Children are anarchists.
I've witnessed my middle son stencil his initials in the carpet with crayon, in front of God and grandparents, then express genuine surprise that anybody's upset. I've seen my oldest son balance precariously on a footstool at the top of the stairs, naked from the waist down, reaching for a balloon, and realized that he interrupted a trip to the bathroom to do it. I've watched all three, unprompted and unsupervised, wash my car. Consider my alarm when, despite several months of protests, both of us ended up at the front of the church as part of the wedding party. There we stood in our matching tuxedos, me sweating with eyes darting about nervously, he gnawing on the wooden altar rail behind me.