Every night before Dylan goes to sleep, I ask him if he has any worries to give me. It’s a silly gesture, but it makes both of us feel better for some reason. He hands me some imaginary load of 8 year old problems – things that I am happy are the full extent of his worries - like what kind of pea shooters to plant to battle the zombies, and how to outlast everyone in the Gaga pit at recess, and who or what makes those shadows under the dark corner of his desk at night. I always pretend to catch them, like an imaginary football. I tell him he doesn’t have to worry anymore, that he can rest easy, I’ll carry his load for him that night. I guess I’m just reminding him I’m his Mother. This is what we do, right? But we don’t just carry them. We are magicians of sorts. We use them, we spin them into questions and dreams, we use them and we build on them. We teach them how to look at them in the morning with fresh eyes: to see them as new fuel for love and strength, and from stuff to lea...