Dinnertime again in a typical house on a typical day in America. The mother’s hands are elbow deep in dishwater when she hears a little gasp across the kitchen as her 6-year-old shuts the fridge. Mothers know these small but significant sounds. She turns to survey the damage while shutting off the water and listening for the overflow of boiling water from a simmering pot. “What happened, honey?” “Nothing,” says the 6-year-old. Mommy walks over and looks hard at the little one who is now bracing herself spread-eagled against the fridge as if all hell is about to break out. Interruptions When I had my first couple of children, scenes like this were still new to me and, quite frankly, I didn’t handle them well inwardly even if I may have handled them well outwardly. My children’s mistakes left me feeling disrupted as if their upbringing wasn’t my main purpose. …