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The Reading Parent

For most of last year I served as “The Reading Parent” for my stepdaughter’s first grade class. One would think that, at it’s utterance, such an official sounding title commanded the same instantaneous respect from school children that similar positions like say, The President or Caesar do in silencing boisterous audiences.

“Boys and girls, The Reading Parent …of the United States!” I imagined the teacher saying in a thick, formal tone as she announced my entrance into the classroom. Not so. I completed three terms as The Reading Parent, and during each stint, this teacher did little more than smile while letting me know that they were just finishing up their art projects.

“Class, let’s clean up. It’s time for The Reading Parent,” she’d then say, causing a dozen glue-smeared faces to snap in my direction and squint with an unnerving gaze, a mix of leering and ravenous. And there I’d stand, like a crippled fawn wearing a suit made from the same fried batter that coats a Chicken McNugget. Noticing how they would glance at the safety scissors clenched inside their chubby paws and then back at me, I could tell what was going through their minds. “Do you think there’s a toy surprise inside?”

It’s at this moment that I usually took my seat at the head of the classroom. As I’d walk towards the undersized folding chair reserved for me, the natives mimicked the cadence of my stride by pounding on their tables and chanting “fresh meat, fresh meat” until their voices reached a frenzied crescendo of unintelligible whooping and howling.

Intimidating as this may sound, I learned to ignore it. They can smell fear—drives ‘em wild. Even the slightest quiver in your voice while recounting the exploits of Little Red Riding Hood and they will go all Big Bad Wolf on you in a Hans Christian Anderson second.

Yet for all the wildness, I relished being The Reading Parent. It‘s one of the few thing I get to do that’s overtly “parent-y.” Due to certain circumstances, my wife and I aren’t able to be as involved in the kids’ activities as much as we would like. Were things different, we’d certainly attend every PTA meeting, throwing in our two cents as to whether or not only gluten-free brownies should be sold at the next fundraiser.

Believe me, I would love to shout, “one thousand dollars!” in front of the entire assembly to make the winning bid for the “Prized Parent” parking space being auctioned off at the Fall Festival. Not only would I come off as the greatest dad since time began, but it would also ensure that my children finally receive speaking parts in the upcoming Christmas Musical. Until then, however, I’ll have to endure another performance where the same kids wearing more custom-made costumes slur their lines into a microphone like drunken celebrities at an awards show.

For now, The Reading Parent is all I’ve got. That’s why when my stepdaughters’ biological father stepped in to be The Reading Parent after moving back to town, I felt as if I had been replaced overnight in a quiet bloodless coup. The morning he was to take on the mantle, my one stepdaughter practically danced in the streets to celebrate as she picked out titles for her dad to read.

“Do you think he’ll like this one?” she asked holding up an I Spy book.

“Uh, maybe. How ‘bout this one?” It was a story about anim