Last night, my 8-year-old had a music program at school, which is the sort of event that reminds me parenting is mostly just a series of logistical challenges disguised as memories. The theme was American Heroes and Legends, and this, naturally, was my favorite part of the entire evening: letting my son choose his own outfit.

He understood the assignment. He knew he needed to look patriotic, but apparently, he also wanted to look like a young gentleman with somewhere important to be. So out he came in a short-sleeve blue polo shirt, red, white, and blue camo athletic shorts, a red tie that zipped around his neck, and a coon skin cap. I did not interfere. Some battles are worth fighting. This was not one of them. Besides, there is a special joy in watching a room full of people smile when they see his little face, especially with the tail of that hat bouncing behind him like it had its own agenda.

School programs, though, are a different matter entirely. I love seeing my kid do his thing, but the rest of it is pure endurance training. There is far too much peopling involved. You have to arrive early enough to secure a decent seat, which is difficult when you are also trying to wrangle siblings, coats, nerves, and the vague feeling that you may have already forgotten something essential. And dragging younger children along is its own special kind of suffering. By the time my son was on stage performing his “number,” the four-year-old announced that he had to poop. I informed him, with the confidence of a woman who had no intention of leaving her seat, that he did not. We remained exactly where we were and watched the show in its entirety.

The four-year-old is an odd little fellow in the best and most exhausting way. He seems to believe that leaving the house without a fully stocked supply pack is somehow reckless. Last night, he insisted on bringing a backpack stuffed with a blanket, a stuffed chicken jockey from Minecraft, a small telescope, a plastic hammer, and a bottle of water. I admire the man has a system. I do not, however, admire the part where I eventually have to unpack it all. Every pouch, pocket, and mysterious side compartment becomes my problem in the end.

A mother’s work is never done. Or, if it is, it certainly hasn’t happened in my house yet.