Semi-legible loopy long-handed photocopied writing made me blink in surprise the first time my husband brought extra paperwork home from daycare.  This isn’t a home daycare either, but an independant center with probably 30 kids full-time plus an after-school program.

Only when I tried to interpret it did I realize how awful the writing really was.  Some important words were left out of sentences and had to be inferred.  Multiple words were spelled wrong.  The grammar was confusing and the ideas were mixed up instead of organized into groups.

I actually had to go talk to the owner to make sure I understod what she wrote.  She knew exactly what was needed, for vaccination documentation to the state in this case, and it took only a couple go rounds verbally before I understood as well.  She proudly displays her certifications and the continual education information for her staff and has successfully run this business for at least a decade.

How well she writes doesn’t matter.

This blew me away.

I live in a world where writing matters, whether it is conversations on the internet, documentation and collaboration at work, or in my personal realm of interests as a reader and a blogger.

But she gets everything done and communicated without the level of skill I would have thought necessary.  Most likely her business and image could benefit by improving her skills or using someone else’s, but how much of a difference would it really make?

It’s a disconnect for me that spawned a whole host of questions.

For how many people in the US who consider themselves successful does writing really not matter?  How far is my view skewed by personal prejudices, past education, and constant exposure to the internet, where ”content is king?”  Do I undervalue my ability to communicate clearly since I am ever conscious of how I could improve? 

Another letter came home last week, this one about making sure all the children are present by 9am for roll call in case of fire.  It was just as convulated and drove me just as nuts, but the message came across.  Eventually the frustration may be a factor in my finding another daycare, but in the meantime my daughter is receiving great care, and that’s the real point.

Next time I will confirm easily checked-on qualitative impressions.

If I have a discussion with someone about a qualitative term, such as “stringy”, and the item we’re discussing is only two rooms away, then I will have them come look at it with me, to make certain that we are both seeing the same thing, instead of agreeing that it sounds like we’ve been seeing the same thing based on the words we’re using. Maybe then I won’t have to redo a couple days worth of batches because one of the raw materials was going bad.

Next time I will write down the desired end condition.

If I put in two different sets of aging samples and they are marked exactly the same and I ask someone to remove one set, I will not assume this makes sense. Instead I will mark clearly when I expect each sample to come out of the oven.  After all, my memory fails too.

Next time I will ask why something blah-sounding excited someone.

I may not understand the context. My parents mentioned that they’d been to a butterfly exhibit that was cool. My husband chose not to go and see the pinned insects and kicked himself when he found out he could have been photographing live butterflies in a special room. If I’d expressed a little more interest in why the event was exciting the information would have come out naturally.

This is the first in what I expect to be an ongoing series of posts about those little things that happen that you wish you’d thought about differently at the time.