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With a Wink &The Twists of Everyday Life

A Polish Woman’s Love Letter to Gurgaon… With a Few Red Flags

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ChatGPT Image Apr 14, 2025, 05_00_07 PM

Reality isn't Negativity

Every time I speak about what’s not working in the city, someone is ready with a quick label: “You’re being too negative.” Really? Since when did speaking the truth become a crime? I see a problem and I name it. That doesn’t mean I don’t see beauty, goodness, or progress. In fact, I make sure every single day to notice what’s positive around me—there’s plenty! But sugarcoating everything in the name of “positivity” is not my style. If I say I’m not okay, it means I respect myself enough not to lie about it. And if I say a city—this so-called “millennium city”—has serious issues, it’s because I believe we can do better.

Let’s start with civic sense. Or the lack of it.

Why is standing in line such a big deal? Why is waiting for your turn such a challenge? Population? Please. Look at Japan. It’s not about how many people. It’s about how people behave. Queues, crossings, common sense—it’s not rocket science. Yet here, it’s often a turmoil of honking, pushing, and cutting lines, because everyone’s in a bigger rush than the next.

Let’s talk roads. Or what’s left of them. Holes, potholes, broken patches—often with a stick poking out of them, generously placed by a kind soul to warn the next victim. Repairs are done the “jugaad” way—temporary fixes meant to last until someone gets seriously hurt. There’s no safety around construction sites, no warning signs. You turn into a street, and oops—blocked. Go back. Where’s the regulation? Why do we wait for damage before we do something? Why is patchwork more common than planning?

Drainage? Don’t even get me started. Every monsoon we need boats. The stench, the mess—how is this normal in a city full of billion-dollar homes?

Speaking of which, people live in Aralias, Camellias, million-rupee condos with designer dogs and infinity pools, but guess what? There’s no zebra crossing in front of their buildings. Workers, nannies, security guards—they have to dodge traffic just to cross the road. Who planned this city? For whom?

And don’t tell me it’s all the British fault. It’s 2025. You have your independence, your brains, your money. Use them. Build something better. Stop blaming the past when you have power in the present.

Now let’s talk about driving.

I used to roll my eyes when men made those casual, sexist comments about women drivers. “Oh please,” I’d say. “Have you seen Gurgaon women?” These women drive like pros! I’ve been driving here since the early 2000s—back when there were no signals, no streetlights, just “honk honk” from every direction and hope for the best. I zoom through the city like a pro, and many other women do too. They’ve mastered this chaos.

But let’s be real—some of us have also turned into bulls. Eyes shut, we move from point A to B like we’re queens of England. No indicators, no mirrors, no rules. Push, switch, squeeze—zero awareness. And God forbid someone points it out! The defense mode activates. “How dare you question me? I’m a woman!” No ma’am, that’s not feminism. That’s just bad behavior with an ego problem.

Apologizing is a lost art. No one admits fault. No one says sorry and means it. Why? Because shouting louder might just make the other person back off. “Let me scare them before they question me.” Power games. Ego trips.

Speaking of power trips, have you noticed the way people behave in public?

There’s so much energy in this city—and not the friendly kind. One small disagreement, and boom! Shouting, insults, drama. Especially if the attacker sees that the other person is “lower” in some social rank—just one golden chance to feel “bigger,” to show “I can.” It’s exhausting.

And women, too, have started mimicking this aggression. I miss the days when we spoke with grace. There was charm in our dignity, beauty in composure. Now, it’s like a full-on boxing match with lip gloss. Screaming on streets, throwing insults—it’s not empowerment. It’s chaos. Strength doesn’t have to be loud. Politeness isn’t weakness.

Now let me touch a delicate one: urinating in public.

Yes, it’s improved. But I can still spot them—those proud “pissing kings” on the roadside. Zippers down, dingdong  out, no shame in sight . And the spitting! Oh my god, the spitting. The deep, dramatic throat-clearing followed by a projectile launch—it’s like a national sport. Why? Why must the entire world hear and see your internal cleansing?

Burping, farting—yes yes, “natural” and even “healthy.” But for heaven’s sake, keep it personal. Not every tradition needs to be worn like a badge. We’re in a city that claims to be global. Some things can stay within your digestive system, thank you very much. You can do all your puff and gaff at home, as much as you want—we all do. Just don’t parade it proudly in public like it’s some cultural trophy. In many parts of the world, it’s just considered… gross.

And what about animals?

Why are we still pretending street dogs don’t exist until they bite someone? Where is the government body responsible for controlling birth, safety, and health of strays? And cows crossing the roads—why the rush when you see an animal? You worship them but don’t stop for them? High-level hypocrisy deserves a whole research paper. People throw garbage from their car windows, treat the earth like a dustbin, and yet do pooja the next morning. Please explain.

And the environment? Just go see Leopard Trail. Once a haven of peace, now a party zone. Loud music, cars, trash. Why do people need to bring chaos everywhere they go? Can’t some places stay sacred, even without temples?

Let’s pause for a moment and acknowledge: yes, Gurgaon can be beautiful. Some buildings, restaurants, cultural spaces—it’s like entering a different country. You feel like you’re in a museum, or a scene from a beautiful European theatre. The design, the detail, the ambience—it’s stunning.

But just wait… every few meters, what do you see? Thekas. Alcohol shops. Glorious, glowing, better lit than hospitals. They sparkle like temples of the holy grail. Designed like ashrams of intoxication. No garbage rules apply here. These temples of buzz are built right on the main roads—why? Easy access, of course. Traffic? Who cares! I must stop and sip. I’m the boss. That’s the energy.

And schools? Also on the main roads. No drop-off zones. No safety channels for kids. Rush hour chaos, angry drivers, children squeezed in between bumpers—and we wonder why they grow up to repeat the same madness? No planning. No underground parking. Even teachers struggle to find parking, starting their day already stressed, praying their car isn’t damaged while they’re nurturing the future of this country.

And while we’re being honest—can we also talk about accessibility?
Where are the ramps, the tactile paths, the thoughtful designs that include everyone? Ever tried pushing a stroller on a footpath here? Oh wait—what footpath? It’s all broken tiles, dumped debris, or cars parked like it’s their private driveway. And don’t even mention wheelchairs. If you’re not on two feet with ninja reflexes, good luck surviving the urban jungle. We talk about inclusion in fancy conferences, but forget the basics outside our doors. Accessibility isn’t charity—it’s dignity.

Why does this happen? Why is planning not futuristic, inclusive, or thoughtful? Why is everything profit over people?

And my last question—if Gurgaon is getting so choked, will the new cities learn from it? Or will we build the next chaos center just a few kilometers further, repeat all mistakes, and blame the same old things?

It’s like people behave like a virus. Wherever they go, they destroy, consume, damage. Where is the respect—for space, for systems, for each other?

Yes, there are good people. Kindness exists. There are those who feed animals, help strangers, keep their spaces clean. I see them, I honor them. But when their goodness is drowned by the noise of ignorance, what’s the use? You’re free now.  Use that freedom to create beauty, not just profit. To respect space, time, each other.

This isn’t negativity. This is a love letter with bold highlights. I speak because I care. I name things because I hope for change. And if that makes me “too honest,” well… I’d rather be real than silent.

On Life Death and Immortality

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ChatGPT Image May 9, 2025, 09_01_16 PM

On Life Death and Immortality

You know what’s stupidly beautiful? Life. You know what’s stupidly stupid? That it ends.

Lately, I’ve been scrolling too much (who hasn’t?), and somewhere between a reel about dogs doing yoga and a weird mushroom that looks like a brain, I stumbled upon a headline: “Scientists Say Death After Cardiac Arrest Might Not Be Final.” Say what now?

Basically, there’s a growing body of research suggesting that if your heart stops, you might technically be dead, but not really, because they might be able to switch you back on. Like a reboot. Apparently, we’re getting closer to the point where death might become… optional?

And I love that idea. Because honestly, as much as I sometimes feel meh about the messes of life – the stress, the noise, the “oh god, I ate too much cheese again” regret – I really don’t want to die. I just want the option to stay and observe this absurd, tragicomic human play for as long as possible.

But here’s the paradox: I don’t want to die, but I also lack the will to do squats. Or drink smoothies that look like someone blended a forest. Isn’t that the height of idiocy? Immortality fantasies with zero cardio commitment. I know I should stay fit – but instead, I find myself bargaining with science to please, just make immortality happen before my knees give out.

And while I’m dreaming, maybe a gentle vampire could swing by and offer a forever plan – minus the blood, please. I gag at the smell of raw meat. (Do vampires even have taste buds? And if they do, how do they not vomit drinking blood? Questions that haunt me more than death itself.)

Speaking of being haunted – there was another scroll, right after the death-resurrection article. It spoke of people who “discovered something” and accidentally shared it with the world. Next thing you know, they’re found dead under mysterious circumstances. Coincidence? Sure. But you and I both know about that gut feeling. That something out there, call it what you will – evil, devil, systemic manipulation, whatever your belief system allows – it exists. And it doesn’t like it when people get too close to uncomfortable truths.

I mean, why else can’t we regrow teeth? Lizards can regrow tails. Axolotls can regrow limbs. But us? One wrong bite of popcorn and it’s a crown, a root canal, a bill that costs more than rent. Convenient for someone’s profit, no?

Same with cancer. Cures exist – herbs, compounds, suppressed research. But we keep cycling in systems that favor treatment over healing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-doctor. I just find it curious how often we’re told, “there’s no cure,” and then some random farmer in Peru drinks a plant tea and lives to 112.

But this isn’t about medicine. It’s about life. And death.

To me, death feels like the deep sleep we don’t remember. A click – lights out – no dreams. Not scary, just blank. And maybe, just maybe, if there is something after, it’s not the fluffy clouds and golden gates. Maybe it’s a place where love is not the kind we obsess over here – not needy, not jealous, not packaged with fear. Maybe it’s a pure frequency, one we haven’t evolved enough to fully sense.

Or maybe… it’s just off. Like a lamp that’s been unplugged.

Still, here I am, writing this not because I fear death – but because I really like being alive. The smell of rain. The curve of someone’s smile. Music that hits you in the ribs. The way dogs sigh when they lie down. That’s enough. That’s magic. That’s why I want the choice to stay.

So until science figures out this whole resurrection or immortality thing, I’ll try – imperfectly – to stretch, to breathe, to eat the occasional vegetable. Maybe even go for a walk. Just in case it buys me more time.

Or, you know, if you’re a nice, non-creepy vampire reading this – DM me.

More Than Just A Teacher

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More Than Just a Teacher Sub Heading

I’m not just a teacher. I’m one of those teachers. The ones who stay late not to tick boxes, but to hold space—for a confused child, a scared parent, or a tired colleague. The ones who adjust, adapt, and reinvent their methods to match a system that often feels like it was never made for children. The ones who keep going, even when their knees ache, hearts break, and inboxes overflow.

Yes, I get things done. Fast. Efficient. Precise. I can jump into a new documentation format, decode new curriculum expectations, translate vague meetings into actual classroom outcomes—and still remember who forgot their lunch or had a nightmare last night. I’ve coordinated. I’ve mentored. I’ve created structures. I’ve run on coffee and conviction for years. And I did it with all my heart.

But somewhere in the noise of targets and tools, let’s not forget—I love being with children. That is where my soul rests. That’s where my job stops being “work.”

I watch them laugh at shadows, ask why the moon follows the car, cry over a broken crayon like it’s the end of the world—and I know I’m in the right place. These little ones… they love you not for what you teach, but for how present you are when you teach. They love you for the silly songs, the upside-down reading time, the moments you’re human with them. Not superior. Not controlling. Just human.

I’ve always believed that teaching is not about stuffing information into tiny heads. It’s about protecting curiosity from being killed by adult anxiety. It’s about saying yes to questions we don’t know the answers to. It’s about watching and learning from children—yes, us learning from them. Because let’s be honest, their hearts are cleaner than ours. Their joy is freer. Their wonder is intact. Who are we to shape them, when our own shapes are crooked?

I fight daily against a curriculum that often feels more like a bureaucratic checkbox list than a living, breathing guide for growth. I fight for the right to slow down. To let them listen to birds and see clouds turn into dragons. To feel the rhythm of a season. To love the earth because they’re part of it—not just memorize facts about it.

I want to show teachers that teaching can be beautiful, fulfilling, and respected. That we are not “just” teachers—we are caregivers, creators, facilitators, leaders. We matter. But respect doesn’t come from thin air. It comes from acknowledgment, fair pay, and emotional safety in the workplace.

I’ve reached a point where my body can’t take the classroom chaos anymore—but my heart hasn’t stopped beating for this profession. And each time I seek work that lets me mentor, create, train, or lead—I hear the same thing: “You don’t have experience.” Experience?! Was I not coordinating, managing, writing, designing, and problem-solving for years?

Let’s stop calling experience only what fits a job description. Give people a chance to grow into roles, not just apply to them.

And yes—I want to be paid. Paid not for being a babysitter of toddlers, but for being an expert in early childhood. Paid for my commitment, creativity, and depth. I’ve heard it too often: “It’s just small children, what do you even teach them?” You’d be surprised. We teach them how to be. How to feel safe. How to express. How to connect. That’s the foundation of everything that comes later.

So maybe, it’s time to close a chapter. But not with regret—with fire. I am one of many teachers who gave everything and were met with indifference. Who spoke up and were told to “adjust.” But let me tell you: I will not go quiet. I will not be replaced like a sock. I am not a follower. I’m a loud, proud, open-mouthed Polish woman who works hard, gives her heart, and deserves to be respected.

To all the early years warriors out there: I see you. You matter. And if the system won’t honour you, it’s the system that’s broken—not you.

THE MONTHLY PLOT TWIST- A WOMAN’S LIFE IN FOUR ACTS

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THE MONTHLY PLOT TWIST

THE MONTHLY PLOT TWIST: A WOMAN’S LIFE IN FOUR ACTS

(Inspired by a brutally honest reel that finally said what we’ve all been too hormonal to articulate)

So there I was, casually scrolling through reels, looking for a cat video to heal my soul—and boom. One video. One hilariously exposed, too-accurate breakdown of The Woman Hormonal Cycle. And I swear on my last piece of emergency chocolate, I felt seen.

Forget your fancy emotional balance charts, self-help podcasts, and “resilience” worksheets. None of them prepare you for what we, as women, go through every single month. It’s like a Netflix series no one asked for, but you’re the star, the villain, and the audience… all at once.

This article? It’s my ode to that reel. And to every woman out there surviving this biological drama with grace, sarcasm, and a very questionable relationship with cheese.

And hey—cheers to the men who get it. Who smile, nod, and walk beside us through the chaos.
And to those who still say things like “Are you okay?” or “Why are you so emotional?”—WAKE UP, you sweet, clueless cinnamon roll. She’s not crazy. She’s literally in a hormonal blender every week.

Here’s what that looks like:

ACT I — WEEK 1: “She Rises.”

The bleeding has ended. The clouds part. The birds sing. You feel… human again. You hydrate. You return texts. You become suspiciously productive. People mistake it for “balance.” It’s not. It’s just the Week 1 glow-up.

You forgive people. You flirt with optimism. You make to-do lists with cute little checkboxes.

You say things like,
“Last week was wild. But I’m back.”
(You’re not. You’re just temporarily sane.)

ACT II — WEEK 2: “The Main Character Energy.”

Ovulation hits. You’re magnetic. Dangerous. You wear eyeliner for no reason.
You’re texting “Hey stranger” like it’s a game. You believe in destiny, yoga, and love at first sight. You make big plans. New projects. Passionate declarations.

You post stories with deep quotes. You dance in the kitchen. You cry over how beautiful avocados are.

You genuinely believe you could be a CEO, artist, lover, and also do Pilates at 6am.

Delusion? Yes. But it’s also the best week of your life.

ACT III — WEEK 3: “Who Even Am I?”

Hormones shift. The music stops.
You check your own texts twice to make sure you weren’t weird. Spoiler: you were.

Your confidence is missing. Your jeans don’t fit. You google “Can stress cause personality changes?”
You want a hug. And also for everyone to leave you alone forever.

You think:
“I peaked last week. It’s all downhill from here.”
Correct.

ACT IV — WEEK 4: “Apocalypse Now.”

This is the week your soul leaves your body temporarily.
Your uterus becomes a medieval torture chamber. You cry because someone left a spoon in the sink.
You question your life. All of it.

You eat cheese like it betrayed you.
You cancel plans with the phrase, “I just need space.”
You get mad at your pillow. Your phone. Air.

You go from “I’m fine” to “I NEED A NEW LIFE” in 3.7 seconds.

You cry while folding laundry. You cry because you’re crying. Then you yell at your own tears for being dramatic.

And then… the red sea returns.
You look around. You clean up the emotional crime scene. You whisper to yourself,
“Damn. We did it again.”

So what’s the takeaway here?

Women aren’t dramatic. We’re warriors in a biochemical warzone, every damn month.
We don’t need fixing. We need snacks, compassion, and people who understand the art of staying quiet during Week 4.

To all the women out there:
You are powerful.
You are magical.
You are a four-season emotional weather system wrapped in leggings and lip balm.

And to the men?
If you get it—thank you. We see you.
If you don’t? Start taking notes. Because she’s not “too sensitive” or “overreacting”—she’s surviving hormonal warfare while looking cute and still showing up to work.

Now that’s power.

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I Also Want a Reward (Shamelessly. Spiritually. Emotionally. Instagrammally.)

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ChatGPT Image Apr 18, 2025, 08_08_57 PM
 
Okay, first of all:
I am not that enlightened spiritual creature who can meditate her envy into stardust and float above the Instagram feed like a yogi on a cloud of detachment.

Nope. Not there yet.

Because today, while I was having a nap (aka scrolling mindlessly on Instagram while pretending to rest), I found myself going down that sparkly rabbit hole of people receiving… yes, you guessed it…

REWARDS.
AWARDS.
CERTIFICATES.
PLAQUES.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS.
MEDALS FOR BASIC SURVIVAL WITH A RING LIGHT AND LINKEDIN PROFILE.

And somewhere between a dopamine scroll and a drool-on-the-pillow situation, I whispered to the universe:
I. ALSO. WANT. A. REWARD.

Because I do a good job. A damn good job, actually.
But instead of applause, I have a small human handing me a half-eaten biscuit saying, “Teacher, you are nice.”
And honestly? That’s the purest reward. But let’s also be real…

Yes. I’ll say it out loud:
I am envious of those people.

The ones getting all the shiny appreciation, the wows, the what-not, the public love letters of validation.
Sure, they might deserve the applause—but how many of them are actually in the field, doing the work, day after day, loving the mess, the madness, and the magic?

Because this job? This job is not easy.
It takes all of you—your soul, your nerves, your vocal cords, your sleep, your lower back, your left shoe (because you’ll never find it after outdoor play).

And still, people like me keep doing it.
Even when we feel like banging our heads against a wall.
Or howling like an angry forest wolf under a full moon.
(Ha!)

So yes, that little pinch of envy? It’s there.
Because we—the invisible, unheard, unpaid magicians—walk this earth on some strange, divine mission.
And we must make peace with that.

For us goddesses, the delicious ambrosia is in children’s smiles, their trust, their love.
It’s in that one sacred moment of connection that can’t be captured in a PowerPoint or certificate.

And if we really look at it—we’re the ones who can stand in front of a mirror and say:
“I am true to what I do.”

Even if we don’t wear makeup, heels, or polished perfection.
Even if our stories are not viral.
Even if the only “award” we get is sticky fingers and a whispered “I love you, Miss.”

We are the most loved teachers by the most honest hearts.
Even if just for a moment.

So who really wins?
The one with the gold medal on stage…
Or the one with ten tiny arms hugging her legs like she’s the Queen of the Universe?

I attended workshops. Oh, so many.
I got certificates too. Probably enough to wallpaper a small studio apartment.
But was I smart enough to collect them in a fancy folder with labels and page protectors and hashtags?
Nope. I was too busy actually working with children to run after the paperwork.

Now those certificates are either:

  • Lost in the Bermuda Triangle of my old inboxes

  • Used as bookmarks in dusty educational theory books

  • Or simply known only to me and the air I breathe.
    No one else can confirm them. And the people who gave them? They barely remember why they gave them in the first place.

But why didn’t I collect them properly?
Maybe because I didn’t think proof of learning was more important than actual application of knowledge.
I thought what I do mattered more than what I could frame on my wall.
Was I wrong? Maybe.
Was I naïve? Possibly.
Was it arrogance? No. It was faith.

Faith that being a good teacher meant more than having a digital badge or a selfie from a “transformational” Zoom workshop where 90% of the time was spent saying “You’re on mute.”

And I’m not ashamed to say:
I agree with the fact that I am a damn good teacher.

Yes, I struggle to swim in this ocean of nonsense—
Where fancy terms drown real care.
Where child-led learning is replaced with curriculum-led chaos.
Where teachers are supposed to work like robots, paid in peanuts and “thank you” emails, while being expected to smile like Barbie with a PhD.

Meanwhile, I—and many others like me—pour our hearts, our souls, and often our own money into creating joyful, meaningful experiences for children.
But where’s the applause? Where’s the stage?
Where’s the LinkedIn post with 1,000 likes?

Well, turns out… you gotta market yourself.
You gotta dance the dance. Post the post. Show the badge. Smile at the committee like you’re in a toothpaste ad.

But you know what?

I didn’t build my career by shouting on social media.
I didn’t think showing certificates was more powerful than showing results in children’s eyes.
Turns out, I realised this game too late.
I’m nearly 50. The music is changing, and the dance floor is slippery.
But here I am, still dancing. Still teaching. Still refusing to sell out.

So yes, I accept that the system doesn’t care about unframed genius or quiet impact.
And still—I’ll keep doing my best.
Even without diplomas, without media posts, without awards, and without medals (unless a 5-year-old gives me one made of Play-Doh and glitter, which honestly feels more real).

Sure, I’ve had a few real achievements. But I didn’t care to show them.
Because I believed—foolishly or not—that what you do means more than what you post.

But hey. If anyone’s handing out rewards for:

  • surviving glitter explosions

  • designing meaningful play

  • refusing to bow to nonsense

  • and keeping it real with a smile and a song

Please let me know.

Because I’d like mine in wood, eco-friendly, shaped like a heart, and preferably handed over by a child who thinks I’m magic.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ve already been getting the realest rewards all along.

Like when they come running to me, arms wide open, saying:
“I love you, Miss.”
Like when they cling to me with their whole little selves,
whispering their tiny, sacred, beautiful secrets into my ear.

Maybe that’s the biggest reward of all.
And you know what? I’ll take that over any medal, any day.

Can Preschoolers Evaluate Teachers? A Report from the Little Humans

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Can Preschoolers Evaluate Teachers A Report from the Little Humans

can preschoolers evaluate teachers

The Idea That Got Me Thinking

I recently stumbled upon a short video where a teacher asked their students for an evaluation. The idea was simple: if teachers can assess students, why can’t students evaluate teachers? It struck me—regardless of the original intent behind that video—that this isn’t a stupid idea at all. But then, my early childhood educator brain had things to whisper. Can this actually work in preschool?

Short answer? No.

Long answer? Well, let’s break it down.

The “I Love You, Ma’am” Syndrome

I’ve seen it with my own eyes: a teacher tells a class of 3- or 4-year-olds, “Make a heart for me! Say you love me! Make a card for me!” And sure enough, tiny hands start cutting, drawing, gluing, and—boom!—a pile of heartfelt masterpieces appears. The teacher is showered with “I love you, Ma’am” declarations, and the little ones beam with pride.

But how healthy is this? I leave that for you to evaluate. Personally? I never liked it.

Honesty moment: I even felt a little jealous.

I rarely got cards, and if I did, they were usually spontaneous, not requested. But words? Oh, I got words. That raw, unfiltered affection. “I love you, Ma’am!”, “I love everything you do”, “you look beautiful today”, your shirt is like my moms, so pretty “ whispered between activities, little arms wrapping around me for a hug, children simply glued to me, standing still, refusing to let go. Let me tell you, nothing humbles you more than trying to gently peel a child off while internally panicking about how to teach personal space.

The difference? One kind of affection was handed over on a platter with a “Make This for Me” instruction. The other was freely given.

Yet, those teachers got the trophies—the handmade proof of their “success” in the classroom. I couldn’t do it. Asking kids to manufacture admiration felt unethical. And yes, I was jealous, but I knew deep down it wasn’t fair. Did I ever confront those teachers? No. I ignored it. Over time, I stopped caring.

Pre-schoolers and Their Ever-Changing Minds

Let’s be real. Young children are easy to sway. One day, you might be their hero. The next? A witch. Maybe you asked them to wash their hands before eating. Maybe you said no to their third cookie. Or maybe, just maybe, they simply woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Now imagine trying to get an “evaluation” from them.

One day, they will tell their parents you’re “the best teacher ever.” The next day, they will claim you “made them sad” because you didn’t let them play with the blue truck. By the third day, they’ve forgotten everything and are back to treating you like their favourite human.

It’s all beautifully unpredictable.

So, how do you even begin to get a fair report from a preschooler? Through parents? Sure, but then you’re not exactly getting their evaluation, are you? You’re getting a filtered version of what they choose to share at home.

Manipulation vs. Authenticity in Early Childhood Education

Let’s throw in another layer. If kids can be easily influenced, what stops teachers from “guiding” their feedback?

“Did you have fun in class today?” (Yes!)

“Is Ma’am the best?” (Nods eagerly.)

“Do you love Ma’am?” (Of course!)

Boom. There’s your glowing teacher review. But is it real?

The Real Measure of a Teacher..

At the end of the day, the best evaluations don’t come from paper or forced affection.

They come in the form of trust—when a child reaches for your hand without hesitation. In growth—when a shy kid finds their voice because of you. In those small, unprompted moments—when they see you outside of school and their face lights up. And in the tiny gestures that remind you what a privilege it is to be part of their world.

The Beauty of a Child’s World

The beauty of their world is that they live in the moment. They don’t know yesterday and care less about tomorrow—the way we should be living, but often forget. And in that moment, when they come to you, wide-eyed with excitement, saying, “Mama, this is for you!”—yes, Mama. They often call me that. At first, it surprised me. Why Mama? Maybe because I’m there for them every day, a constant presence in their little world. Maybe it’s the warmth, the comfort, the way I listen, or how I help them with things that seem so big in their tiny hands. Maybe it’s just instinct—the way they associate care with that word. And I realize, it’s not about replacing anyone. It’s about the bond we build in those fleeting hours, a connection so natural that Mama just slips out without a second thought.

Then there are those moments when they eagerly share a new toy, or a random personal story—often an entirely imaginary one, but who cares? When I see their big eyes, filled with joy over the smallest things, it reminds me to pause. To see things the way they do. To stay in this moment with them. And maybe, just maybe, to stop overthinking whether I’d ever get a handmade heart. Because in their world, love isn’t measured in paper and glue—it’s in the way they see you.

 

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