To Whom It May Concern,
You are quite the trickster, aren’t you? Just when I think I have a handle on our family’s schedule, you sneak into my life through a crumpled note tucked away in my child’s folder, wedged between the book order and the sign-up for the upcoming carnival:
“Wednesday is Hawaiian Beach Day!
Thursday is Dress as Your Favorite Book Character Day!
Monday is Pajama Day!
Friday is Hat, Sunglasses, and an Article of Clothing in a Color That We Guarantee Your Child Doesn’t Own Day!”
At first glance, I have good intentions toward you. I mull over the idea of digging out a pair of sunglasses even in the dead of winter. I should set reminders for superhero day, as crafting a costume will take time. I should ensure my child’s one set of PJs that fits and doesn’t resemble something a rodent has gnawed on is clean.
But let’s be honest: life is busy. I have work commitments, family obligations, friendships to nurture, and a life that does not revolve around fulfilling your quirky requests. Frankly, I’m just not that into you.
Then, just when I think I’ve managed to forget about your existence, my child looks up from breakfast and asks, “What should I wear for my superhero costume today, Mom? It needs to relate to the book we’re reading.”
And there you are, laughing at me from the corner of my kitchen, while my partner suggests, “Why not just put him in a T-shirt with a superhero on it?” But I’m already rummaging through boxes in the basement, sweating profusely as my child panics that his costume will be “totally lame.” I assure him, “No, it’s not lame! It’s unique! It’s creative!”
In no time, I’m cutting uneven eyeholes in a bandana to create a mask, frantically pinning felt to whatever is available, and searching for something that could pass as a cape (a sparkly shawl will suffice). My child and I are both on the verge of tears, grasping at ideas.
“Mom, what about gloves? What about this stuffed snake I can wear around my neck?”
“Yes,” I reply, “That’s perfect!”
But deep down, we both know it isn’t. You and I realize that the costume’s imperfections reflect on my abilities as a parent, and that somehow, my worth as a mother intertwines with my self-worth. It’s a sad reality that often feels like a throwback to a bygone era.
When we relocated abroad for a year, I thought I had left you behind, yet you followed me to a small school in northern Europe for “Dress Up Like a Character From Your Favorite Fairy Tale Day.” Seriously, couldn’t you give us a break for just one year?
And let’s not even get started on the “wolf costume” consisting of a stained grey shirt, grey pants, and a brown scarf tied to one of the belt loops. That was not my finest parenting moment, and I felt utterly humiliated on an international stage because of you.
I acknowledge that kids adore you. My child looks forward to your arrival with enthusiasm, breaking up the monotony of school life filled with worksheets and tests. Perhaps if education were less about order and more about creativity, we wouldn’t need you. But here we are.
Despite my disdain for you, I still scramble to prepare for your arrival, even if it’s just ten minutes before the bus comes. Somehow, I manage to send my child off to school, beaming in his makeshift, book-themed superhero costume, eager to show it off to his friends, even if the eyeholes of the mask are crooked.
This is where I’m supposed to look into those gleaming, grateful eyes and declare that it was all worth it, that I take back everything I said about you and that next time, I will treat you with the respect you deserve.
Instead, on behalf of frazzled parents everywhere, let me say: enough already, Theme Day. Just enough.