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I cannot fathom the jumbled passions which must swirl through his soul.

The moment he awakens, he’s plunged in a hot bath of screaming frustration over his wet pants and too-tight jammies. He attempts to rip them off but cannot; his ire burns brighter because in the next crib over, his sister easily climbs out of her clothes.

He pulls himself up by the crib railings, then uses them for balance while bouncing on the mattress. Each jump adds to the magnitude of the previous one, which is such great fun that soon he’s screaming with laughter. It’s only a matter of time until a single prodigious leap will send him hurtling forth to freedom. Painful freedom.

I listen to this as I crawl through my morning routine. When finally I am clean and decent, I approach their room, where giggles issue forth. “Open the door, open the door!” they shriek from inside. There is nothing wrong with their hearing. They know I’m listening on the other side.

No matter how little I’ve wanted to wrench myself from dreaming quiet, I can’t help but smile before the doorknob’s twist officially starts our day. “Mommy!” they both screech, and the boy’s face beams at me over the crib railing. He’s managed to get one arm and his rear out of his jammies. His diaper holds on by one twisted tab.

My first order of business is to loose him from his bonds and set him naked on the floor. He is overjoyed. He circles the room, thrilled at the self-generated breeze on his tiny behind and his tek-i-cells, a pronunciation I can not bring myself to correct as he screams the word again and again while running.

As I retrieve the girl from her bed, the boy begins a toddler-ish ritual. The closet doors must be opened and closed, endangering wee fingers with each slam. Then the light must be shut off. If God forbid I have failed to turn it on, he will turn it on just so it can be shut off properly, as only he can.

And if someone gets to it before he does? Oh boy.

The child is then compelled to shut the room’s door, which becomes problematic as he’s not yet learned that people should be out the door before closing it will work. When his efforts are impeded by mother or sisters, he collapses into a kicking flailing puddle, enraged once again that his will was crossed.

When the doors are shut to his liking, we attempt to make our way downstairs. You might think that one determined adult could herd two toddlers down the stairs without fuss or the use of a cattle prod, but the slippery little devils break free every time. The boy realizes he’s forgotten a door; he’s furious when I refuse him re-entry to the upstairs. Rarely can we progress down the stairs in a linear fashion.

When we arrive on level ground, he races for the downstairs bathroom door, carelessly left open by its last occupant. He is filled with ecstasy, which only increases when he stops in the middle of the floor, stark naked and with The Lightbulb of New Recognition flaming above his head. “I xxxxxx-ey,” he proclaims, one hand pressed proudly to his chubby belly. “I xxxxxx-ey, you Mom!” he says again, then “I xxxxxx-ey! I xxxxxx-ey! I xxxxxx-ey!”

He’s himself. He’s his own person. And one way or another, he’s going to make sure that we’re all very clear about that fact.