Would you like the truth, or a sanitised version of it?

That's what I wish I could say at the start of every single parent-teacher interview.

Instead, both sides talk in code, side-stepping what they actually want to say, for fear of negative repercussions. The iconic annual "Parent-Teacher Interview", as a result, has become a redundant inconvenience for all of us.

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I spend all day chatting to and about your kids. That it extends into my evenings once or more a year — pending the school — may not seem like a big inconvenience to you.

But add that with teachers missing their own kids' sports day; carnivals, assemblies, concerts and first days of school for years in a row… and it just stings to be throwing these largely useless conversations on top.

Conversations we've actually REPLACED over the last decade with interactive apps like SeeSaw, newsletters, phone calls, social media and endless emails.

If your child was experiencing a problem with an actionable resolution — we'd have talked about it by now via one of the many platforms available to both of us.

We wouldn't wait to chat about it awkwardly in a room full of other parents and teachers, sitting across the desks from one another like we're participating in a unique speed dating experience.

I'll admit this though: I do not speak for every teacher.

The institution of "The Parent-Teacher Evening" is, I suspect, considered a privilege and a power play for many institutionalised teachers.

But this isn't about what they want to say.

This is what I wish I could say at the upcoming interviews.

And what I wish I'd been able to say for the past decade.

Jimmy can't tie shoelaces. Please stop buying him lace-ups. Sneakers come in so many options these days.

I see that you're packing healthy food for Jimmy. It looks awesome… but he isn't eating it.

He's just eating the treats, and then he's silly all afternoon. I won't judge you for sending food he will actually eat. Sure, some teachers might. Let them. Your kid needs to eat.

Jimmy can't peel a banana. Please teach him or stop sending bananas. It's sending me bananas to peel his banana, open her packet, lock his lunchbox … My mental and physical load is at capacity. Please let me eat my recess in relative peace.

I wish we could provide one-on-one reading support daily to your child but we're underfunded, under resourced and overworked.

Please keep reading to and with your child at home — and then please organise audiobooks for them for free from the library or via Spotify, to maintain a love of reading even when you're busy and tired. I get it. I know it costs money. I know it takes time. Please prioritise it. It matters more than all the worksheets in the world (which we primarily use to keep OUR sanity, not to educate your kids).

Please don't send your child with "banned" items and expensive things. Collectables, smartwatches, and toys worth more than my car.

Sure, sometimes they slip in the bag. I get it. But your kid talks: he tells me, "Dad said I just had to keep it out of sight".

Please don't make my job harder than necessary. Please be considerate of the entire class with birthday invitations. Yea, I hear you — you didn't invite EVERY girl, just the ones your daughter likes. But that included every girl in the class except two. And now they're crying at recess because your daughter handed out her invites all morning, from 8:30am.

Please return notes and money on time — or communicate with me if they'll be late. I spend more time chasing five parents than I do generating the forms. Every. Single. Time.

Your child is developing at their own pace. They don't need extension homework, and I am not supplying it. Please stop asking. Enrol them in a new sport or a music lesson if you want to fill their after-school time with structured activity.

Of course, I'd love to say all this.

But instead, I'll follow a script, say Jimmy is doing well — because he is; I'll tell you he's getting a B in Math and a C in Science.

Please don't tell me that the Science teacher isn't any good. Or that we don't do enough experiments.

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We wish school could be a lot of things — but we are bound by curriculum, budget and 367,696 things out of our control. We're doing our best.

And so are you.

So, off we go now to our respective corners. Me, biting my tongue, wanting to tell you all of the above.

You, biting your tongue, wanting to tell me about how you want your child to have more options, be a doctor, and fly to the moon.

I get it. Me too.

But most of that is parenting.

Above all, kids need one-on-one time with their primary caregiver/s. They'll learn more from a trip to the zoo with you, than a term spent writing information reports with me.

Your child will learn more about how to respect their body and others', through how your household members behave and talk, than through any sermon I deliver after recess and lunch each day.

What I dream will happen at the next Parent-Teacher Interviews, is that a primary caregiver or proxy will rock up (on time), hand me a box of chocolates, thank me for the time I spend with their kid, ask me if there's any cute stories I can share about things that make their child happy at school, and then hop up the second our time is over so I'm not delayed for my next speed-parent-dating experience.

We're all in this together. See you at Parent-Teacher Evening.

Feature Image: Getty.