Do you remember your first teacher?
This year, a woman transformed my son’s life. And it wasn’t me.
This woman probably doesn’t get the thanks she deserves, but she gets a lot of hugs.
Next year, she will probably do the same for another child.
And it’s perfectly possible that she may never know just how much she has done for one small six-year old boy.
Tomorrow, my son says good-bye to the teacher who has taught him for his first-ever year of school.
Hopefully, she will see him around for the next few years, but one day, she will become a name he has to reach back to remember, just a faint memory layered with so many other teachers who are yet to touch his life.
But she has already crafted the person he will be.
Just 10 months ago, my son was a shy frightened five-year-old. In his too-long pants with his too-short newly cut hair, he trudged off ready to embark on an adventure. His anxiety was palatable. He stared at the ground and chewed his nails. He held his breath and he refused to look up.
Each morning the reaction would be the same.
He would dig his nails into my hand as we walked to school, his grip getting tighter, and he wouldn’t let go until his teacher prized him off me.
Big, fat warm tears would roll down his face and his arms would reach out to me as I walked away.