Normally, I send my kids off to you in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon. I entrust my children to you and I trust that you’re doing your best. I hear bits and pieces from my kiddos, but I don’t truly know what happens in your classroom.
But now, I see you.
I see your face on the other side of the screen — you’re literally in my kitchen and my living room and my office space all day long — but I see so much more than that.
I see all of the extras that you incorporate as you make a classroom (or a computer platform) into an environment of learning.
I see your smiling face and your polished Meet the Teacher slides. You don’t let on one bit that you’re facing a crazy, difficult, nearly impossible start to school.
I see you as you patiently answer the same question for the fifth time in a row.
I see you answer that same question, yet again.
I see you gladly filling every role that comes up, whether it is last minute DJ or nurse or IT support.
I see your bitmoji in so many forms, and I know the time and effort it took to get it looking so great.
I see you as you interact with other teachers with respect and an attitude of grace.
I see you prepping for the year through loss of power and water. Hurricane? Not when school starts in a week.
I see you worried about the health of your students, of yourself, of your city. You’re worried about their physical health, but also their mental and emotional and academic health. And I see it.
I see you as you make changes to make the class better.
I see you as you try something new, whether or not it works.
I see you as you respond to parent questions during what’s supposed to be your “lunch hour.”
I see you as you cheer on my children and as you push them to think on a deeper level.
I see you as you dance along and do silly motions and encourage my shy or scared or grumpy little one to join in the fun and the learning.
I see you as you struggle against technology and the clock and kids who are tired and antsy. I see you do it all with grace in your voice and a smile on your exhausted face.
I see you re-post all of the most important information from the day so that the parents who don’t get a chance to see you still know what’s happening in class.
I see you at home every night, just like my own teacher husband, exhausted and questioning the day and mustering up just a little more energy for the sweet ones living under your own roof.
Your efforts and your dedication do not go unseen. I promise.