By ROBIN O’BRYANT

I’m taking Aubrey and Emma, my nine-year-old and seven-year-old, to see Taylor Swift in concert later this month. I bought the tickets almost 10 months ago, but I waited until this summer to tell them to avoid to question, “How many more days, Momma?!?” for as long as possible.

They were excited when I told them, but thankfully their little brains became consumed with swimming and sleepovers and they never once asked for a countdown.

Here’s where things get embarrassing for me—I joined the Taylor Swift fan club. (Go ahead and laugh. It could be worse—I could be taking them to see Justin Bieber or One Direction.) But I joined the fan club to get early access to purchase tickets to the concert.

Last week, the UPS man showed up at my house with three identical boxes, all addressed to me. I was surprised to open it and find a huge pile of Taylor Swift swag: posters, bracelets, glow necklaces, lanyards, pens, magnets, guitar picks, a phone case, and the pièce de résistance—a woven Taylor Swift throw blanket that is roughly large enough to cover a twin sized bed. And let me be clear, Taylor Swift is gorgeous, but her face woven into a tapestry-style throw blanket? Not something I wanted to look at everyday.

I struggled with whether or not to even show the girls. I knew that opening these boxes would mean that I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere in my house without having Taylor Swift staring at me. But I caved and gave them the boxes when they got home from school.

Emma squealed, “I can’t believe that Taylor Sthift sent us all this stuff! Did you tell her I was learning to play the guitar, Momma?” She held up the picks. (And Sthift is not a typo. It’s how Emma says her name—she cannot be convinced she is wrong.)

“What? Oh! Baby, Taylor Swift didn’t actually send you all of this herself! We just got this because we bought tickets and joined the fan club,” I explained.

Emma was undeterred, she flipped through the concert photographs in the box, “I can’t wait until we get there and I get my picture made with her! Do you think she’ll let me sing with her?”

I felt a little sick as I started explaining the concept of a concert to Emma. “Honey, there are going to be thousands of people there. It will be fun and we’ll sing along but we aren’t going to get to meet her.”

Emma’s eye widened, “MOMMA! Do you think she’s read your book?!? Because you are famous and she is famous! She probably follows you on Twitter!”

“Baby—I am NOT famous. I wrote a book. Lots of people write books. Taylor Swift IS famous, and she does not follow me on Twitter. I promise.”

I spent a few more minutes trying to explain to both of the girls why going to a concert is fun even if you don’t meet the musician. I hadn’t realized they were expecting their own personal play date with Taylor Swift.

It was heartwarming and hilarious to know, that at least in Emma’s eyes, I have Taylor Swift rock star status. I guess once you get your face woven into a tapestry throw, you know you’ve really arrived. But until I can casually drape a Robin O’Bryant blanket across the back of the couch, Emma is redecorating my house in Taylor Swift circa 2013.

Robin O’Bryant is mother to three daughters, wife to one husband, and debut author of Ketchup Is A Vegetable And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves. She shares the drama and hilarity of motherhood in her syndicated family humor column, “Robin’s Chicks” and on her blog by the same name, robinschicks.com.