I was startled by my kindergartener son’s reply the other day, when I apologized to him because unlike a Martha Stewart mother, I had not ironed his shirt before running him late to school and parking in the fire lane. I was walking with him towards the line-up for morning time. He looked a bit … disheveled. I knew I had forgotten something this morning. But hey, at least he had a lunch, right?

“Dude. Your shirt’s a little wrinkly for school, ” I said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah …” he sighed heavily. “I must have been in the bath too long.”

I was doing my best not to burst out into laughter as he looked at me seriously, his head nodding with the heavy weight of understanding that even on my best days, I barely had the where-with-all to get him out of the bath before he wrinkled to death.  Poor kid.

Otherwise, he’s taking this new transition in stride. As is his mommy. I can proudly say that I did not cry the first day of sending my wee man off to kindergarten. I at least had the decency to smile, be strong, go home and eat enormous handfuls of salty comfort-food-chips at nine in the morning. With salsa (because those are really just vegetables ground up). But at least my nearly three-year old doesn’t talk enough to tattle on me. Yet.