On a recent sunny Saturday morning, I told my two-year-old son he was going in a time machine to the 1990s, or at least experience a recreation of my childhood back then. Not entirely, of course. If I had recreated some of my childhood weekends with total historical accuracy, we would have needed to dedicate most of the day to cartoons.
Even so, childhood for me revolved around stretches of unstructured time that felt endless back then and impossibly valuable now. Entire afternoons disappeared into activities that would have sounded deeply unimpressive if written down on paper.
