I’ve been receiving some truly fantastic hate mail lately from readers who call my opinions, get this, opinionated, and who feel I’m unfit to be a teacher (actually, that email went straight to the school board!). Alas, it’s time for my biannual disclosure piece. Enjoy! Or don’t. Whatevs.
First, my classification. Because I generally “comment” on my teenagers’ inherent desires to see me on blood pressure meds, my columns are labeled “commentary.” Even when I discuss the obscene amount of hours I waste at dance competitions and Cloroxing dog poo out of carpet, I’m technically just offering my opinion on the matters at hand. I rarely address politics because I can only focus on so many things at once, like keeping my family COVID-19-free and the fridge dairy-full, but when I do, I’m offering my opinion. In the opinion section. Deal with it.
This leads me to the next accusation that I’m unfit to be in a classroom setting because, apparently, I’m an emotionally unstable, pre-menopausal, raging alcoholic. It’s called “keepin’ it real,” folks. I share my occasional low points publicly to ensure that other non-Super Moms feel less alone in this supposedly perfect suburban bubble we’re all trying to navigate. Do I have days when teaching feels impossible? Absolutely, especially when I’m juggling a hundred remote and in-person learners and Zoom crashes. But the kids will never know it because I’m a professional, and the lessons, like the show, must go on.
Bottom line? I’m not here to change the world, but simply to impart observations on surviving middle age, 2020 PTSD and K-pop. So, can we cease and desist with the hate-mail? At least until August? Peace out.
