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When my son was an infant, I was so fixated on getting the perfect holiday-season pictures of him that I fell into the Christmas tree. One minute I was clicking away in portrait mode while making ridiculous noises designed to elicit a smile, working to capture his cherubic face, a sentimental ornament, and the words “six months” on that little round wooden age-marker thing that 75 percent of moms have. The next minute I was in the tree. I’d tried to lean on it, apparently having lost touch with the physical environment as I obsessed over the important Instagram content I was capturing. Then the tree and I were both on the floor (luckily not on top of the baby), a

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