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"  Whoever suggested that Americans should reduce our carbon footprints by carpooling never spent an afternoon in the suburbs with two kids, their backpacks, four bags of groceries and a saxophone case the size of a Manhattan closet. But I have. And it&amp;#039;s all thanks to to a brand new garage door that wouldn&amp;#039;t open. Last week, I had an hour until I had to be at my son&amp;#039;s fourth grade band concert, so I thought I&amp;#039;d swing by the recreation sports department to sign my kids up to play soccer this fall. I was trying to save gas while being kinder to the environment. Also, to my schedule. But when I hit the button to open the garage door, it didn&amp;#039;t. It started to, as though it was really going to make the effort, but then it stopped dead mid-way up. I checked to see if a hockey stick was (once again) blocking the door&amp;#039;s path, but nothing was in the way. I hit the button, shut the door and tried again, but it reached the same spot and stopped dead. And yet, it&amp;#039;s a brand new door. I called our contractor, but he said it was the &amp;quot;garage door guy&amp;#039;s&amp;quot; problem. Actually, it was my problem, but with now 45 minutes until the band show, I didn&amp;#039;t have time to explain it to him. I called my husband. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll look at it tonight,&amp;quot; he offered while I eyed up his power tools. I tried to release the door with a screwdriver, but I couldn&amp;#039;t. I could, however, get tree pollen and dirt all over my nice pink coat while climbing onto my car to reach the garage door&amp;#039;s machinery. I gave up on the tools, and moved the bicycles out of the way so I could try to edge my exceptionally long mini-van out of my husband&amp;#039;s open garage door in what would probably be a 4,237-point turn. (Notice that his door opened just fine.) When I hit my husband&amp;#039;s workbench, though, I turned off my car&amp;#039;s engine. Realizing that my son&amp;#039;s grandparents had all left their homes by then, it was time to call the neighbors for a lift. I tried to think of which moms in our out-of-the-way neighborhood had fourth graders and might also be home. But Eisha, my neighbor across the street, said she wasn&amp;#039;t planning to go to the 2 p.m. show, and several of my other neighbors weren&amp;#039;t even home. Everybody else doesn&amp;#039;t have fourth graders. I figured I could make it the four miles on my bike, as it&amp;#039;s all largely downhill to the school, but wondered how I would get the kids to their piano lessons. Finally, Eisha took pity on me, and dropped me and my kids&amp;#039; piano books off at the school, even though she wasn&amp;#039;t planning to attend the concert until later that night. After the concert, my in-laws took me, the boys, their backpacks and a saxophone case the size of a small Dumpster to piano lessons, which, lucky for me, are located right across the hall from the supermarket. And I always see someone I know in the supermarket. Right? While my younger son took his lessons, my older son and I trolled the hallway, lugging the sax and trying to look both lost and appreciative. I didn&amp;#039;t see anyone I knew in the hall or any of the stores. So I called my neighbor, Janet. &amp;quot;Do you have karate today?&amp;quot; I asked, recalling the numerous times I&amp;#039;d run into her outside the karate studio, which is next door to my sons&amp;#039; piano lessons. &amp;quot;No, not today,&amp;quot; she replied, but she offered to drive down to pick us up if we couldn&amp;#039;t bum a ride off of anyone. So much for decreasing my carbon footprint. Or is that her footprint? I considered ordering a pie at the pizza parlor and asking them to deliver us, too, but it was time for my older son to take his lesson. So, my younger son and I went food shopping, and, for the first time in the long history of my supermarket visits, I saw no one I knew. My son was getting anxious. &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t worry,&amp;quot; I told him. &amp;quot;Daddy&amp;#039;s got to come home from work eventually. He&amp;#039;ll get us before nightfall.&amp;quot; We checked out of the supermarket with four bags of groceries and headed back into the hallway. For a moment, I eyed up the bus that takes seniors from the local assisted living center, but I knew that the sax would never fit in that thing. Besides, our house isn&amp;#039;t on their way. And that&amp;#039;s when I saw her: My friend Paula, watching her daughter&amp;#039;s karate class. I knocked on the window and motioned her to come outside. &amp;quot;Will you take us home?&amp;quot; I asked, telling her the whole sad story of the garage door that wouldn&amp;#039;t open, the too-long mini-van, the fourth grade band concert, the saxophone case the size of Rhode Island, the groceries, the piano lessons and the plan to ride home with the pizza delivery guy. She laughed, not so much with me as at me, and promised to take us all home. I called Janet and let her off the hook, piled all our stuff and my children into Paula&amp;#039;s car and headed to our house. Later that night, my husband got my garage door open in about 13 seconds. Apparently, there&amp;#039;s a bar on our new-fangled garage doors that keeps them from opening for reasons I cannot now fathom, and someone -- or some hockey stick -- had managed to move that bar to the locked position before I had to get out. But at least my carbon footprint was a tiny bit smaller that day. If only my son&amp;#039;s saxophone case had been, too. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a22150/lost-in-the-suburbs/>