Before I had children, I owned possessions. Now I share community supplies. “Who took my stapler?” I yelled upstairs from the basement office, where I’d just spent 60 fruitless seconds searching through desk drawers and under stacks of manila envelopes. “What, Mommy?” My seven-year-old called back from the kitchen. “My stapler,” I said, emerging from the stairs. “Do you know where it is?” “Oh, I borrowed it. I needed it for my craft. I’m writing a book.” Really? I’m writing a book, too. And I need my stapler. “Can I have it back, please?” I glanced behind my daughter at …
