When two became five in 1974, you learned the drill quick, took it all in your stride. (When nappies became diapers, you stormed that bridge too.) A real trooper, said your husband – briefcase under his arm, car keys around a forefinger, blowing you a kiss. Grade school to high school, training wheels to parking passes, ABCs to SATs: a military operation, second to none. Then one quiet morning (in mid-1995), you stand at attention by the sink, watching dust motes twirling in empty space, two eggs boiling dry in a pan, and you realize: there’s nothing left to guard.