It has rained relentlessly for days, for weeks. Washington, unlike many other (all the other?) states, has been firmly below average in its temperatures lately, and I am beginning to feel it. Last year I saw the first cherry blossoms of the year on February twenty-sixth, my birthday; this year, they remain tightly hidden, and I imagine them head-down against the rain like the rest of us. Today we've had only light and sporadic spatters of rain. Our neighborhood, right now, is damp and so still. It would be a good evening for a walk down to the shore of the Sound, but I'm still recovering from my week. I took a long nap this afternoon, snuggled under my son's Batman blanket, and I feel barely ready to rejoin the world. So I'm hanging out at home with the kids this evening, dishwasher humming, dinner not quite prepped, just taking some time to relax after days of conferences and professional development and chaperoning the annual lock-in. I've finally caught up on sleep with just enough hours left in the day to catch up for teaching, for Back To Normal tomorrow.
The kids are used to all this. Twice a year, they pack their backpacks with enough to entertain them through the long days. They get to watch more DVD's than usual, but they also bring books, games, and Pokémon cards. Wednesday was the long haul, when they were stuck at school with me until nearly seven o'clock in the evening. And really, they were so good for the entire day; when your mom is a teacher, you get used to hanging out at her school. Things only went south in that last hour or so, when I heard clomping and giggling in their little corner of the library (where the English department meets). I glanced over and saw my daughter brandishing her brother's snow boots above her head, and her brother was just about ready to charge.
One of the guidance counselors commented that by that hour, she felt exactly like brandishing a pair of boots above her head and letting out a primal scream, so perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on my almost-middle-schooler. (Almost middle-schooler. I can't believe I just had to type that.) I get it. My head was throbbing, and I was tired and already dreading our early start on the third morning of all this nonsense. But then my husband showed up to collect the children and dropped off a green tea to power me through the last ninety minutes, and later I arrived home to fed children and flowers on the table.
Despite the fact that I am so often angry and tired these days, I am deeply privileged to live a deeply beautiful life.
The truth is that I actually enjoy conferences. Sometimes I'm scared to admit this to other teachers, because they make for awfully long days. But I know how much I appreciate sitting for a bit with my own children and their teachers, even if they don't "need" it, even if there are no "proven" benefits to sacrificing instructional time for these long days. I appreciate that connection, that sense that we are a team. Maybe I've grown to appreciate it more since I've had my own school-aged children, too, but I really do love telling parents what I appreciate about their kids. It's not hard. I appreciate something about all of them. And when a squirrely little freshmen who ruins my life every other day shows up with his mother, and when I ask that kiddo to talk about where he thinks he's at and how he feels, when he's shy and honest, when his mother and I can lock eyes and nod, I believe that means something. And my hope is that parents and their kiddos always, always walk away from our conferences -- even when the conversations are hard -- feeling that we're a team, and that I care. And sometimes it is just so important to connect with kids one-on-one, outside the context of the classroom.
And yes, I was sort of dreading our early morning, but it ended up setting the tone for my day. My school's conferences overlapped with my own kiddos', so I was just planning to arrive late at my own. It's a tough balancing act sometimes, but I think it's absolutely important to show up for my own children. But then their teachers e-mailed me and asked if I'd like to meet extra-early today so I could make the start time at my school. They offered without my asking, and they showed up for my kids before they were on the clock. I brought them warm breakfast pastries as a tiny token of our appreciation, but it wasn't enough. They are so important in my children's lives, and they've set the tone for their schooling. My daughter has only missed one day of school since first grade, and my son hasn't missed any days this year either. They feel safe and loved at school, and the growth I've seen in them swells my heart beyond the confines of my body.
And I love their teachers and their school immeasurably. For all the shit we see in the "big picture" of education, at the district or state or national level, what matters is what happens here, in their classrooms, with absolutely phenomenal people to whom I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude. And those humans who love and teach my children deserve more. And the kids we all serve deserve more.
As a teacher in a beautifully diverse school district, I'm feeling increasingly protective of my students for what should be obvious reasons these days. Things are hard, heartbreaking, and terrifyingly real.
I do not know how to write about this well. I'm angry and afraid much of the time.
But I am also deeply, senselessly privileged to feel everything I'm feeling in a job I love. It doesn't even feel right to call it a job. I chaperoned the annual lock-in (again! I keep saying yes, even though I swear every year that I won't, and I keep loving it!) and at one point during the long night, a few of my colleagues and I decided to "guard the bathrooms" during the bonfire (which simply means we did not want to go outside in the cold night with inadequate layers on top of our near delirium at two o'clock in the morning) and we talked about precisely this thing: that while teaching is ridiculous, and hard, and sometimes we are just so over all of the bullshit, it is such a part of who we are. There are, I feel, many jobs I could objectively do well, but in the end, they would be just that: jobs. We encourage people not to equate what they do with who they are, but in our case: This is Who We Are.
And so we keep showing up, in all of our anxiety and anger and brokenness and deep, deep love.
And I'm not sure I'd be any good at those other jobs, anyway.
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