Thank God it's Friday

Oh sweet, sweet Friday nights!

I loved them when I was on maternity leave, because, of course, I loved the weekends with my whole family. Matt and I make a good parenting team and it's nice to have him around for a couple of days. But Friday nights during the school year when I'm teaching have a special sweetness to them.

I remember looking forward to them with something like desperation during my first year of teaching. It wasn't that I hated my job; I loved it, even that first year (although I would never, ever want to repeat the first year, ever ever ever). It was just that I was constantly struggling to keep my head above water, so to speak. Each Friday afternoon a huge wave of relief would wash over me, and I would wonder -- is this it? Is this the weekend from which I will emerge refreshed and whole and totally on top of things? I was convinced, every single weekend, that I would get all my lesson planning done for the entire week. I would catch up on grading. I would enjoy my life, I would relax, I would sleep enough. And yet, despite my intentions, I'd still find myself floundering on Wednesday because Tuesday's lesson didn't really work all that well and that messed up the next day and what in the freaking heck was I going to do on Thursday and AUUUUGHHHH WHY DIDN'T I JUST GO TO BARTENDING SCHOOL.

Ah, memories.

But Friday night has always been sweet.

This is my tenth year of teaching (I was a BABY when I started!), and I no longer have to panic over my lesson plans. I love playing with ideas and experimenting with new ways to teach literature. It's very much a creative process for me, and also, experience means I don't have to agonize over how to plan for a certain period of time. I can pretty much anticipate what I need in order to fill fifty minutes or eighty minutes, and I usually have more to do than I have time for (which is so much better than getting through all my stuff and realizing, crap, I still have fifteen minutes left). Last Friday night, my friend Becca came over and we planned a couple of weeks' worth of stuff for our classes before dinner, and that was with my children crawling all over us. My, how things have changed.

Now, my Friday nights are all about shucking my school clothes in favor of sweats (isn't Matt lucky to come home to such PURE SEX APPEAL?), sipping wine and cooking dinner with my family, doing our bedtime routine without worrying too much about whether or not anyone is up a bit late, and then, after the kids are asleep, watching whatever we've got on Netflix and eating popcorn and chocolate. (I have fantasies of date nights in which we actually go out for dinner, by ourselves, and don't have to deal with children's menus and crayons and diaper bags, but I just have to trust that will happen again sometime. In the meantime, I love our "dates" at home after the kids are both finally in bed.) Friday nights are free of planning tomorrow's lunches, packing diapers, making sure the breast pump is clean. Friday nights are just about being.

This was my first full week teaching after nine months off (although perhaps "off" isn't the right word, am I right, fellow mamas?). To be honest, for much of my maternity leave I was absolutely not looking forward to returning. Not because I don't love teaching -- I do -- but because of, I don't know, some internal identity crisis? Feeling like I don't really know what I want to be when I grow up? (I still don't know for sure.) Loving my time at home? School issues I choose not to write about on my public blog? But I decided that I'd give it another year and see how it felt, and now that I'm doing it again, I can safely and honestly say I made the best choice for me and for my family, at least for now. It's been so, so good. And I know it's September, and if you're a teacher you understand that there's a certain romance about September, and I might feel a little more worn-out and cranky in, say, January or March, but I really do just love this. I love the energy and passion of high school students. I love having conversations with them, and trying to plug them into the stuff I love. It's September, so I'm still excited and energized.

Recently someone said to me, "God, you're optimistic -- such a bleeding heart." Scoffed it at me, really. But what's the alternative? Bitterness and cynicism? Not having a heart at all?

***

The kids -- as in, my kids -- are happy and healthy and wonderful. Suzannah is thriving in preschool. She couldn't wait to go back. I so enjoyed staying home with my children, and I'm grateful we could make it happen for as long as we needed, but I'm equally grateful that Suzannah is around other kids again, every day. She scampers off as soon as we walk through the door. I chase her down and make her hug me good-bye, and she all but rolls her eyes. On our drive home in the afternoon, she chatters nonstop about everything they did that day, right down to what she ate for lunch. (Yesterday she said to me, "I only like green beans at daycare, Mommy. Not at home." The same holds true for vegetable soup. She eats that at daycare, but not for us.)

Isaac is still the happiest person I know, so cheerful and good-natured. He loves being around the other kids, and every time I pick him up, if he's not still napping after lunch, he's just hanging out and taking it all in with wide, totally interested eyes. He still grins when he sees me, though. (His big sister is occasionally too busy to acknowledge me immediately.) He is refusing to have anything to do with a bottle while I'm away, though (despite taking one from Matt without too much trouble every now and then). He's all, I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TRYING TO DO THERE AND YOU ARE CRAZY. However, he eats "real" food now, so he's certainly not starving. He makes up for his six boobless hours by working in an extra nursing session at night, and I'm totally okay with that. In the meantime, I pump bottles for him anyway, and my freezer stash is getting to the point where I may or may not have said to my husband, "SOMEONE in this house is going to drink that, even if your son doesn't. We are NOT wasting it." I'm still traumatized by the memory of pouring my entire freezer stash down the drain in December of 2006 when a horrific windstorm knocked out the power for several days. Yes, I actually cried. I can't bear the thought of wasting it all again FOR ANY REASON. (So, hey, Matt, I know you like your coffee black, but...)

(You're all wondering -- just a little -- if I'm serious, aren't you?)

***

It's Friday night, I know what I'm teaching next week, and I don't have any papers to grade. Tomorrow we're going to the Elliott Bay Book Company so I can get an autographed copy of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen (whatever, say what you want about him, he probably is an ass, but The Corrections is one of those books that I turn to when I want to study how writers write and I can't wait to read this one). We're going to the Elliott Bay Brewery for dinner. I'm going to clean my house, I'm going to hang with my family, I'm going to finish reading Mockingjay. I'm going to go for a run. I'm going to drink good coffee. I'm going to drink a gin-and-tonic or two. I'm going to write. I'm going to emerge from this weekend refreshed and whole. It's the eternal optimist in me.

And right now, I'm going to sign off, because there is a dance party happening in my family room and my four-year-old is waiting.

(One last thing: Am I the only one who is instantly transported back to 1989 when she sees the letters "TGIF"? Anyone else remember when Full House and Family Matters were on TV? T-G-I-F! ....Anyone?)