The Lies Teachers Tell

"You know I DIDN'T actually make that for you, don't you?" Miss-Almost-16 asked carefully.

"What?!" I replied, looking up from my laptop, as my daughter brought me up a fresh coffee in her class break. She was looking past me into a strange little sideroom upstairs in our huge old Thai house, where I have one of my many alternate workspaces set up.

"That. The clay thing."

"I made you a teapot, cos I always knew how much you like tea. But it broke in the oven. The teachers had made some spare art projects for the kids who didn't have anything to take home. They said it was OK for me to lie to you about it."

I was gobsmacked, to say the least.

It has graced one of my desks for 9, going on 10, years. My daughter made it for me when she was almost 6, or so I thought.

For some reason I simply know it's a He. And he faithfully has held paperclips, USB drives, elastic bands and the like for almost a decade.

Sometimes he holds my hand-wrist rehab ring. He's very sweet that way.

He doesn't seem to mind sharing the table with the much more perfect ceramic project of yet another craft class, where the teachers had obviously learned a bit about risk management and tearful kids, and made the project less likely to fail. But it's so much less creative, expressive or fun.

I think he's a horse and so I call him Harry. Harry the Horse.

My daughter looked at me very uncertainly this morning, as if the confession would make Harry the Horse lose all his meaning and condemn him to the garden to be smashed and recycled for drainage bits at the bottom of a flowerpot.

We hugged and I told her Harry and I would be an item till I die.

Cos always he will remind me of my little girl who was SOOOO DISAPPOINTED that her made-with-love tea pot project broke, and who has held what must have not felt nice in her heart for 10 years. It must have felt fake, and fraudulent. My heart hurts thinking about her disappointed going-on-6 heart, who had so much wanted to give me something she knew I would value and use; she was already doing it tough that year after her father finally left us.

"Ok - one more item to cross of the great confessions list", I joked. And smiled. And we hugged some more. And I told her how glad I was that we've had these almost 5 months together at home, in our Covid Cocoon, to reach a place of such deeper trust and connection that she finally felt connected and close enough to be able to TELL me.

I'm wondering at teachers; who don't think ahead much, in one way, and yet clearly thought ahead enough to create some "spare" clay projects. I'm wondering about the lack of psychology training in educators, in general, and how much healthier we might all be as adults if there was more understanding about the emotional burdens we give children which they are unprepared to carry. I'm remembering (with still some pain 30 years later) at being given back all my childhood craft projects by my mother, as she had no space for them anymore (in her new smaller house) and they held not enough value to her anymore. My then 20-something self HAD expected her to keep my gifts and smile over them till she died. My 50-something self is determined never to give that redundant feeling to my girl.

And yes, people always do ask. Why so many workspaces? LOL.

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It's a productivity & health hack. I change up my location for different tasks and projects during the day: different physical chair and position, different window, little distracting clutter and the various work stations are better at different times of the day, and in different seasons. How many work spaces & zones do I have? I have 6. 😆

My heart smiled so BIG as I watched my daughter flounce off downstairs to her next online class, clearly feeling lighter and released by her confession. I think I can see a trace of a smile on Harry's face too, relieved after all these years and clearly feeling appreciated for his true origins at last.