It is early in the morning and I am getting the kids ready for school. I am sitting on my bed and reaching across to the set of drawers that contain Declan’s clothes. They are all labeled with Tova’s handwriting in bold magic marker colors: underwear, pants, shirts, sweaters. Declan is able to identify the drawers by looking at the pictures Tova has taped next to the words, but still requires my taking the clothes out each morning. He is standing beside me, as he always does, waiting for the process to begin. He will also need for me to help him put his clothes on, as this process eludes him; he lacks what his doctors and therapists call motor planning. That is, while his brain knows the goal of the task, it cannot quite determine the steps that need to be taken in order to make it happen. The conductor of his body’s orchestra is sound asleep. “Hands up,” I say, and I pull his pajama top over his head. He rubs his bare chest with his hands and waits for me to put on his shirt. I can’t help but to pause and look at him, his tiny shoulders, his little boy belly, just standing there, trusting my every move. He knows no differently. He patiently waits to be manipulated. He doesn’t know that Tova is in the other room, carefully choosing each piece of clothing as if preparing for the Oscars. She will emerge wearing what I can only describe as simply the best combination of clashing colors and patterns that render the outfit and her perfect. He has never paid any attention to the clothes that I put on him. Only, as I go to put a light blue turtle neck on this morning, he stops me and says, “no, not that one.” Stunned, I ask him which shirt he would like to wear. He rummages through the shirt drawer and pulls out a black t-shirt with the batman logo across the front. I slow down as I always do at these moments, to take in what is happening, to give him the room to take the giant step he is taking, to not get in his way. “Okay!” I say, and I help him to put it on. “Why this shirt?” I ask, hoping that I am not pushing my luck. Declan is six, and for the first time, I think, he might actually care about what he is wearing. For many parents, this might not be something new; but for us, it is groundbreaking. To be caring about how he presents to his peers means that he is beginning to develop “theory of mind”; that is, learning to put himself in another’s shoes and to consider their perspective. I look over at him. He is admiring the shirt he has chosen in the mirror. He runs his hand over the batman decal on the front, then spontaneously makes a muscle and a superhero face to match it. Then he answers me. “Because I want to be an awesome guy.”