An Open Letter to the Parent Who Made Me Wait at Work Twelve Minutes after I Had Punched Out

Ahem. Dear ma'am,

The first several times your son returned my directions with his vacant stare and a maddeningly quiet subversive dismissal of every rule I tried to enforce, I was willing to let it slide. My one regret, really, was that I couldn't let him have his way and leave him outside, because I'd probably hear about it from the higher-ups, given that gross negligence is illegal.

The idea of children not listening to educators is hardly new; I myself made it a subtly amusing art form in fourth grade. Yet, knowing that your dear Rumplestiltskinn* had already been told he could not return to three previous after-school centers inclined me to give him an extra chance.

I spelled his name wrong once in front of you, which was completely unacceptable. Shame on me for assuming that you spelled your son's name the conventional way, and not with two n's** as I so clearly should have known already. I would have forgotten this quaint little vignette that we shared at the front desk, but fortunately you remembered it well enough to make snide comments about it on more than one occasion to make sure that I remembered (which I did, thankfully). It's a good thing that you are so forgiving, because I would otherwise think it dreadfully bold to spell your son's name so peculiarly when misspellings seem to be your pet peeve. But 'tis no matter.

Today, while finding something else for one of our younger kids to do so Rumplestiltskinn would stop provoking him, I received your call informing me of your impending late arrival, and asking me to pass along that message to your son. Although that message was clearly addressed to your son and not to me, I actually assumed it was okay that I too knew that you'd be later than usual for pickup. I hope this is okay.

What you declined to mention was that you would arrive at 6:29 for pickup, a minute before our official 6:30 close, and remain in plain view in the parking lot for the next thirteen minutes. I can only assume that the phone call you were receiving was clearly important, as you made many exaggerated hand gestures, though oddly none that resembled such actions as 'picking up a child'. Fortunately, your brilliant acting performance and my wonderment at your audacity allowed me to stand, riveted, and not even notice that my coworkers and I stood there until well after we were supposed to have gone home, jackets on and everything. We do not get paid for overtime, but that is okay, because at the end of the day, the smile on the face of...

Oh wait, your little snot isn't smiling. He's sitting there, refusing to walk out to your car so we can get on with our lives. Actually, come to think of it, you're a horrible, horrible person. Your son is too. I've met your husband; fortunately I would classify him as too wishy-washy to fairly compare him to sitting on a tack.

Your son used to ruin my day. Now the mere sight of you allows me to get all the ruining of my day over with in one quick moment. Thank you. Thank you so much.

*not his real name, in case you needed clarification.
**again, not the letter n. stop being so thick.