The other morning at drop-off, after I finished sorting the Ziplocs labeled with each twin’s name into the appropriate “snack” or “lunch” bin and hanging empty backpacks in cubbies, Ms. H. beckoned me to The Rug.

Uh oh. Had there been an incident? Did my son bite someone? My daughter fail to raise her hand before blurting out a question?

No. This was about me. Ms. H. wanted me — to be Class Parent!

Actually, if you want to get technical about it, co-Class Parent: I would share the duties with another mother.

And here she was right now, coming into the classroom with her adorable pre-kindergartener. Handshake. Tentative smiles. Quick exchange of e-mail addresses and phone numbers using Magic Markers and scratch paper.

What duties will we be sharing? I have no idea.

The form seeking volunteers had come home after our very first (truncated) day at P.S. 11 Purvis J. Behan in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn: would you be willing to be Class Parent?

It sounded audacious, generous, civic-minded. And I had 2 of the 18 kids in the class. As a working parent, I knew I needed a structured way to be involved, so, I figured, if I were Class Parent, at least I would have a chance of knowing what’s going on.

Also: I bake a mean carrot muffin. I dared to say yes.

Then: nothing. There was absolutely no response to my earnest, generous, slightly self-serving offer to be Class Parent.

Weeks passed. I heard something at pre-k orientation about an abundance of interest in class parenting. (Like everything school-related in New York City, it was apparently competitive.) I saw an e-mail on the PTA Listserv about convening the annual Class Parents Brunch. And yet my children seemed to be Class Parent-less.

Until that day last week, that is, when Ms. H. beckoned me. I admit to feeling a little thrill, and also a little fear: what had I gotten myself into?

I’ll be blogging about it all year.