6:30 a.m. I awaken from sleep with the unparalleled energy of someone who has an entire school-sanctioned day to humiliate their offspring.
6:55 a.m. Peering into my closet, I select the skinniest jeans I own—seriously, I haven’t worn these since before my preteen was born. No matter. I squeeze my unforgiving middle-aged body into them while double-checking that I still have the breathing capacity for yelling at middle schoolers every ten seconds.
7:30 a.m. I bound to the kitchen to pack my child the smelliest lunch possible, ideally some combination of tuna salad and egg salad. Naturally, I make sure to tuck in a note including several giant drawn hearts and “I LOVE YOU!!!”s. I sign off using the name my child used to call me when they were three years old.
8:15 a.m. We arrive at the school parking lot and gather by the bus for head counts. I immediately announce myself to everyone as my child’s parent, being sure to enunciate their full (including middle) name.



