"That is such great news! We'll be there. Do I need to bring anything? Wonderful! I look forward to meeting you."

"Honey, hurray! The LA Family School just called and they have one space for this year—five half-days a week. I can't believe they called us. We are, like, number 210 on the wait-list. We have an observation date scheduled for Thursday. We are so lucky... Oh no, this means I'll have to get a job."

So I call my friend who has a daughter who will be in the same class and she is fired-up that we are going to be in the same pre-school class. Our two-and-a-half-year-olds like each other and we'll get to see more of each other too. Hurray! She tells me that she'll put in a good word for us with the big wigs.

I already suspect that some other friend of ours, whose daughter just graduated to kindergarten, gushed on our behalf just to get our kid noticed from the throng of applicants—adorable mixed race children—and their hip parents.

I freak out about the $540 a month that the half-day pre-school is going to set us back and apply for a job on-line. I'm stoked that I get called for a Friday interview.

I'm marveling at my good fortune (blessed as I am) and figure I'll have a pre-school by Thursday, a job by Friday, and a new wardrobe by Monday (needed!).

So Wednesday night I go shopping for little kid food items to pack into my beloved first-borns lunch, noting the strict "No-Sugar" policy at the LA Family School. We pick up fruit, crackers, organic yogurt for babies (healthier), kid-sized veggies, and I bake, at home, a whole-wheat zucchini banana bread sweetened with Splenda for his lunch.

Thursday comes around and I dress Lukas in his easily removable (for going to the potty) finest. I pump him up with "You're such a big boy. You are going to pre-school!" To which he replies, "I wanna go to high-school" One step at a time, tiger. My heart breaks a little but I'm giddy with excitement.

I dress carefully for the informal interview/playdate. I wear my "November 2" tank top with a white gypsy button-up over it (unbuttoned), jeans, low-top Converse tennis shoes and my hair down. I wear make-up but no lipstick. I'm trying to look hip (which I'm not really) but not careless (which you can only pull off when you are really cool). I'm pretty confident with my attire and am glad I left my Ann Taylor red cardigan and chinos at home (read: boring and suburban but kind of safe). I'll need them for my job interview on Friday.

I hand Elliot, our littlest, non-schooled, smiley thumb-sucker to his father and march off to pre-school with my gorgeous tow-head in tow. We arrive at the school and I park my politically incorrect SUV down the street so the people at the pre-school don't know it is my car. My SUV has ghost flames painted on the hood and front sides and tends to be a conversation starter. I fear that it wouldn't really jive with the organic feel of LA Family School-at least until they get to know me (Then they'll love it! Love me, love my car).

We walk through the two security gates and my introductory smile is a mile wide. Unfortunately, my introduction to the teacher of the class is interrupted by her having to tell me to re-secure the security gate after we pass through. I didn't really notice and left it open. Whoops! I thought it would automatically spring back to close. It is a small thing and the teacher is warm and inviting. She is also new and has a slight accent and a two-year-old who is still on the wait-list. We hit it off.

I meet some of the moms and other staff. The Director comes up and introduces herself and tells me that she'll come talk to me some more later but she just wanted to welcome me to LA Family School and make sure that I met the teachers in Group 2. She introduces me to the second teacher, who has been at the school for 17 years. She seems nice.

My friend arrives with her husband and daughter and makes introductions to lots of people I haven't met yet. Here ensues the first little incident, albeit not mine: My friend's daughter and her best friend are hugging my friend's husband goodbye. My friend's daughter says "No! He's MY Daddy!" and pushes her best friend away. My friend wittily interjects, "Sweetheart, Daddy has a lot of love to give. You can share him." But the second teacher comes up and very gently tells my friend that it "Needs to be okay that she doesn't have to share her Daddy. He is hers alone, if she needs him. And it looks like she needs him right now."

My friend says nothing but moves on to saying good byes to everyone and good-lucks to me. We are having an after-school lunch playdate at my house so I'll see her later. This is gonna be great.

Lukas is shy for about three seconds when introduced to the teacher. He hugs me close and snuggles his face into my neck for one delicious moment before he spots the wooden fire truck and bolts out of my arms. He sees toys, toys, toys, sand, and more toys. He is in heaven.

I'm comfortable and happy to strike up conversations with the other loitering moms. We talk about one mom's gorgeous patchwork cashmere poncho (all the rage this year), I say I'm new and point out my son who has taken off his shoes and is ripping through the playground like a fatty in a Las Vegas all-you-can-eat breakfast bar.

I meet people who I've met before at Griffith Park, kids birthday parties, Trader Joes, the YMCA, and the Sunday Farmer's Market. They all say that they love the school and that the class Lukas will be in is just the best. I glow.

The kids are playing and having fun. They get called up for hand washing and potty time (our group is marginally potty trained). It is time for a snack. I slightly panic because (1) Lukas has his lunch but I forgot about a snack and, (2) every kid has an insulated lunch box with disposable/reusable containers and I've brought Lukas' lunch in a Starbucks bag and generic zip-lock baggies from the 99-cent store.

Mom's first gaff is noted here. Lukas opens his baggie of fruit and there are a number of green throat-sized grapes just ready to choke him to death. The second teacher gently tells me that "We cut the grapes in half so they aren't a choking hazard." I observe her asking another parent who is still loitering around if this is the "second time Maya has had meatballs that aren't cut in half?" When the mother denies this, it is discovered that Miles also has meatballs and his are now properly cut in half so he doesn't struggle with the large ball in his mouth. While this exchange is going on I quietly cut the grapes in half (Here I should point out that I am usually very grape conscious. I just told my sister-in-law the other day that she couldn't feed my 11-month-old a grape yet.). The second teacher asks what Lukas is eating and I reply for him, "banana bread" and she replies, "That sounds like something delicious." It doesn't dawn on me till later that I should have said that it was made with Splenda and whole wheat and zucchini or, better yet, lied and interjected that it was sweetened with orange juice. "Oh well," I think, "no big deal."

The class has a small circle time where they wait their turn for the bathroom and sing songs and pretend that they are throwing something in the yucky soup. "We are stirring the cauldron of the yucky soup. Each of us gets to throw something in the yucky soup. What are you going to throw?" The first couple of kids throw dirt and leaves. It comes to me and I pretend to throw "squiggly-wiggly worms" into the yucky soup. I'm temporarily pleased with myself for throwing something universally yucky. Miles, the adorable long-haired kid in his Sponge Bob pajamas, throws frogs into the soup. The second teacher asks if the frogs are alive. She gently instructs him "We don't want to throw living things into the soup. They could get hurt. What else is yucky?" He throws in dirt.

Great, Shannon! Nice move throwing living worms into the yucky soup. I had to say they were "squiggly-wiggly." Real smart, Shan! Poor worms.

Lukas uses the potty and washes his hands. He makes his way over to a table with the first teacher and they make a necklace out of dyed penne and cut out fall leaves. Lukas gives me the necklace on his way outdoors to play in a boat. It warms my heart. I put the necklace on. In my mind I sigh, "It's his first pasta necklace."

While Lukas plays nicely with the other kids, I talk to the Director. I'm cautious to say things like, "Should we be asked to join LA Family School, what sort of projects will we be able to work on during the parent work days?" I don't want to sound presumptuous. (Though I am totally presumptuous. I don't think for a second that there is any chance of Lukas not being asked to join the class. He's wonderful and I'm nice.) I tell the Director of our house rebuilding skills and tools we have available. I bring up that my husband is Swedish and that we've lived in Kenya for five years and am more than willing to share our experiences and/or traditions with the children at an appropriate time. For instance, the Lucia Pageant is a wonderful Winter Solstice celebration originating in Sweden (Think: politically correct). She seems diplomatic, friendly, and reminds me of a good friend from Kenya so I like her immediately.

The day goes on and Lukas plays and plays. The class is brought back together after being given a five-minute warning that lunch is about to begin. The kids all gather around two small tables and they navigate their lunch bags and containers with expert ability. They are funny to watch because they are so small. I observe what the children have packed in their bags and am impressed by what I see. Benjamin has a wide variety of bite-sized healthy foods that look like fun. I take note of the small wheat crackers filled with peanut butter. Maya has steamed vegetables and strips of un-marinated chicken breast that she doesn't touch. Other kids have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cheese sticks, and various drinks. Lukas pulls out the remainder of his fruit, banana bread, yogurt, apple juice, and cheese. The second teacher helps kids with spills and stuck container tops. She reaches our end of the table and picks up Lukas' yogurt. She reads the label quietly out-loud and, yep, there it is, fifth item down, "fructose", a.k.a. "sugar." I swear I turn red but she gently says, "Organic', it gets parents every time." I don't say anything and she moves on to help the kids again. I'm going to have to be better at putting my lunches together. Why didn't I pack lentils? Lukas loves lentils... Do those other kids have peanut butter and sugar-free jelly?

About this time a three-foot high bookshelf, where the kids put their lunches, fell over on one of the kids. He must have pulled it over on himself and then jumped out of the way. He cried like crazy but wasn't hurt. Just scared. The teachers comfort him and put the shelving unit back up. Everyone gets a little embarrassed at the danger and a little worried about what happened. I'm breezy. I say nothing like, "Hey, are you going to strap that down to child/earthquake-proof it. That kid could have been maimed." But the thought flashes through my mind. I wonder if the teachers will tell the parents about the incident even though the kid wasn't hurt? Of course! It was no big deal. He wasn't hurt.

At this point, Lukas is alone on one side of the lunch bench and is looking so cute that I grab the camera I always keep in my purse. I want to have a picture of his first day of school. I think to myself, "If I'm working full time, I'll never have the opportunity to be here with him like this." I take the picture.

The kids then line up on a step and wait to be told that they are excused from lunch and can go play. Nine kids, all in a row, looking out on the play-yard, are adorable. It reminds me of the famous photograph of three girls sitting on a fence looking toward the horizon (I had that print on my wall in college). I pull out my camera again and take the photo of their backs. My friend's daughter, the one whose Daddy has love to share, turns to look at me and so I take another photo thinking that my friend, who happens to be a photographer, will like it. Now my camera is on my shoulder.

Lukas runs off to play and I'm just standing there by myself watching the kids play. When I turn around, a little girl who has been talking to me all day throws me a huge smile and scrunches her nose. I laugh out loud (I'm in a great mood) and swing my camera up and take her picture. I tell her, "You are pretty as a picture!" and she smiles more and asks me whose mommy I am. I point out Lukas and she goes to play with him. I walk around to the swings, the fire truck, and the little playhouse. I see Hugo and Miles playing with wooden trucks in the sand. I get down in the sand with them and ask them what they are playing. They show me. They are so cute. I can't help myself. I take a close-up picture of little red-haired freckled Hugo smiling mischievously, and I know it will turn out great and his parents will love it. Then I take a picture of Miles because I don't want him to feel left out and he is also just a beautiful little kid. I get up and walk around. My camera is still on my shoulder.

The second teacher comes up to me and asks if I'm taking pictures for a reason or for a project or something. I reply, "No, I just wanted to get a picture of Lukas' first day of pre-school. I figure the photos will make nice presents to parents later on." She says, "Do you know these children and their parents?" I say that I've met them before. She continues gently "I don't think you should take these children's photographs. Their parents don't know you or know that you are taking photographs." Chastised and embarrassed, again, I say, "You are right, I should ask permission before taking anyone's picture. I didn't think anything of it, but you are probably right." I go put my camera in my purse up by the lunchboxes near the shelf that feel down earlier.

About this time the Director comes back out to talk to me. We had been interrupted earlier by a phone call she was waiting for and she had to leave to get it. We are just chatting. I think I'm asking questions about her background, where she came from (she's new), and she's asking about Kenya when this angel-faced little girl comes right up to me. She's crying, "I want my mommy." She lifts her arms for me to pick her up. The Director asks with a smile, "Does she know you?" I think, 'Wow, this probably looks good-a little girl singling me out of the crowd as a compassionate person..." I say, "No, I must look like her mom or something." Her arms are still up so I do what every mother, I suppose, would do. I pick her up and say, "Your mommy is going to be here soon." She cries quietly into my shoulder and the Director is called away again. I walk with the little girl to where Lukas is playing with plastic animals on a kid-sized table and bench and sit down. She is holding on to me and so I just sit with her on my lap while I play with Lukas and the animals. I just show Lukas how the hippo can bite the lion on the butt when the second teacher comes up and asks, "Do you know Aiden and her parents?" I say proudly, "No. But she came right up to me. I must remind her of someone."

The teacher wrings her hands in front of me and chastises "I don't think it is appropriate for you to be so intimate with someone's child whom you don't know." That phrasing freaks me out and I feel a bit like I'm being accused of child molestation. Did I just act like some sort of perv? I immediately take Aiden off my lap and explain, "Oh gosh, I never even thought about my holding her being misinterpreted. You are right, it might make a parent feel uncomfortable for me to be holding their child." Aiden starts to cry again and now I'm really uncomfortable because I'm rejecting a crying child but am also concerned that I've done something wrong. I'm embarrassed.

Isn't it time to go now? I'm waiting for my friend to pick up her daughter so we can leave together to go to my house. I go around to the different teachers and say "goodbye" and "Nice to meet you." I say that to the second teacher but add, "I'm still waiting for my friend to pick up her daughter." She informs me, "There is a five dollar fine for picking up your children late." She then adds, " But, oh, that doesn't apply to you since this is just a visit."

My friend arrives. She asks, how did it go? I say, "Um, I made some faux pas but think it went okay. Lukas had fun and was perfectly behaved." We'll see.

The next day I get a message on my answering machine from the LA Family school saying that they will call me later. I'm at my job interview...

The weekend passes and I miss another call from the school on Monday.

Tuesday afternoon the Director reaches me. She says, "We are unable to offer Lukas a position at LA Family School."

I say, "What?"

She explains, "We have some concerns about the appropriateness of your behavior during your visit." She tells me that holding another person's child is not okay and that some of the children at the school cannot be photographed. She then says that she is going to need my film.

I'm reeling, but make the conversation very easy (that is the co-dependent in me), saying that their decision just makes some of my decisions easier. I say it is no problem to bring the photos and negatives to the school.

"My behavior...?"

I feel like a jerk. I'm a bad parent. Lukas got rejected from pre-school because of me. I feel like crap.

That's when I start calling my mom friends. They all make comments backing me up saying that the school is "inappropriate," "sounds crazy" and my favorite, "totally wack-a-doo!"

I rally with my friends. I feel a little less like a jerk and terrible mother but the sting lingers.

I prepare a short speech to politely, but unequivocally, defend my good-natured, innocent behavior as I hand over the prints and negatives to the director. (Which is a contradiction really. I think my actions were right, however, here is proof that they possibly weren't...)

Alas, the Director was not in when I brought the photos. I handed them over to some woman whom I never met. I walked out the door without saying goodbye. That was it—no drama, no vindication, just rejection.

It has been a week since this all transpired. I'm pretty over the whole thing, 8 pages later. I'm glad to have a good "rejected from pre-school" story. I'm glad that I know now that going back to work full-time is not something I want to do. I'm glad that I appreciate the days with my boys and other stay-at-home moms a little more now. There is a silver lining.

They never called me back after that job interview though... I wonder what I said?