NO day goes by that I am not reminded of the achy-breaky emptiness of my life as a childless spinster. My sources are the endless stream of how-America- lives coverage on TV and the Family Section that no newspaper would dare go to print without. Both outlets regularly run features about mothers who get less sleep at night than I get in my afternoon nap, and who worry constantly about child car seats that eject little passengers, swimming-pool drains that suck out little guts, Cracker Jack prizes that get stuck in little windpipes, pierced teenage tongues that develop infections, exposed teenage navels flashing stop-and-go lights—you name it, I’ve missed it.
This year, however, I came in for a surprise. For the whole month of August we were bombarded with features about what I always considered a routine errand, but which has now been bumped up to a crisis: shopping for school supplies.
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