It was a typical Wednesday afternoon when my phone rang, displaying the name of my son’s school. A wave of dread washed over me—I knew that a midday call from teachers rarely brought good news. They don’t reach out to share that your child is excelling; it’s usually to discuss mishaps, like a classmate getting too friendly with your child’s lunch or, worse still, to inform you that your child is unwell and needs to be picked up. I steeled myself and answered.
“Everything is alright,” said my son’s teacher, “but he’s complaining of a stomachache. He says he feels he needs to come home.”
Trying to conceal my frustration, I thought about how I’d planned to have a productive day, uninterrupted. The teacher must have sensed my disappointment because she empathized, “I get it; I really do.”
It wasn’t that I was upset my son was unwell, but there’s a certain futility in seeing him bounce back in mere minutes after I arrive to pick him up. Resigned, I replied, “Okay, I’ll come get him.”
After a brief exchange of goodbyes, I inadvertently blurted out, “Love you.”
Silence enveloped the call, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead. The next moments played out in my head like a comedy sketch—imagining myself as the punchline in the teacher’s lunchroom. I could already hear the giggles at my son’s high school graduation when I’d be forever labeled as “that parent” who awkwardly confessed love to a teacher.
I opened my mouth to clarify, to explain that I was distracted, that I often say “I love you” to my husband and had mistakenly extended that sentiment to her. But I didn’t.
Regrettably, this wasn’t the first time I’d found myself in such a predicament. Over the seven years of parenting, I’ve inadvertently told four different parents at my son’s preschool that I loved them—one of whom was a man. There’s even a UPS driver who likely thinks I’m smitten after I hugged him enthusiastically upon receiving a package.
I’ve also accidentally professed my love to the dry cleaner and have switched hair salons more than once to dodge the awkwardness that ensues when I run into someone I mistakenly told I loved. Each time, I felt like a guilty perpetrator, as if there were no worse fate than being the recipient of my misplaced affection.
For much of my life, expressing love has not come easily to me. I’ve reserved those words for a select few—my husband, my children, and only one previous boyfriend who, upon hearing my affection, responded with a dispassionate “Cool.” That experience left me feeling like love was something I could rarely express without embarrassment.
Then I met my husband, who changed everything. For the first time, I had a partner who reciprocated my feelings, and I realized how starved I was for that connection. Despite the occasional mishaps, we’ve built a loving relationship where our declarations of affection are genuine.
While I may stumble over my words and find myself in uncomfortable situations—like needing to find a new hairstylist or facing the UPS driver again—I walk away with my head held high. It’s clear that expressing love, even mistakenly, is better than the alternative. After all, who wouldn’t want to be loved too much? Just ask my UPS driver.
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In summary, while my clumsy expressions of affection may lead to a bit of embarrassment, they also highlight the love I have for my family and the connections I cherish—even if they sometimes extend to unsuspecting strangers.