Messy Minded Momma

Monday marked my son’s 100th day of school. There were paper crowns, colouring sheets, and counting to 100 by 10s. A milestone. A celebration. A reminder that my tiny human has officially been in “real school” for one hundred whole days.

When he started Junior Kindergarten in September, I was ready. So ready. He had outgrown preschool. He was speaking in full sentences, dressing himself, counting confidently, and dominating on the basketball court. The transition from little boy to big boy felt natural. We were stepping into this next chapter with excitement.

And in my head? I had a very clear image of how this chapter would go.

I imagined his teacher would be soft-spoken and gentle. Patient and nurturing. The kind of woman who kneels down to eye level and speaks in calm, reassuring tones. Basically, Miss Honey from Matilda.

Instead… I got Miss Trunchbull’s distant cousin.

Now, before I go any further—teachers are heroes. Truly. Managing 28 runny noses, sticky hands, bathroom emergencies, emotional meltdowns, snack negotiations, and endless “watch this!” requests before 10 a.m. deserves a medal. I could not do it. I would be in the staff room stress-eating Goldfish crackers by recess. So yes, I deeply appreciate teachers and all they do for our children.

But…

As a mother, when your child comes home confused or discouraged, and your attempts at communication are met with passive-aggressive responses or complaints instead of collaboration, it’s exhausting. It leaves you feeling defensive, frustrated, and honestly… small. When I reach out with concerns my son has voiced, I’m not looking to point fingers. I’m looking for partnership. Solutions. Teamwork. That Miss Honey energy.

Instead, I sometimes feel like I’m requesting a parent-teacher meeting in a shot-put arena.

“Because I’m big and you’re small and I’m right and you’re wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Maybe part of this is expectation versus reality. Maybe I romanticized JK. Maybe I forgot that teachers are human too—tired, overworked, under-supported humans. Maybe I watched Matilda one too many times and convinced myself every classroom came with a reading nook, a pet newt, and a saintly educator in a pink cardigan.

The truth is, this year has stretched me. It’s forced me to advocate harder, communicate clearer, and sit with discomfort. It’s reminded me that school is not just about counting to 100—it’s about learning resilience, navigating personalities (so many personalities) and understanding that not every authority figure will feel warm and fuzzy.

And while my mind may have fantasized about Miss Honey, maybe what we got instead is part of the lesson too. My son is still learning. He’s still growing. And so am I. One hundred days in, and we’re both tougher for it. And if all else fails, maybe we’ll just learn how to shot-put together as a healthy way to manage our emotions.