One of the more delightful side effects of having a child in preschool is the parade of parent interactions that comes with it. With the first child, you behave as though you are sending a tiny diplomat into the world: every item is selected with care, from backpack to water bottle to the outfit, and you attend school events with the grave pride of someone seeing a son off to war. By the third child, the standard has slipped somewhat. At that point, success means getting the child to school alive, more or less upright, and with pants on.

So when the notes came home announcing Dads with Donuts and Moms with Muffins, my reaction was less delight than a sort of weary administrative sigh. My husband’s work schedule ruled out the fatherly doughnut contingency. My dad declined as well, which meant the event was quietly promoted, in the way these things often are, to Grandmas with Donuts — much to my four-year-old’s disappointment, though children are nothing if not adaptable when faced with baked goods.

By the time Moms with Muffins rolled around, I felt duty-bound to appear and make up for the male shortage in my family tree. I should say we adore Wynn, but there are only so many pine cone bird feeders a person can assemble before one begins to feel less like a nurturing parent and more like an overtrained assembly-line worker with glue on her sleeves. Besides, I was by far the oldest mother there, which is not so much a social scene as a reminder that I arrived at motherhood by the scenic route. One suspects this may explain why my child runs everywhere, all the time, as though permanently late for a race nobody else knew had started.

Still, there was the muffin. One must be grateful for small mercies. There were also the rotating activity stations, which had the unfortunate effect of requiring actual conversation with other adults — an ordeal I generally try to avoid unless absolutely necessary. Wynn, being a very touchy child, spent the morning clinging, draping, pressing, and generally distributing himself over me like a small and determined octopus. By the end, I was not only thoroughly touched out, but decorated with snot as well, which is really the sort of finish that preschool parent events ought to warn you about in advance.

Moral of the story: all the kids matter, and at this point, sacrificing my own happiness for theirs is practically second nature — especially if there’s a pastry involved.