fotostorm/E+/Getty ImagesMy youngest son caught me covertly texting while I was making the eggs Benedict on Christmas morning. His older brothers were still elbows deep in their stockings, cozy in their matching plaid pajamas, relaxed in the happy sameness of our usual holiday routine. The big fruit and homemade cinnamon buns we snacked on while we opened our stockings, A Christmas Story playing in the background. The plate of Santa’s half-eaten cookies perched on the coffee table with his elegantly scrawled thank you letter already forgotten on the floor beside it. The older boys did not seem...

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