My youngest son turned 8 on Wednesday. This is how Ezra's lovely birthday ended: me versus his yetzer hara, separated by a bathroom door.

After a dinner of his choosing, an episode of MasterChef, and a cookies and cream birthday cake, I carried him up to bed. On our way up the stairs I held him tightly, his head resting on my shoulder and his toes brushing against my calves, wondering how much longer he will allow me to give him his nightly ride up the steps.