Here’s to you Mrs. Jones

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This is my boy and his all time favorite teacher – Mrs. Jones.

A second after 3rd grade started, the teacher he was supposed to have all year had a baby and Mrs. Jones stepped in. She immediately turned the room into an interactive, dynamic place – new rugs, new wall coverings, new everything. It wasn’t just room B-6, it was Hollywood.  All the “kiddos”, as she called them, were mini directors in their own productions. The room was covered in colorful, themed imagery.  She was animated and sweet and my boy (and the whole class) loved it.

As the year went on and we all got to know Mrs. Jones, it was clear how much she loved teaching and how much she loved our kids. Yes, all the usual teaching stuff happened. They learned, they read, they wrote.  But her class was more than that – it was fun. It was silly. It was over the top. And it was exactly what those little people needed. I’ve never had a teacher send me daily updates (sometimes more!) or pictures of fun things the class did that day.  We even got Sunday reminders of what the week ahead would look like. I don’t know about you, but I try very hard to forget where I work from Friday night to Sunday night, not her.  It was obvious that this wasn’t a burden for her.

This past week we got a letter from the school that our original teacher (who I’m sure is a wonderful person) is coming back for the last two months of school.

Devastation ensued.

9 year olds crying everywhere.

I still remember my favorite elementary school teacher, Mr. Walter Freeman. 4th Grade. He ate oranges at his desk every morning. When you went up to talk to him,  he had a citrus halo around him. Is it weird that almost all my good memories have food related connections? Anyway. He was dreamy.

Teaching is a calling. You need some sort of superpower to be able to walk into those classrooms every day and actually enjoy being there.

So good luck to you Mrs. Jones – there’s a lucky class out there waiting for your cheery voice.  Thanks for making a really good memory for my boy.