I am not a proper grown-up. I do not have sensible hair. I shop in clothing stores whose fashions are featured in the latest issue of Seventeen. (Is that still a magazine? I used to read it when I was 13. Does that mean girls today pause briefly to scan its pages at the age of 7 before they jump over to Cosmo to learn how to use double-sided tape so that their backless dresses stay-put on the playground?) I tend to ignore things that need to be fixed around the house as opposed to handling them. I love cookies for breakfast.

Anyway, tonight I met Mort's kindergarten teacher. I wanted to present myself as a grown-up. As a parent. As a sensible, mature person who does not let her son sing any of the lyrics to MIA's "Paper Planes", so I dressed-up a little. Not job interview level.( Although I did break out my heels. ) But not my standard tank top, cut-offs, sandals summer sloppiness. I actually had on a tank top and changed . Because you could see my shoulders. And I felt that was unseemly for a mom. Of course, every other parent there had on shorts and t-shirts and flip-flops.

I could barely stammer out a sentence to the teacher. Other people were talking to him like he was any old normal person and not their child's kindergarten teacher, but not me. I was revved so high my words came out all twisted and wrong. I undoubtedly made the "Do not let this mother volunteer" list. With any luck, the teacher just thought I was drunk, and not the possibly crazy mom that I actually am. I was writing notes like I was in college, trying to capture every word that fell from the teacher's mouth. And then I noticed that one of the sheets of papers he'd given us had a full outline of everything he was saying.

I mean, I know that all my dippiness comes from a basically good place. I just don't want to mess up anything that has to do with Mort. I want to be perfect, thereby ensuring that life for him will be perfect. Don't bother trying to follow that train of thought. There's no logic behind it.

For instance, the parents were asked to list two of their child's strengths and two things they needed work on. Can I tell you how I agonized over that? I looked around me like I was taking a test that everyone knew the answers to except for me. Pencils down. But I was still trying to figure out the angle. Where was the catch? What answers would ensure that Mort was accurately represented? If I raved over him, would he be ignored or dismissed as the spoiled son of an overzealous mom? If I was honest with his faults, would he be negatively labeled before his first day?

Good Lord, how will my nerves survive this milestone?

And also, don't you hate people who tell you what kind of person they are? Inevitably, if they have to tell you how they are, it bears little resemblance to how they actually are. I just thought I'd throw that out there, seeing as how I've begun my last two blogs telling you what type of person I am. Yeah.

I'm the type of person that cleaned her entire house top to bottom in two and one half days! Woo! I'm the type of person that now has velvet ropes around every room and is wrapping Stella's paws in saran wrap and making her shed over the sink.