The other night, as I was going to switch the laundry around, I noticed Tage in the hallway working on some sort of elaborate set-up involving, among other things, the stroller, a blanket, a rainboot, and a makeshift fishing rod. When he saw me, he stopped what he was doing and looked me straight in the eye. “This is not good for kids,” he announced importantly.

“What’s not?” I asked.

“This,” he said, making a vaguely ominous gesture indicating his workspace. “My plan.”