims she will "refuse to marry anyone who believes in a god or a religion because I refuse to have my children believe in it" by saying "No Harriet, it's not me. I mean people who believe in God. We can still get married, then".
At four you can run to the door and really believe that the parcel post must have arrived at 7am, serendipitously just before Harriet and Papa leave the house.
At four you can ask me to 'help' build your Gangpa-Nana Lego with you and still make little pieces perform a show.
At four you can miraculously still forget to have lunch.
At four you can just stay awake all day, even with an exciting day and relaxing car trip trhwon in to challenge you.
At four you can make me laugh out loud.
At four you play running games with dogs in the park.
At four you explained to me about how if there was no light nor dark before the big bang then it was "just medium".
At four you are growing up.
At four you are amazing.
At four you fill my heart.
At four you are perfectly Ted.
At four you are, also, still uber-freaking-cool.