We're off this mornin' to try and beat the blizzard headed this way and get Bean registered for her first year of kinny-garden.
Y'all, this registration thing has got me SO fidgety nervous and uptight. (RECIPE FOR DISASTER.) I feel like I'm goin' to take the SAT or sumpm! I've got my tax bill and Bean's birth certificate, which, by the way I just discovered has Colombia, South America listed as her mother's state of birth.
I've got the names, address and all 5 phone numbers of my emergency contacts and my proof of identity and my recipe for chicken pot pie and cash register receipts from the local Wal-Mart dating back 4 years and I've got immunization records for everyone we're related to on both sides of the family goin' back to my Aunt Gertie (the one with the mustache).
I've got my ... ugh ... checkbook. (Wheez.)
But what if I goof up? What if, on my first interaction with the public school system in this ittybitty little town, I do sumpm so stupid I'm immediately branded as One of Those Mothers and I can never undo it?
(Y'all can extrapolate by now, I'm sure, that I am fully capable of leveling this little hamlet with the sheer gusty, swirling force of my own confuddlement just by opening my mouth to speak, can't you?) (Allow me to assure you, I most definitely am.)
What if I perpetrate an act so horrifically embarrassing that Bean's forced wear a bag on her head for the next thirteen years?
WHAT IF THEY TAKE ONE LOOK AT THE WOMAN BEFORE THEM, ONE LOOK AT BEAN'S BIRTH CERTIFICATE, AND DECIDE TO SAVE THEMSELVES A HEAP OF TROUBLE BY SHIPPIN' ME DIRECTLY AND IMMEDIATELY BACK TO SOUTH AMERICA?
God save El Presidente, y'all.