I think it has finally happened. I've become one of those moms.

The ones who stay up until midnight to register their child for the good preschool at 12:01am, so they don't lose their spot to more motivated parents.

On Wednesday night, I sat blearily in front of the computer until my eyes were swimming, and then I wandered to my bed, determined to read until the magical hour when registration opens. I set the alarm, and drifted off, only to be jolted awake moments later by the alarm. I quicklly logged on, entered the registration information, and then stomped back to bed. My husband turned over in his sleep and murmured "Way to take one for the family, Jenny."

The fact that I've told no less than everyone I meet that I did this remarkable feat (which, gimme a break, I used to stay up to midnight and beyond all the time. It's only the last six months that I've been going to bed before the wee hours) tells me that I'm entering territory that I don't necessarily want to be on.

Martyred Mom Land is no place for me. And yet, just this morning, I was bellyaching to another friend about having four birthday parties in two days to attend. She nodded sympathetically, and suggested that I pick and choose.

Yes! I could do that, except my son is invited to two, my oldest is invited to two, and my youngest is invited to two. In assorted combinations. Now would be a good time for a bout of the flu, if you get my meaning.

It isn't that I'm doing anything remarkable for my children by registering them, or taking them to more parties than I've been invited to in five years in one weekend, or whatever. It is that I'm feeling put-upon about it. And then I use that as a conversation topic. Aha! Perhaps the reason for the drought of party invites.