Wednesday was a terrible day at work. Not I.S. 666 terrible, but functioning school terrible. The schedule was wonky, due to half the middle school being out on a field trip. I also didn’t have my co-teacher, Karen, there so I didn’t have the extra help to put the kibosh on misbehavior. Today, Karen stepped out again for a meeting, and some of the kids were ready to play.
It’s hard being the new teacher of the pair. It’s hard trying to keep four classes on track when something is constantly coming up and altering the schedule. It’s hard to come back to school on Friday after a blissful professional development day downtown where I didn’t have to address when it’s not okay to ask to use the bathroom or tell a fifth grader to not rummage through his classmates’ state test results. Or just tell fourteen-year-old Jeffrey that hitting someone has never been and never will be okay in school.
It’s hard to do this when I’m feeling the strain and stress of other problems that are being sloshed into work, as they are all transported heavy in my head and heart.
I am ready for the weekend. Ready like I am for a jacket when it’s thirty-seven degrees outside and I’m in short sleeves. Ready like I was for a nap after three consecutive all-nighters back in college. Ready like I am for the hurt feelings to mend, leaves to grow back on the scraggly, jagged limbs of winter-whipped trees.
