When, I want to know, did women find out that “having it all” really meant “doing it all”? Or was it ever thus? Way back—and I mean way back—say, about 20,000 BCE, when societies were being to get vaguely organized, the daily chore list of the average women must have been relatively short. Perhaps it read something like this:

It used to be that “tall, dark and handsome” was enough to keep a reader’s heart aflutter.

A sturdy red brick farmhouse sits at the end of a long, dusty lane. Comfortably settled amid Caledon’s rolling hills, its lines are softened by tree-screened sunshine and vivid clumps of native perennials. There are other bucolic touches, like a fat black cat sunning himself on the front porch, an adjacent barnyard filled with chickens, and a great brass dinner bell that hangs close to the main entrance; all of which seem to place the scene in rural Ontario, near the early part of the last century.

 

Remember the feeling when you finally rode your first bicycle? The rush of wind in your face, the slightly scary thrill of gaining speed on the downward slope of a hill? For Leigh Hargrove, that buzz has never gone away.