Who would have thought? A clear see thru backpack and a missing puppy. Having children, I think – and tell everyone after my second glass of wine – is a three-stage experience. At first they are formless beings that are alternately cute and horrifying but are largely free from opinions and individual will. Then comes the second stage, which lasts approximately until they are thirty years old, when they begin to think they have their own ideas about what to do with their time, and complain loudly when you forbid it. Complain, or, in the case of my own children,…