I want you to find your teachers.
Okay, Scoops. I want you to know how important a good teacher is. I know that right now, you think teachers are as awesome as … I don’t know … toothpaste? But as you grow up you’ll realize that being stupid and having stanky breath are two of the worst things you can wish upon a person.
I include both of these things when I’m composing a curse.
Anyhow, this woman taught ME how to teach YOU how to tie your shoes.
I also feel that you should know that you yelled, “NOT FAIR! WHY DO I HAVE TO TIE MY SHOES?!”
More than once.
And I did not fling your tiny Marie Antoinette self into a tree. I just stared at you and named all the people who are forced to debase themselves daily by tying their own shoes.
But what I love about this woman is that she taught ME how to teach YOU. You picked it up in no time flat, even though you didn’t like to practice it. Her method is creative and simple and does not include a motherfucking bunny ear nor require that I disjoint a finger.
Your Auntie Ty is a firm believer in taking classes. I think that if you count up all the workshops at Second City and Continuing Ed classes she has taken, she has two PhDs and a Masters. It keeps her inspired.
In that way, she has taught me to always be on the lookout for a teacher. When you stumble across a good one, it is always a delight.
Mommy volunteers with a group that helps refugees. One of the things we do is called a sewing club that offers sewing lessons, socializing and English practice. My sewing is meh, but I know enough to help out.
One Sunday, another group was working on a cookbook. One of our clients came in and made a dish from his native Cuba.
OH THE NOMS THAT WERE NOM NOMMED.
It was so delicious and simple that I came home and whipped an entire pan up. And you know that is as likely as saying I came home and made a unicorn pop out of linen closet.
I found a teacher when I was supposed to be teaching someone else. And he didn’t even know he was teaching me.
My childhood was filled with teachers. They were like gardeners pushing bulbs. My great aunt Honey was an elegant experimenter, filling my days with imagination and testing my skills in an invisible battery of encouragement and evaluation. A tray of beads for stringing. An abacus. Books from a much higher grade level than the one in which I resided. It seems so simple, but now I see the strategy and the strategist that sat at her table with demurely crossed legs.
My grandmother enrolled in a program that would teach her how to teach me.
You are going to have a time in your life where it will be chic among your tribe to complain about your teachers. My job is to try to make that nearly impossible for you to do. I want you to be honest, boy boy, before you say “UGH, SCHOOL SUUUUUCKS” I want you to think about something. Do you really mean that school sucks? Or do you mean that you would rather be doing something else right now? Because you should say that instead.
I can tell you that as a working adult, you’ll feel that way a lot. I’d rather be sleeping. I’d rather be writing. I’d rather be spending time with you, letting you ask me really awkward questions about my body parts. I will admit that I’ve said NO FAIR! I DON’T WANT TO GO TO NEW YORK AND STAY AT THE SOHO GRAND AND MEET NEW PEOPLE AND JUDGE AWARD SHOWS AND EAT GOOD FOOD.
Then I punch myself in the face and move on, because that is what an adult does.
So Lovebug? If I am as successful as I hope that I will be with placing you in the hands of truly inspired teachers? I want you to promise me that you will never let a good one go unthanked.