6:30 a.m. I awaken from sleep with the unparalleled energy of someone who has an entire school-sanctioned day to humiliate their offspring.

6:55 a.m. Peering into my closet, I select the skinniest jeans I own—seriously, I haven’t worn these since before my preteen was born. No matter. I squeeze my unforgiving middle-aged body into them while double-checking that I still have the breathing capacity for yelling at middle schoolers every ten seconds.

7:30 a.m. I bound to the kitchen to pack my child the smelliest lunch possible, ideally some combination of tuna salad and egg salad. Naturally, I make sure to tuck in a note including several giant drawn hearts and “I LOVE YOU!!!”s. I sign off using the name my child used to call me when they were three years old.

8:15 a.m. We arrive at the school parking lot and gather by the bus for head counts. I immediately announce myself to everyone as my child’s parent, being sure to enunciate their full (including middle) name.

8:18 a.m. I greet a cluster of students talking to each other. “Good morning!” I chirp. “Skibidi Ohio rizz?” They stare at me and say nothing. I try again. “Gyatt sigma sus? Mewing aura rizzler!” I’ll keep going. I’ve got more.

8:30 a.m.: As we board the bus, I pull a whistle from my pocket and blow on it like I’m refereeing the Super Bowl to let the kids know I mean business. I address everyone as “young man” or “young lady” and remind them that this is a learning excursion, not an opportunity to enjoy themselves.

8:32 a.m. I plunk myself beside my child on their bus bench, hip-slamming their seatmate onto the aisle floor. I explain that this is our “bonding time,” so they’re sure not to mind.

9 a.m. We’ve arrived at our destination. Upon entering the museum / zoo / botanical garden / historical site, I hear pubescent profanity. I identify the assailant as the most popular student in the class and warn them to expect a timeout if I ever hear them use language like that in my child’s presence again.

9:10 a.m. I shout, “Does anyone need to go potty??” Everyone emphatically shakes their head no, even after I offer to hold their hands on the way there. I proceed to repeat this offer in five-minute intervals at increasing volumes. No one’s getting a UTI on my watch.

9:40 a.m. I approach the student my kid has a crush on and show them my kid’s baby pictures on my phone. “Wait until you see the ones in the bathtub!” I gush.

10:15 a.m. I buddy up to the teacher and decide to become their new best friend. It’s only a matter of time before they offer me a teaching assistant position in the classroom.

11 a.m. Our tour guide asks if anyone has any questions, and boy, do I ever. Twenty-three, to be specific.

11:23 a.m. Inform the kids that the Macarena was really popular when I was their age. I don’t hear (or don’t listen) to my child’s protests as I begin blasting the Los del Rio banger from my phone and demonstrate the dance for them. I’m so enthusiastic that I accidentally smack a student in the face while doing hand rotations.

12:05 p.m. During lunch, I pace between tables like a drill sergeant, confiscating any chips or cookies and replacing them with rice cakes and amaranth sprouts.

12:41 p.m. As the group recommences our tour, I notice some post-lunch crumbs on my kid’s cheek. Instead of ignoring it or handing them a tissue, I lick my thumb and wipe it on their face to remove the offensive remains. I feel confused and a little hurt when they groan and run away from me instead of thanking me for being such an attentive parent.

1:20 p.m. I lose sight of my child for three seconds and subsequently panic, yelling their name so loudly that not only our school group but every single person here turns to look at me.

1:21 p.m. My kid sighs and says they’re right behind me. I ugly-cry in relief and swoop them into a crushing hug that lasts no less than four minutes.

2:14 p.m. On the bus ride home, I demand everyone’s TikTok and Instagram handles so that I can follow them, even though, as I inform them, children their age do not belong on social media.

2:35 p.m. We’ve arrived back at school. As we stand to get off the bus, the tight pressure of my uncool clothing forces the world’s loudest fart out of me. Just as everyone turns to laugh at me, I blame it on my child.