An ASMR guide for Marmite first timers. First, toast your pillowy soft bread. Push that.

Liberally spread that butter. Stroke that Marmite open. Dip that knife and spread that.

Don't overload and taste that. Marmite. Love it. Hate it. Get it on.

I work as a teacher in an exceptionally average public school, one that suffers from the same issues most districts do.

Some families have difficulties paying for lunches and most teachers are forced to buy the majority of their own supplies, both for the classroom itself and for the less fortunate students.

I do my best to provide whatever materials I can to ensure each student has an equal shot at an education regardless of their income status.

Like most teachers, even the more overworked and slightly traded ones, I love all my students and want the very best for them.

As I stayed late after class one day, grading papers and planning for the next day's class, my mind slowly began to wander.

Eventually, my train of thought arrived at the topic of parents.

As much as I love my students, their parents were a different story.

I started to think back a few years prior, when I encountered the downright strangest parent I've ever met, one I hoped to never meet again.

I have dealt with more than my fair share of Karen mothers as well as overbearing fathers trying to push their sons into sports, regardless of what their child might want, parents tend to think they know best.

After a while, all these encounters began to blend together.

You don't really remember specific parents, unless they were really strange, or have exhibited some sort of harmful behaviour towards their children.

A few years ago, I was feeling in teaching kids around the 8-10-year-old range.

I normally taught high school, but found I fell into the position pretty easily.

I tried my best to give up a cool and almost aloof demeanor, but sometimes my resolve broke because my students were just too darn cute.

Christmas break was coming up soon, and I caught a few sneaky glances of them all working away, making me a giant card, big enough for them to sign in their adorable childish scroll.

As kids, after not aware of how horrible they are, they keep in secret or being stealthy. They thought they were doing an amazing job hiding the card as a surprise for me.

I couldn't help but find myself appreciating how lucky I was to get such a thoughtful and charming bunch.

One card stood out among the rest though, little Milo Wash. At the start of the year, he had been very withdrawn.

I suspected abuse in his past, and as a teacher, he had become very attuned to possible signs of abuse or mistreatment.

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