Hello there! It’s me—remember? I’m the one who unintentionally brought those peanut cookies to the holiday gathering, almost causing a mini-crisis for two of your students. But you were quick on your feet, snatching those cookies away just in time and even producing an alternative snack from your desk after helping me regain my composure.
I’m reaching out to share a little context about our hectic mornings. There are countless days when I wish I could attach a note to my daughter explaining the jelly smeared on her face or why her shirt smells less than fresh. But if I had the time to write a note, I wouldn’t be in a panic about her appearance by the time we reach your classroom! So, here’s my attempt to clarify things—hopefully in a way that doesn’t send you running for help.
I wasn’t always this chaotic—there was a time when I felt somewhat organized. I used to look at parents in the grocery store with their kids, who had hair sticking up like a peacock’s display, and think, “How could they let it get to that point?” I had it all figured out—until I had kids of my own.
Getting myself and my three little tornadoes ready every morning is like a scene from a dramatic TV show. It’s emotional, it’s loud, and sometimes it’s downright messy. I start out with the best intentions, suggesting the matching outfit I had laid out the night before, which we all agreed on. But somehow, every single piece of clothing seems to feel like a torture device! Before I know it, the clock is racing, and we are all still in a heap of tears and chaos on the floor. Oh, and of course, everyone’s shoes are outside, soaking wet.
“Are you at least wearing underwear?” I yell as we dash out the door, late once again. “You need that barrier between you and the world!” I count it as a small victory that she managed to eat breakfast in the car, even if the jelly on her cheek and shirt is just another reminder of our third tardy.
And then there’s the moment she slams the van door and shouts, “Did you mean brush my teeth with toothpaste?” as she runs into school.
I know that this reflects on me as a parent. I can only guess what you think about our home life. I’ve seen how she interacts with her friends, and I know the party she brings into your classroom is only a small glimpse of our everyday adventure.
Things may get wild here, but I assure you we don’t engage in fart contests, and we definitely don’t lift our legs like dogs marking their territory. We don’t double dip or hurl insults like “toilet diaper poop” when we’re upset. And no, we’ve never sat around the dinner table shoving pretzel sticks up our noses while yelling, “Look! I’m a walrus!”
Just to clarify, despite what my daughter might say, I am indeed feeding her. My kids view veggies as an attack, and they take it personally when I serve broccoli.
So, what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for not judging me. Thank you for having my back. Thank you for reminding my daughter that tissues are our friends. Thank you for ensuring she has a drink at lunch when I forget to pack one. And thank you—I notice the jelly is gone when she comes home.
I promise I’m trying my best, despite the chaos. One day, we’ll get it together. Every morning when I drop her off, I take a deep breath and reassure myself with the same thought I cling to during those awkward doctor appointments: “This may be a mess, but I’m sure you’ve seen worse.”
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Summary
This letter from a frazzled parent humorously outlines the challenges of getting kids ready for school while expressing gratitude to the teacher for their support. The author reflects on the chaos of family life, assuring the teacher that, despite appearances, they’re doing their best and appreciating the little things.