Since sleep doesn’t come easy every time, when I tuck the boys into bed, I tell them they can throw me all their worries, the way kids throw kisses in clenched fists. I catch them, one by one, and tuck each one of them into the pockets of my bathrobe. They don’t tell me what the worries are; they just throw them over to me. And then, of course, the obvious corollary: when I lie down after tucking them in, I empty my pockets of their worries and mine—dear God, dear God, dear God.
