Peter McKay

This past Wednesday evening after work, my wife and I called each other at least seven times trying to arrange a tightly orchestrated ballet of pickups, deliveries and handovers.

On that night, we pick up our 15-year-old son at his soccer practice at 6, then get our twin 13-year-old girls from another soccer field at 6:30, and take one of the girls to her guitar lesson at 7. At 7:30, we take our son to his lesson, pick up our daughter, who has finished her lesson, and then go back at 8 to get our son. Sometime around 8:30, we stumble in the front door of our house, exhausted. Things were even more complicated till our other daughter, bless her beautiful soul, decided to give up piano lessons.

And that's just Wednesday. Each night of the week brings a schedule of sports, events, lessons and practices. On weekends, it's football games and parties. I feel like we run a small business: Pickup and Drop-off Teen Delivery Service Inc. Some evenings I pass my wife on a local road and we just wave, like two FedEx workers passing on the job.

We've had kids for years, but never three in motion all at once. Our oldest son, long out of the house and now on his own, had activities, but it was just him and only one item at a time. Our second son, now happily off in college, was even easier. He liked books and computers rather than sports, and other than school or to raid the kitchen, rarely left his room. I'd stop by and knock on his door every once in a while to make sure he hadn't moved out.

When I was in middle school and high school, I can't remember being driven anywhere by my parents. Ever. I came home from school, got a bowl of cereal, slumped on the couch, propped my Hi-top Keds on the coffee table and watched "The Brady Bunch" reruns until dinner was ready. I remember Mom took me to buy sneakers once in ninth grade, but other than that, if I had to go somewhere, I walked or rode my bike.

Today's kids are shuttled between events like they're presidential candidates on Super Tuesday. Each night, at the end of soccer practice as the sun starts to set, I see a row of cars approaching from the distance like the final scene in "Field of Dreams." In each car, there's a parent who worked all day and now moonlights as a chauffer.

Picking up a carpool of boys after soccer practice is particularly hard. A 15-year-old who's been running around for two hours smells exactly like that kind of foreign cheese that tricksters tell you you'd like if you'd only taste it. Get four of them in one car, and you'd better crack a window if you don't want to get woozy.

Luckily, my wife is organized enough that she knows, for the most part, where every one has to go and at what time. She'll come in the door after work, hold out her fingers, and start counting off the various deliveries we need to accomplish that evening before we can call it a night. I'm scatterbrained enough that I only take one direction at a time, and then call my wife's cell phone to find out what happens next.

I know, of course, that all this activity is designed to turn kids into well- rounded, healthy, engaged adults with a multitude of interests. But sometimes I wonder if a little more time loafing on the couch, with a bowl of cereal balanced on their bellies, might be in order — for all of us.

A week and a half ago, the international meeting of G-20 leaders descended on our fair city, and for two and a half days, we were in total lockdown as dignitaries were shuttled back and forth between high security events. As I stood on a street corner, I noticed a limo driver parked at the curb with the engine running, a bored look on his face. I asked him how it was going.

"The usual," he said. "I wait, then I drive, then I wait some more. It's a boring job."

"Tell me about it," I frowned at him. "At least you get paid, and your car doesn't smell like cheese!"

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