Commentary: From Do it Yourself to Keep it to Yourself

By Elizabeth McGinley

'What," I asked myself, "am I doing here? I knew this place was a bad idea."

Having got smart as well as old, my husband and I are lapsed Do-It-Yourselfers. Recognizing that most of our household projects eventually call for professional rescues, we follow a new mantra: Just (Pay Someone Else to) Do It.

But here I was, staring down the hangar-like warehouse of a store that is the last name in service. Its mantra is U-see It, U-Find It, U-Carry It Out. Oh, yes, and U-Pay for It, not really that much less.

Of course, I was here for the sake of a true believer, my optimistic 26-year-old daughter. Two weeks before starting law school in Boston, Elizabeth was scouting out cheap furniture for her third-floor walk-up apartment. My husband of strong opinions but weak knees had trekked through the showroom but had passed on the warehouse. He was waiting in our air-conditioned compact car to provide transport.

First we had to match the miniscule item numbers Elizabeth had copied down on the order slip with the boxes on the warehouse shelves. In one aisle, we came across a petite young woman sliding (or trying to) a rolled-up mattress from the shelf, as her muscular boyfriend lifted his cell phone to video the event. My muttered, "What's wrong with this picture?" had zero effect on the video artist, though it did earn me a "Please, Mom" warning look from my daughter.

As we moved from shelf to shelf, I noticed many other parent-child duos or trios. Guess mid-August is the modern human equivalent of annual migrations, only with the young of the species leading in many different directions, and (in this case at least) the older struggling to keep up.

Finally, my daughter stopped. Her list was only half-completed, but the dolly contained a daunting mound of bulky boxes. I took a breath, a calming technique I had perfected in the two months since my daughter's South Philly lease had ended, and she had returned to her childhood home.

Now, as many parents discover, there are two ages of parental advice-giving. From about age 1 to age 10 (if you are lucky), your child receives your loving guidance as a faithful dog might - OK! I'll try to do what you want, if I remember, and if a treat is involved. Then, from reaching age 10 to having children of her or his own, your child considers your tentative suggestions as a skeptical cat might - Really? Is that what you think? Well, maybe I want that treat; maybe I don't. A verbal claw or two might even emerge, scratching tender feelings.

I swallowed down the impulse to take some verbal swipes myself: "Compact car, remember? Third-floor walk-up? Dad with bad knees? I'm shorter than most of the boxes you have already - and you weigh less than any one of them!" Instead I said, "Well, that's quite a haul, Elizabeth. Do you think we should see if they deliver?"

She hesitated, saying, "Delivery is so expensive." She suggested that we could use the outside wooden fire escape: "No problem with turns that way."

Fearing what I saw as a veritable stairway to heaven, I temporized: "I don't think we can get everything into the car." Then I played my trump card: "How about we put the delivery on my credit card?"

And so like many a fledgling before her, my daughter bowed to the inevitable. Mom and Dad got their way again - and she got her boxes delivered, the next day. Elizabeth reported that putting the bed frame together was especially challenging. "Hope the neighbors didn't hear my choice language," she added.

By then, having completed our own return migration, her father and I were safely home in our, thankfully, no-assembly-required empty nest.

Actually, our nest is only temporarily empty. Elizabeth's younger sister comes back from her job at a summer theater next week. Seems her new lease doesn't begin until mid-September. Wonder what advice we cannot give her. . ..

Elizabeth McGinley writes and tries to keep up with her adult children in Philadelphia. emcginleyw@comcast.net