Dear Teacher,

I know you have an actual name, but yelling "Teacher" is just so natural. Ask every kid in the class. Being the child of a teacher is one of the best experiences ever. Getting to call you “Mom” during class was the coolest thing of first grade. No one else had that privilege. I even knew your first name, and that you sort of had a life outside of school. Not to mention every time I felt sick or got a headache in elementary school, you were only a short walk away. Although sometimes you may think that I hated your being a teacher, but I honestly loved it.

Seeing you in the hallways during kindergarten and sending hugs across to each other made each day a little bit better. I have so many unique memories that many other kids can’t say they’ve ever experienced: picnics on the playground, creating link chains that would stretch down two hallways, and playing Hide-and-Seek throughout the school.

Even though I practically lived at the elementary school, so did all my other friends. You were kind enough to allow four crazy girls to goof off in your classroom and make even more of a mess.

We raided the games and puzzles, colored a lot, raided the snack box, sometimes helped you with school work and if you were lucky we put the chairs up. We spent hours creating dances to the childish songs from your CD’s and playing teacher with the whiteboard. Spending conferences holed up in another room goofing off until you could take us home, having competitions to see who could draw the best Dora. I spent hours playing Jump-start first grade and Arthur computer games, just because I could. I played Club Penguin on your computer for hours, along with other teacher’s kids. We had a safe spot right next to school where we could be ourselves, do homework and have fun after school.

You also taught me some more independence. Basically, every day I would walk down to Wesco (a gas station), get myself a chocolate chip muffin and a sprite, and be sure to grab you a fudge brownie and diet coke in case you had a bad day. During the summers of Middle school and Freshman year, when you were at school for work days, I had to make my own food. I was practically an adult. And don’t forget that I also made food for my lazy older brother who didn’t want to make his own food. So my independence flourished, along with my ability to make microwave dinners taste better.

You made me more motivated to do my schoolwork. With a teacher as a mother, I had to be a straight A student who worked hard at everything. It also helped to have your help no matter how critical you could get.

One of the saddest things about starting college was that I missed helping you get your classroom ready for the new school year. I used to spend hours helping you set things up (and move rooms, a lot). Carrying boxes and moving stuff was the best workout I got.

Sure I had to share you with other kids and seeing you bond with them made me jealous, but at the end of the day you were my Mom and came home to our house.

We spent ages in that school, I spent more time there than in our actual home. Sometimes I craved to go home, so I apologize for my whining, but in a way, the school became my home. I knew every part of that school, which bathrooms were the best, the spots I could best watch the soccer games from, and most importantly where the vending machines were.

Teachers create a whole new meaning to news traveling fast. Every time I got in the slightest trouble, I was worried about how fast it would get back to you. And all the kids would go “Ooohh!” thinking how crazy it was that the teacher’s daughter wasn’t a perfect little princess (even if I thought I was). But then I also didn’t have to be the one to tell you I screwed up, so that was okay too.

You took care of me no matter what; running home during your 30-minute lunch break when I was sick in middle school, just to make sure I was okay. Or coming to the high school to drag my sick butt home during freshman year. There was one time when I was young when I was really sick and we packed up bedding and lots of blankets to make me a bed on floor so you could take care of me.

So Mom, Thank you for being a teacher and raising me the way you did.I would definitely not be the same person I am today if I wasn’t raised by a crazy first-grade teacher with the Mom spirit.

Love,