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Dear Educator,
Hello there! It’s me, the one who unintentionally brought peanut cookies to the holiday gathering—almost causing a near disaster with two of your students. You were incredibly quick to react, whisking those cookies away from their eager little hands just in time. I was so relieved when you pulled out an alternative snack from your desk, right after helping me calm down from my panic attack.
I felt it was necessary to reach out and share a few insights. Most mornings, I wish I could attach a note to my daughter explaining the jelly on her face or the questionable smell coming from her shirt. But if I had the time to write such a note, her attire wouldn’t be a fly magnet in your classroom. So, here’s the scoop:
I haven’t always been this chaotic. There was a time when I had it together, before people looked at me skeptically or tried to drop coins into my coffee cup as I stood in my robe and mismatched slippers waiting for the school bus.
Before I became a mom, I often wondered how those parents at the grocery store allowed their kids with wild hair to run amok. It seemed so simple—comb their hair, right? But then I had my own kids.
Getting myself and my three little tornadoes out the door every day is like starring in a reality show filled with drama. There’s high emotion, dramatic outbursts, and sometimes, even tears. Once I finally squeeze into my Spanx, I attempt to wrangle the kids.
I start off strong, suggesting the adorable outfits I laid out the night before. But inevitably, every pair of pants that isn’t buried beneath a mountain of dirty laundry seems to cause a wardrobe crisis. Shirts that were perfectly fine last week suddenly feel like they’re made of uncomfortable materials. Before I know it, time has slipped away, and we’re all lying on the floor, wailing. Also, I realize everyone’s shoes are outside in the rain.
“Are you at least wearing underwear?” I shout as we bolt out the door, late again. “You need some protection between your backside and the world!” I count it as a success if she managed to eat breakfast in the car. The jelly stains on her face and shirt from the laundry are small potatoes compared to our third tardy.
“Hey, when you said to brush my teeth, did you mean with toothpaste?” she asks as she slams the van door and dashes into school.
It’s hard not to feel that my chaos reflects poorly on me. I can only imagine what you think happens at home. I’ve seen her with her friends during birthday parties and field trips, and I know she brings a unique energy to your classroom.
While things can get wild, I assure you that we don’t have fart competitions, nor do we raise our legs like dogs when it’s time to let one rip. We don’t double dip, we don’t call each other names like “toilet diaper poop,” and we certainly don’t wipe our noses on just anything.
Our family has never sat around the dinner table shoving pretzel sticks up our noses, yelling, “Look! I’m a walrus!” and then munching on them.
Contrary to what she might say, I do feed her. My kids view vegetables as a threat and take it personally when I serve broccoli.
So, in a roundabout way, I want to express my gratitude. Thank you for your understanding. Thank you for supporting us when I brought those peanut cookies. Thank you for reminding my daughter that tissues are handy. And thank you for ensuring she has something to drink at lunch when I forget. I notice the jelly is gone when she comes home, which brings me relief.
I promise you, despite the messiness you see, I am doing my best. I may be a flustered mom, but one day we’ll get it together. Every morning when I drop her off, I take a deep breath and remind myself of one thing: “This might be rough, but I’m sure you’ve seen worse.”
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Summary
This playful letter from a frazzled mom to her child’s teacher humorously captures the chaos of parenting while expressing gratitude for the teacher’s understanding and support. The mom reflects on her past, her parenting struggles, and her commitment to doing her best, even amidst the daily mayhem.