When my son Zeke was two years old, we lived just down the block from his preschool. Every day, I would walk Zeke and his big sister Mikki through the little park to get to their school. Some days, it took five minutes, while other days, it took 25 minutes—especially after rainstorms when the herons were out in droves.

Like many little boys, Zeke had a passion for firetrucks, firefighters, and his favorite Paw Patrol character, Marshall. He also had a fondness for cars, wheels, and excavators. Zeke especially enjoyed pushing his big sister’s hot pink doll stroller, equipped with large wheels. On numerous occasions, he would dress up in his red firefighter outfit and push the hot pink stroller out the front door. Some days, the stroller would be empty, and on others, it carried a doll, a firetruck, a dinosaur, or a collection of stray rocks. Around this time, Zeke was on the verge of becoming a big brother. I observed Zeke's progression from gently rocking the hot pink stroller to gently rocking his newborn sister. He exhibited immense pride in his role as a big brother. It dawned on me that the initially perceived eyesore of a hot pink doll stroller had, in fact, played a crucial role in helping my little guy seamlessly transition into his new role as a big brother.