In the mid 1980s I was a divorced, exhausted working mother with two little boys, ages two and four. Like any self-preserving single parent, I used television to keep them safe and silent and to keep myself sane—to a degree—because whenever they were away from the TV they were still uncontrollable. I resigned myself to parenting “active boys.” Then something interesting happened. My ex wanted the television. To keep our tenuous peace, I said, “Okay,” when secretly I shook inside, “How will I survive even one day without a television?” I vowed to buy a new one as soon as I received my next paycheck.