Bidding Adieu to the Big Schlep

One thing I don’t miss now that those younger people who share my DNA have both been granted permission to navigate two-ton hunks of metal on the road? All the schlepping. My fellow suburban sisters in maternal servitude know just the tiresome trekking I mean.

Of course, in addition to the other carpool moms, some babysitters, and occasional grandmas pressed into service, my husband did do a lap or two behind the wheel. But by the time I counted down the minutes to take-off, assembled and cleaned up the appropriate passengers, provisions and assorted gear, and had hand-drawn – to scale – a detailed map of the best route (highlighting any super-sized home improvement stores along the way), it would be, I’d discover, easier to just drive to say, Helsinki, and back, all by myself.

Indeed, why is it that Y-chromosomed individuals always seem to need assistants – someone to find the missing picture hook, hold the picture they’re attempting to hang on the wall so they can see if it’s centered, steady the step ladder, etc.? Those of us with X-chromosomes just seem to take the task and run with it, whether it’s whipping up that holiday family meal for 20 or unearthing the AWOL permission slip from the archeological dig otherwise known as the kitchen table.

Our other halves? They’re the ones that can’t find the corkscrew without a map – preferably one that shows the location of the nearest Home Depot.

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