I love that shirt.

We had our preschool interview this morning.

You read that right. Interview.

I was told to bring the boy by the school at 9:30 am for a 15-minute "meeting" with the head of the program. Needless to say, I was dying to know what they could ask a 12-month-old ("Where's your belly button? No, that's your penis") but decided to hide my snark until after the boy got accepted.

At 9 am the boy's eyes began to droop.

By 9:15 he was reaching for his hair.

Rut-ro.

I put on a turtleneck and some cute boots, slapped a sweater on the boy (the French one that makes him look like Picasso) and headed to the school, praying that he'd stay awake long enough to impress them with his dancing skills. The school was adorable; the parents kind. The director said hello, asked if I had any questions - and went back to work.

And that was it.

Until some kid projectile vomited chocolate milk all over the classroom.

Remind me why school's important again?