Maybe raising children was just giving them the things you loved most in the world and hoping that they loved them, too.

My mom had once told me that being a mother was made up of “regret and then forgetting about that regret sometimes.

I was pacing through the house, brushing my hair, rubbing moisturizer on my face, clipping my toenails, all these little things to make myself presentable, and, each time, I’d look at myself again in the mirror and feel like not a single thing had changed.

I got out these little workbooks from one of the closets, all wrapped in plastic from some educational company for weirdos who believed the end of the world was coming and wouldn’t let their kids go to a normal school.

When I come back, we’ll pretend like this never happened. We’ll head to Wyoming and get back to what we do best.′ Annie had no idea what it was that they did best; the two of them together seemed below average in all categories.

From that point on, I guess I sort of realized that my imagination, which made life tolerable, needed to be kept a secret from the rest of the world.

Maybe that’s what children were, a desperate need that opened you up even if you didn’t want it.

You don’t know anyone famous who was born in Tennessee?” I asked again, then I tried to think if I knew anyone famous from Tennessee. I knew the professional wrestler Jimmy Valiant was from a town near my own, because some guy at the Save-A-Lot talked about it all the time. But he didn’t seem famous enough.

How did people protect themselves? How did anyone keep this world from ruining them?

I saw an ancient man appear on the porch, wearing a huge red bow tie, a blue oxford shirt, khakis, and red suspenders. He had on little round glasses. He looked like Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn guy. He looked insane in that way of people who put great effort into choosing ridiculous clothing. I prayed this was not the doctor. “I’m the doctor!” he said, waving to the children.