When our oldest daughter started kindergarten, we replaced previously lazy mornings with a chaotic new routine of rigid uniforms, rushed breakfast, and wrestling kids into the car. Once we got the hang of it, I began to appreciate starting the day with a quiet drive—everyone together and safely contained in car seats. One day, halfway to school, I eagerly announced, “Let’s say a Hail Mary.”

My daughter met my eyes in the rearview mirror with a glare perfected at an early age—a learned behavior modeled by me, unfortunately. “We pray all day at school, Mommy,” she whined.

I have one child, a son, born when I was two months from turning 35—the age when expectant mothers are termed geriatric. My one son seemingly presents a problem for a surprising number of strangers and people I know well: “Only one?” they ask suspiciously as they look at me with narrowed eyes. “But isn’t he going to be lonely?” (As the most off-the-charts extrovert in our family, he is not.) See also: “But big families are fun!” (For whom? I long to retort.) “I think you’ll regret it later if you don’t have more.” (The reverse could also be true.) “Children are a blessing!”

Kevin and Amy have a rule at their dinner table for their three teenagers as well as themselves: What is said at the table stays at the table. “Our family committed to this when the children were young so they could express themselves without worry that their siblings or parents would talk to other people about what they shared,” Amy says. “They also don’t need to worry they are going to get in trouble for what they say. This has worked well for us, and some of our best conversations continue to happen at dinner.”