The Parent Partnership We're Afraid to Talk About

I had a parent text me at 11:47 PM last Sunday.

"Mr. Marshall, I know Jacob is struggling in your computer science class. I don't understand any of this coding stuff, but I can see he's frustrated. What can I do to help him at home?"

I sat there at my kitchen table, glass of milk with crushed ice getting watery, thinking about how different this felt from the usual parent communications most teachers get. No accusations. No demands. No defensiveness. Just a parent asking how they could better support their kid.

And they were texting me because I gave them my personal cell phone number. Because I want them to feel involved, invited, and part of the team working for their child's success.

Most of my colleagues think I'm crazy for doing that. Maybe I am. But here's what I know: When parents can reach me, they do. And when they reach me, we can actually work together.

Here's the truth we're all dancing around: Most parent-school relationships aren't partnerships at all.

They're transactions. We tell parents what we need from them. They tell us what they expect from us. We smile politely, nod at appropriate intervals, and everyone walks away frustrated because nobody actually got what they needed.

Meanwhile, the kid—the person we're supposedly both supporting—is caught in the middle of adults who can't figure out how to work together.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, especially after 30-plus years of parent conferences, emails, and phone calls. The best partnerships I've had with parents weren't the ones where we agreed about everything. They were the ones where we both understood we were here for the same young person.

Let me tell you about Maria's mom.

Maria was struggling in my business information management class. Not because she couldn't do the work, but because she wasn't completing assignments. I called her mom at 8 PM on a Tuesday, when I knew she'd be home from work but before her evening got too busy.

"She's been talking about your class," her mom said. "She actually likes it, which surprises me because she's not engaged in most of her classes. But she's overwhelmed with everything else going on. What does she actually need to succeed with you?"

Notice what didn't happen in that conversation. Her mom didn't make excuses for Maria. She didn't blame me for not motivating her daughter. She didn't demand I lower my expectations or give Maria special treatment.

She asked how we could help Maria succeed. Together.

That's what real partnership looks like.

It starts with understanding that we're both invested in the same outcome—helping this young person learn and grow. It means parents aren't problems to manage, and teachers aren't obstacles to overcome. We're allies working for the same kid.

But here's where it gets complicated: Most parents have never been invited into that kind of partnership.

They feel disconnected from their child's education, especially by the time they reach high school. They see grades in the portal, get automated attendance calls, and attend conferences where teachers present data for ten minutes without really connecting.

When I give parents my cell phone number, I'm communicating something important: You're not an outsider to be managed. You're a partner in your child's growth.

And you know what happens? They text me when their kid is struggling with an assignment at 9 PM instead of letting frustration build. They call me when something's happening at home that might affect classroom performance. They reach out when they don't understand something instead of assuming I don't have time for them.

The parents who text me aren't trying to make my life harder. They're trying to support their kids better. And because I've made myself available, we can actually collaborate instead of working around each other.

Here's what I've learned works:

Start every parent interaction assuming we both want what's best for this young person. Not what's easiest for me as the teacher, or what makes the parent feel better, but what actually helps the student thrive.

When Jacob's mom texted me about his coding struggles, I didn't send back a list of missing assignments or suggest she hire a tutor. I called her the next day. We talked for twenty minutes about what Jacob was passionate about, what he was avoiding, and how his learning style showed up at home versus at school.

By the end of that conversation, we had a plan. Not my plan that I was asking her to implement, and not her plan that she was asking me to accommodate. Our plan for helping Jacob succeed.

The partnership we're afraid to talk about is the one where parents and teachers act like adults who care about the same young people.

It means parents can ask honest questions without being labeled "difficult." It means teachers can share what's really happening without being defensive. It means we can disagree about approaches while staying united in our purpose.

Most importantly, it means kids get to see the adults in their life working together instead of working around each other.

Yes, giving parents my personal number means I get texts at inconvenient times. It means some boundaries get blurred. It means I'm more accessible than many teachers choose to be.

But it also means I'm serving my students better. Because when parents feel invited onto the team, they show up. And when they show up, everyone wins—especially the kids.

Next week, we're talking about something that hits even closer to home: How school leaders get caught managing compliance instead of leading people. And why that matters more than you might think for those of us working with students every day.

Because when our leaders can't focus on what matters most, it makes our job of reaching every kid that much harder.

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