I'm sorry your child thinks 30 divided by 2 is ONE HUNDRED FREAKING TWENTY-THREE. This is all my fault, and in no way is it your child's own carelessness.
I'm sorry your child habitually DOESN'T WRITE THEIR NAME ON THEIR PAPER BECAUSE APPARENTLY IT IS TOO UNREASONABLE TO EXPECT 13 YEAR OLDS TO REMEMBER THEIR NAMES.
I'm sorry "my style" stressed out your child, especially when I teach the class how to use different methods to problem solve BECAUSE APPARENTLY THERE SHOULD ONLY BE ONE DAMN WAY TO SOLVE ANY PROBLEM.
I'm sorry your child's locker is the black hole for homework assignments.
I'm sorry your child is not 3000% confident in their math abilities. I'm sorry that humanity has such an unforgivable flaw as self-doubt.
In order to make this up to you, I will now prostrate myself before an on-coming BART train. I will sacrifice my first born upon the altar of Helicopter Parenting. I am unworthy to teach your precious, over-coddled child because all their faults are my faults. All their inconsistencies are my inconsistencies. Your child is perfect as the day is long, and I should be honored to even wipe the hand-grease that they leave behind on their desks every day.