The closest I ever came to taking my mother to work with me was when she stopped by our house mornings on her way to the office. Typically, the front door would open, and she would observe me hard at work doing my job — reading to three little boys on the sofa, all of us still in pajamas. After her typical greeting — "My, it must be nice to have all your housework done" — she tore through the downstairs like a minesweeper, picking up a puzzle here and a stuffed animal there, tucking toy trucks and cowboy boots under her arms on her way to the playroom. As she deposited the toys, she could be heard mumbling, "There, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Minutes later she kissed her three grandsons and disappeared, prompting astute observations like: "What's housework, Mommy?"