An Open Letter to My Kid's Teacher (I'm Sorry)

Dear Teacher,

I’m writing this letter for several reasons, but mostly because my child told me what happened in class today and I need you to know that I am both deeply sorry and genuinely impressed by your ability to remain employed.

First: thank you. For everything. For the patience that borders on supernatural. For choosing a profession that involves being outnumbered by small, chaotic humans for eight hours a day and somehow maintaining the will to return the next morning.

I couldn’t do your job. I know this because I do a version of your job at home with ONE child and I’m barely surviving.

You do it with TWENTY-FIVE.

You are either a hero or clinically unhinged and honestly? Both are valid.

About My Kid

I want to start by saying that my child is wonderful. Kind. Creative. Full of potential.

I also want to acknowledge that my child is a LOT.

I know this because I live with them. I’ve been in the trenches. I’ve seen what they’re capable of, and I’m writing to confirm that everything you’ve experienced is probably true, and also probably the toned-down version.

When you tell me at conferences that my child is “spirited,” I hear you. When you say they’re “enthusiastic,” I know what you mean. When you write “has difficulty with transitions” on the report card, I want you to know that “difficulty with transitions” is code for “it takes 45 minutes to get shoes on and sometimes there’s screaming.”

I see you. I validate you. And I am sorry.

Things I Should Probably Apologize For

The Lunchbox Situation

I don’t know what you’ve found in my child’s lunchbox. I pack it at 6:30 AM in a fugue state, and I cannot be held responsible for whatever combination of items made it in there. If my kid showed up with two cheese sticks, half a banana, a cracker that may have been in the pantry since 2024, and no actual meal — I understand if you judged me. I would also judge me.

Also, I’m sorry about the thermos. Whatever leaked, I don’t know what it was originally. It could have been soup. It could have been a smoothie. It has been sealed for an uncertain amount of time. Open it at your own risk.

The Show and Tell Incident

When my child brought “something special from home” for show and tell, I did not preview the item. I should have previewed the item. Whatever they showed the class — whether it was the toilet plunger, a sock they’ve named Gerald, or a personal detail about our family life — I want you to know that was NOT sanctioned.

Going forward, I will be implementing a show-and-tell approval process. Like a TSA checkpoint but for oversharing.

The Permission Slips

I know. I KNOW. They were due last Friday. I found them today. In a crumpled ball. At the bottom of the backpack. Under a petrified apple slice and what appears to be a ransom note written in crayon.

I have signed them. They may have a coffee stain. That’s my signature now — a name plus a coffee stain. It’s legally binding.

The Homework Situation

I want you to know that I TRIED to help with homework. I sat down. I was enthusiastic. And then I encountered the math.

The math has changed. I don’t understand the math. I have a college degree and I don’t understand how my second-grader is supposed to subtract using a number line and “friendly numbers.” WHAT ARE FRIENDLY NUMBERS? Numbers don’t have FRIENDS. Numbers are SOLITARY CREATURES.

So if the homework came back looking like it was completed by someone having a crisis, it’s because it was. That someone was me.

The Birthday Party Treats

You asked for “a healthy snack to share with the class.” I sent cupcakes. I know that’s not what you meant. But here’s the thing: my child would not accept any alternative. We discussed fruit. We discussed veggies and hummus. We discussed yogurt parfaits. The negotiation lasted three days. The cupcakes won. I am not proud but I am free.

Also, one of the cupcakes may be missing its frosting. That was me. In the car. In the parking lot. I needed it more than the children did.

Things My Kid Has Probably Told You About Me

I don’t know what intel has been shared, but I’d like to address a few potential disclosures:

“My parent sleeps a lot.” — I do not sleep a lot. I fell asleep on the couch at 8 PM ONE TIME and I’ve been branded as a person who “sleeps a lot.” I was RESTING MY EYES.

“My parent said a bad word.” — I may have said a word in traffic. Once. Possibly twice. The child’s memory for profanity is unfortunately photographic while their memory for “brush your teeth” is nonexistent.

“We had ice cream for dinner.” — This happened. Once. In a moment of profound parental defeat. I do not wish to discuss it further.

“My parent doesn’t know how to do my homework.” — This is true and I’ve already addressed it above. No further questions.

“My parent cries sometimes.” — Also true. Mostly at Pixar movies. Sometimes at the grocery store. Once at a particularly touching paper towel commercial. I contain multitudes.

What I Actually Want to Say

Behind all the jokes, here’s the truth:

You spend more waking hours with my child than I do on weekdays. That’s a fact that hits me in the chest every time I think about it. And in those hours, you’re not just teaching them math and reading. You’re teaching them to be people.

You’re the one who notices when they’re having a bad day. You’re the one who helps them navigate friendships that feel like the end of the world. You’re the one who tells them “good job” when nobody else is watching, and you have no idea how much that matters.

My kid comes home and talks about you. Not always about what they learned — sometimes about what you SAID. The kind thing. The funny thing. The thing that made them feel seen. You probably don’t remember all of those moments. But they do.

So here’s what I really want to say:

Thank you for not giving up on my kid, even on the days when they are testing every boundary you have. (I know those days. I have those days. You handle them better than I do.)

Thank you for making the classroom a place where my kid feels safe to be weird, to be loud, to be themselves.

Thank you for doing one of the hardest, most underpaid, most underappreciated jobs in the world with grace and humor and a truly alarming amount of hand sanitizer.

You don’t get paid enough. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it. And yet you show up. Every day. For other people’s kids. Including mine.

That’s not just a job. That’s a calling. And I am endlessly grateful that you answered it.

In Closing

I will try to do better with the permission slips. I will try to send appropriate lunches. I will try to preview show-and-tell items. I will try to understand the math.

I will probably fail at most of these things.

But I will always, always appreciate you. And if you ever need a break, a coffee, or someone to stand outside and scream into the void with — I’m available. After pickup. Before the homework starts.

With deep admiration and mild embarrassment,

Every Parent, Everywhere

P.S. — If my kid invited you to our house for dinner, that was not authorized. But you’re welcome anytime. We’re having dinosaur nuggets.

Tag a teacher who deserves to read this. Share @whydoihavekids — because teachers are parents to ALL our kids.