Dear Dedicated Educators,
You may not recall me as Jennifer, or simply as the mom of Max, Lucy, Oliver, Mia, and Sam. This year, I am embracing the title of That Parent. Let’s cut to the chase: I’m owning this label right from the start to save us both from any future misunderstandings.
First and foremost, I want to acknowledge the incredible work you do. You are undoubtedly among the most underappreciated and underpaid professionals around. Please know that I deeply value your commitment and the significant role you play in shaping our children’s futures. You are essential in preparing them for life beyond these school walls, and I genuinely appreciate that.
As we kick off what promises to be a long school year, I feel compelled to introduce myself before any awkward situations arise in your classrooms. For the first time in 14 years, I have all five of my children in school full-time. I apologize in advance for any chaos that may ensue.
I had high hopes that this transition would usher in a glorious new chapter. And it has, somewhat. However, managing the school year with all my kids in full-time education is proving to be more challenging than I anticipated. It’s a lot to juggle!
Regarding those forms that were supposed to be signed—acknowledging my child’s weekly mile run, potential photo shoots, and the consequences of inappropriate internet searches—it’s not that I oppose any of these activities. I fully support my kids’ physical activities and understand the need for safety measures. The recent “search for inappropriate content” incident on our home computer has been addressed, trust me. I don’t mind them running; I just haven’t found the time to dig through their backpacks for those forms. Feel free to enforce any logical consequences for unreturned paperwork—though if I have to sign a consent form for that, we might hit a snag.
To the music instructor: Max has yet to acquire an instrument, and this isn’t entirely my fault. He initially signed up for strings with dreams of playing the electric guitar, only to realize that was not an option. After much deliberation, he settled on the cello, which unfortunately won’t fit in my car. Once he comes to terms with this, I’ll purchase his violin.
To the language arts teacher who marked Lucy’s assignment with a zero because she hadn’t gotten her copy of Pride and Prejudice, I must say this is all on Amazon. I plan to lean heavily on them as an excuse this year, especially given their competitive pricing.
To the school nurse: Every time I see your number on my caller ID, I panic. I’m relieved it’s not the principal, but then dread sets in when I realize it’s you. Since this is my first time in 14 years with six hours to myself daily, I need you to know that unless Jack or Oliver is actually vomiting or has a fever, they should return to class. Their ailments seem to magically disappear when they’re near a video game console.
To the art teachers: I apologize for the late payment for supplies. The initial list cost me an arm and a leg—$7689 to be exact—which has left my Starbucks budget in shambles. Please bear with me as I regroup.
On the topic of supplies, I was pleasantly surprised that toilet paper wasn’t on the list. I hear some schools require that, and wow, I can’t even imagine.
To the math teachers: Please inform the students that asking Mom for homework help is considered cheating. When Mia asked me about the probability of randomly selecting a red sock from a bunch of six red and five blue ones, I told her it was probably the same as my chance of surviving the next decade, which I can’t quantify either. I apologize if that ended up in her assignment!
I think that’s enough for now. I’m feeling quite drained. If any of you would like to join me at the local liquor store after 4:00 PM, I hear they have a two-for-one deal on cocktails. I’ll bring the straws!
Warm regards,
Jennifer, a.k.a. That Parent