Ha. The next person who poo poos my profession and informs me (directly or indirectly) that I am just a glorified baby-sitter, that I just go to work 8:30-4:30 and get summers off, will get the engraved invitation to spend a day with me. To walk in my shoes.
Imagine today for example.
Say, you get to work at 6:45 am.
At 6:50 am in the middle of answering emails, a colleague needs your help unjamming the stubborn copier.
At 7:15 am, after convincing the copier to work with your colleague instead of against her, and after a short visit with said colleague, you return to your emails.
At 7:45 am, you attend your staff meeting to discuss an upcoming logistical nightmare.
At 8:20 am, the meeting ends, and the school day is about to begin.
At 8:30 am, the students are in class, and your conference period has begun. It's your turn to coax the copier into working with you. Things go smoothly for a change. Mostly because you don't ask it to staple or punch holes in the copies.
At 9:15 am, you are ready for your first class. The students are spending their last day on their research papers. (Thank the Lord. Because frankly you would rather chew broken glass while walking on hot coals juggling rabid ferrets than teach one more day of research.)
At 10:05 am, it is your Lifeguard period. But there is no one to counsel today because it's a new grading period. So you take advantage of the planning time to work on your Shakespeare lesson plans.
At 11 am, it's lunch time. It's mini smokies and macaroni in the cafeteria today and you've always kind of liked that lunch.
From 11:30-3:45 pm you teach research, Shakespeare and the last bit of The Princess Bride. Hopefully by early next week you can get every back on the same schedule...more or less. The assembly tomorrow 8th period is still going to throw a monkey wrench in things, but there's nothing you can do.
At 3:50, you are in a meeting to work on the logistical nightmare again.
At 4:15, you and your colleagues are alerted to the fact that there is a child in need of medical attention. You don't think. You react. Immediately. You know who the child is. You know what he needs. One person calls 911. Two of you run on the double to the child. When you reach him, other adults are already with him. His friends have stayed close by. The friend who ran for help is terribly upset. You comfort him as best you can. He believes it is his fault that the boy is not well. You do all you can as he sobs on you to reassure him that he is so brave; his friend will be fine because he got help.
You stay to comfort the friend, you stay until the father gets the boy loaded up to go to the doctor. You look at your colleagues and sigh as the friend sets off for home. He'll need to talk to the counselor in the morning. Nervous energy makes you tease each other about running as fast as possible in the high heels you wore to work that day. You still have to get back to your logistical nightmare you were meeting about. It didn't work itself out while you helped out the boy and his friend.
Just a regular middle school day.
It's 5:00 pm now. Your dogs should have been let out almost an hour ago. You hope they have their little paws crossed and they aren't doing naughty things to your carpet, but you know they don't have teacher bladders.
So, it's a tough job. But I love it. The people and the kids I work with inspire me every day. I certainly witnessed great courage today. Come to think of it, I witness courage in some form every day. And I hope I am tough enough to walk those halls for many years to come.
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