"I'm learning to sing a sad song when I'm sad.
I'm learning to say I'm angry when I'm very mad.
I'm learning to shout,
I'm getting it out,
I'm happy, learning
Exactly how I feel inside of me
I'm learning to know the truth
I'm learning to tell the truth
Discovering truth will make me free."
Sometimes. Just sometimes, you can see a crack open up in that incomprehensible two-and-a-half year old brain that drives your sweet child to pee on the floor even as he is screaming, refusing to sit on the potty (despite that you have not suggested he do anything of the sort). Sometimes it is while Fred Rogers, patron saint of small children and marionettes, is singing the truest words you've heard since the last time he sang the truest words you've ever heard. And that adorable floor-peeing despot will stop ripping up puzzle pieces, stand up and stare at the TV like Mr. Rogers is peering straight into his very soul, then approach you and say, "Mama, sometimes I'm a rascal because I feel something inside, like a crinkly feeling or something. I just want to play. I get intense. I'm sorry, Mama." And if he were alive, you would book a flight to Pittsburgh that very second to throw yourself at Fred Rogers' worthy feet.