Dear Theme Day,
You are quite the unexpected visitor, aren’t you? I can always count on you to sneak up on me, despite the crumpled note I find in my child’s folder, wedged between a book order form and a sign-up sheet for the school carnival:
“Wednesday is Hawaiian Beach Day!
Thursday is Dress Like a Reading Superhero Day!
Monday is Pajamas Day!
Friday is Hat, Sunglasses, and an Article of Clothing in a Color That Probably Doesn’t Exist in Our Closet Day!”
When I see these notes, my intentions start off strong. I think, “I should find those sunglasses, even if it’s snowing outside. I should set a reminder for superhero day, since I’ll need time to craft a costume. I should definitely locate the one pair of pajamas that fits and doesn’t look like it’s been through a battle with mice.”
But life gets in the way—work, family, friends, and a million other responsibilities that don’t revolve around your quirky requests, Theme Day. Truth be told, I’m just not your biggest fan.
And then, just when I think I’ve evaded you, my child looks up from his breakfast and asks, “What should I wear for my superhero costume today, Mom? It needs to connect with a book we’re reading.” Suddenly, there you are, laughing in my kitchen. My partner suggests, “Why don’t we just put him in a T-shirt with a superhero on it?” but I’m already digging through boxes in the basement, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead as my child panics that his costume will be “lame.” I insist, “No, it’s not lame! It will be unique! It will be creative!”
Next thing I know, I’m cutting eyeholes in a bandana to create a mask, safety-pinning felt to anything I can find, and searching frantically for something that could vaguely resemble a cape (oh, this sequined shawl will have to do). Both of us are starting to feel overwhelmed.
“Mom, what about gloves? Or this stuffed snake I can wear around my neck?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Perfect, that’s just what we need!”
But deep down, we both know it’s not perfect. You and I understand that the costume reflects my worth as a parent, which somehow is tied to my identity as a person. I can almost hear you chuckling at my struggles, you cheeky little menace.
When we lived abroad, I thought I’d escaped your clutches, but there you were again, lurking at a small school in Europe with “Dress Up Like a Character From Your Favorite Fairy Tale Day.” Really, Theme Day? Couldn’t you give us a break for just one year? My “wolf costume,” made from a stained grey shirt and pants, with a brown scarf tied to my son’s belt loop, was less than stellar. You embarrassed me on an international stage, and that’s something I will never forgive you for.
I know the kids love you. My child looks forward to your arrival, breaking up the monotony of their school routine. Perhaps we wouldn’t need you so much if education wasn’t so regimented, focused on rules and testing. But here we are.
So, despite my disdain for you, I still scurry around, cutting and pinning fabric, even if it’s just ten minutes before we need to leave for the bus. Somehow, I send my child off to school happy in his mismatched, cobbled-together superhero outfit, even if the mask has lopsided eyeholes.
And this is where I should look into those eager eyes and say it’s all worth it, that I take back all the snarky things I said about you, and next time, I’ll treat you with the respect you seem to deserve.
But instead, I say this on behalf of all the frazzled parents out there: go take a hike, Theme Day. Seriously, just go away.