An Open Letter to Teachers During a Pandemic

Dear Teachers,

I don’t know how you do it. No really, how? I’ve been locked in my house for 13 days with my three school-aged children and I’m ready to sacrifice one to the corona gods. Don’t worry, I’ll pick the one you recently taught to play the recorder. It’ll be self defense.

Fine, you’re right, filicide isn’t the answer. Speaking of, how do you guys always have all the answers anyway? You somehow managed to teach my kid how to add triple digit numbers without needing to know how to carry the one. You’re wizards. Wizards who deserve soundproof booths in teachers lounges so you can scream into the void without alerting HR. I’ve already done that in the shower three times, and believe me, the acoustics are amazing. I’m going to let them practice that recorder in there.

Honest question, managing a classroom of 30+ children of varying capabilities and learning styles aside, how do you ignore the smell? You know, the one that smells like wet grass and sheep dog after they come in from playing outside. We are not paying you enough money based on the smell alone.

Oh and as far as money goes? Take mine. You want disinfecting wipes and dry erase markers? I’ll buy twenty. You take my kids back and I’ll personally build you a treasure trove of whosits and whatsits galore like Ariel in The Little Mermaid. WHICH I’VE SEEN 30 TIMES SINCE THIS HELLSCAPE BEGAN.

I’m sorry for yelling. That was about me not you. Speaking of yelling, has my kid always been that loud? Did I damage their ear drums in the womb? Or is that just what it sounds like when a 7 year-old explains Minecraft over and over and over again when they’re supposed to be reading? I’d like to personally apologize. Would a stack of printer paper smooth things over?

How do you teach a child to read anyway? That’s straight up magic. Some of you are out there teaching 16 year-old hormonal monsters to solve complex math equations, while I struggle to define “probably” to my four-year-old. As in I will “probably” lose my mind before this is all over.

In conclusion, you’re my heroes. I hope you’re taking this time to sit in silence. Maybe read a book that isn’t attached to a pile of book reports to grade. Or at the very least scroll through social media and laugh at all of us parents who are desperate to have you back. You’re the backbone of our society, the definition of an essential worker in my book, and I’ve never been more grateful for you.

Please come back,



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