Kristy Etheridge

It’s five o’clock rush hour on Wednesday afternoon, and I’m trying to think happy thoughts on my weekly one-and-a-half-hour drudge through Nashville to visit my friends Chase and Paige. The drive itself is easily my least favorite part of the week, but as I arrive and see their 3-year-old daughter come running out to meet me, the tension melts away, and I’m reminded that I’m getting a more-than-fair deal. This is my weekly pilgrimage.

In our household, bedtime is confessional—at least for my 10-year-old, who rattles off his fears, sins, and secrets once his little sister drifts to sleep in the bottom bunk. After a day of baseball camp this summer, the top bunk grew quiet before the reveal. “Hey, Mama? A kid showed me something on his phone today, and it freaked me out.” “What did you see, sweetie?” “I don’t really know. It was some kind of monster, and it was eating a person.