It's The Thought That Counts, and the Count is Up to Seventeen

I don’t remember giving my teachers gifts for the holidays when I was in school. I might have made a card or drew a picture for one that I particularly liked, but it never occurred to me that gifts were to be given to teachers. My mother certainly never made an effort to show any appreciation to my teachers for such a tough job. They chose to become teachers, knowing that the pay sucked and that most of the students cared barely more than their apathetic parents.

Teaching is a thankless job, like garbage collecting and water treatment. My kids don’t understand why we don’t pay people more to do the things we don’t want to do ourselves. I have tried explaining that it has to do with levels of skill and education, but I see their point. I don’t want to scoop used condoms and dead fish out of my drinking water, in the same way that I don’t want to make sure my daughters know how to do long division or memorize the periodic elements. Maybe we should pay people more to do the truly horrible stuff. We could get some of that income from, say, Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian, two people who seem to be compensated way more than their skill set deserves.

Since my daughters have been in school, I have learned that presents for teachers are not just a nice gesture; they are an expected little bonus, like the now twenty percent tip that servers to compensate for their shitty wages. I am happy to do it, really, because at the end of the day, these men and women have an impact on my children. They teach them so much more than grammar and multiplication tables, and they deserve a bit of thanks. I make an effort to get more than an apple coffee mug or some note cards with rulers and chalkboards on them. I get them things they might want, like gift cards for coffee and restaurants or candy that people actually want to eat. I pay attention to the things they like or want, and when the holidays roll around, I make an effort to please them, because it’s the thought that counts, or so I hear. If I was really going to be thoughtful, I should give them each a can of mace and a taser.

While I am happy to honor the teachers in my children’s life, at some point, I need to draw the line. Why is that, you might ask? Well, it’s simple, really. My children don’t just have one teacher each, you see. They have many teachers, and many activities, and many people who we need to thank and recognize. I sat down and made a list of just how many, and it came to seventeen.

Seventeen. There’s the fifth grade teacher (1), the challenge/gifted teacher (2), the art teacher who does the after school program that E auditioned for (3), the third grade teacher (4), the third grade teacher’s assistant (5), the computer teacher(6), the French teacher (7), the third grade art teacher (8), the administrator of the small private school where S is a student (9), the administrator’s assistant (10), the piano teacher (11), the guitar teacher (12), the tennis coach (13), and the ballet and jazz teachers (14), (15), and (16).

I made a master list, including each teacher by name, and E reminded me of her bus driver (17) since that too is a thankless job.

“Don’t forget Miss Diane,” she said. Every adult in the South has a Miss, Mrs. or Mr. in front of his or her first name, as a sign of respect. It’s confusing when it comes to your friends, but it keeps you from sounding like your mother in law.

“Who’s Miss Diane?” I asked, as I had never before heard that name.

“She’s my bus driver,” E said.

“I have her down already,” I said, showing her the list. “See? Bus driver.”

“Well, she has a name, and it’s Miss Diane,” E answered back.

“Not if it isn’t on the list,” I said.

I want to write “To Bus Driver” on her gift, just because she wound up as number seventeen on the list of too many people to thank, which seems like fifteen too many. Maybe next year we’ll kick it old school. I’ll buy a big bag of apples and the girls will shine them on their pinafores and present them to their teachers. Here you go for a job well done, a pay freeze and a dirty piece of fruit.

So if your gift is late or not up to your standards, don’t blame me. Blame those seventeen (17) teachers. Or the wise men. They are the ones who started this whole gift thing anyway. How wise was that?