When I was young, I imagined that life progressed as a series of discrete linear segments. Puberty would pass and I’d never again worry about zits or feeling awkward. I’d turn eighteen and be fully equipped to participate in the political process. I assumed that I’d wake up one day and cross a threshold into adulthood. Life is too fluid for such clear demarcations, yet the idea spoke to the relationship I felt to time as I was growing up—I yearned to fast-forward through all the slow, boring bits and get to the adventures I coveted and believed that I deserved.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that such attempts to segment a life are arbitrary, even if they satisfy some need for order. When my son turned ten, earlier this year, I suddenly became worried about adolescence. This was part

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