​​I was thirty-five years old, lying on a somewhat faded ocean themed duvet breastfeeding my four-month-old son Arthur, during a moment of retreat from my seven other children.Bursting through the door were two of my sons fighting with train track pieces that they had turned into swords. My four-year-old son Isaiah shouted, “Mom . . . .  MOM . . . . MOM! Dominic is trying to hurt ME!!!” Dominic was eight and the creator of many pirate fighting and dragon wars games. He’s creative and loving, but often the one who begins many wrestling matches in the house. ​Baby Arthur continued to nurse quietly and close his eyes even though Isaiah had found his place on the bed next to us. I begged Dominic to calm down, but he leaped off my desk swivel chair at the foot of the bed and dashed towards me. “Mom, it isn’t my fault,” he said. ​“I don’t care if it wasn’t your fault,” I said, “Please find a way to work this out. Arthur is almost asleep.” …