During this time of year with its early dusk, everyone in my family is home more than usual. It’s cold out, and the world is expensive if you want to be someplace warm. The kids aren’t urbexing or at the basketball court; they are in our home, which is not very big. Inside, we all yearn for the couch. No one wants to parent or be parented; we want to float together in a peaceful, passive coexistence until the days start getting longer again.

Depending on how we choose to facilitate this floating state, it can be blissful or depressing as hell. We’re a family of readers, which I take pride in even if I can’t exactly take credit. Reading on the couch with my kids feels like adding years to my life, like reverse-smoking. But as long as we’re still humans and not immortal literacy gods, we

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