My brother has three kids. They are nine, seven, and four years old. Their names are August, Ollie, and Juniper. I want to be careful, because these are my niece and my two nephews, and I love them in the specific, bone-deep way that uncles love their siblings' kids. But I have to tell the truth. August, the nine-year-old, is a child with the kind of unchecked energy that would be a story people laughed about if he were eight months old. At nine, it is not a story anyone is laughing at. Ollie, the seven-year-old, bites. He has bitten four of his cousins at family gatherings over the last five years, including my own daughter, hard enough to break the skin twice. Juniper, at four, is largely fine, which might be the most tragic thing about her, because she is growing up in a home where the baseline of chaos has been set so high that she has stopped trying to participate. She sits in the corner with an iPad at every family event. My heart breaks for Juniper every single time I see her. And my brother Grant, my older brother by two years, the smartest person I know — does not appear to see any of this.