Most mornings, I awake to the sound of my 2-year-old son talking to himself in his crib. I enter his room to fetch him, stepping around the books he scattered across the carpet the night before. On the wall hang prints of a fox, a bear, an owl. I decorated this nursery — for a baby girl — three years before I had Henry. The only sign of her is a box of tiny ruffled clothes in the closet.