TLDR

A royal blue-lettered envelope embossed with the school's insignia arrived in the mail, indicating a more important communique than what usually appears on the pastel-colored pages that make their way to the bottom of a school bag, never to be seen again.

It is the scholastic equivalent of a tree falling, unwitnessed, in the forest: If a homeroom teacher sends a note home to parents, asking them to send in a snack before Thanksgiving recess and they don't read about it until Valentine's Day, did it really matter?

I don't think so. 

In fact, this year's inattention saved me $75, NOT ordering Yankee Candles.

But a letter, on official stationery with metered postage? This must be serious.

Important looking letters are the kind of things that strike fear in the hearts of parents like me: We who do not rifle through our children's things looking for unfinished homework, evidence of poor grades, or notes from teachers that require an authentic signature.

We who get our need-to-know information through the filter of our kids' badgering. If they want to participate in a particular thing, they have two options: they can either let ME know in a timely fashion … or they can skirt the issue entirely using forgery.

Not that I expect the latter.

"What could this be?" I wondered as I stood in front of the post office box, keys still dangling from the lock. I turned it over to inspect the back, deciding whether to open it immediately or wait until I was properly fed and caffeinated. Which -- truth be told – could happen next Tuesday in Never.

The last official letter that arrived via post had standardized test scores tucked inside. I would shred them in secret, and nest the strands at the bottom of the kitchen garbage, lest anyone  accidentally piece them back together on purpose and have to live with the fallacy such numbers actually "count."

Of course, it might have been an optometry referral for nearsightedness ... or it may have sounded an alarm that the health office didn't have the proper documentation on one kid or both.

Schools understand that a single page doubled spaced letter sent through the USPS, will have more of an effect than seventeen thousand words printed on a half-dozen sheets of multi-colored paper jammed into the knapsacks of teenagers. Knapsacks, I might add, which also likely contain smashed bits of snack crackers, as well as a wad of fermented gym clothes. 

But I digress.

Whatever it was that concerned the school enough to pay the price of postage rather than entrust the Backpack Express, the note would be brief and to the point, and it would possess enough formalized authority to spur me to action.

I would shred... or make the necessary appointments ... or have the doctors' office fax the school nurse post haste.

Or, in this case, in a few days it would make me open my phone and add a date-not-to-be-missed into the calendar so I might witness an accolade earned by my eldest. 

"Might" being the operative word.

My daughter took the letter from my congratulatory hands for inspection.

My sudden revelry turned to guilt.

"You didn't RSVP, did you?"

"Well, no one reads those bits at the end."