Serendipity

                I guess you could say that I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.  My mom told me that as early as kindergarten she could tell what my teachers were like because I would line my stuffed animals against my bed and imitate their voices.  As I got older, and the vision of my future became clearer, I always pictured myself with little children.  I dreamed of teaching kindergarten or first grade; imagining myself sitting in a chair, surrounded by curiously attentive faces, looking up at me with loving adoration, and hanging with baited breath on my every word.  Reality turned out to be so very different from my dreams.

                My first teaching job was with fourth grade.  The kids were not only not as “little” as I had hoped they’d be, but they also could’ve cared less about what I had to say.  Then, a few years later—much to my dismay—I found myself teaching middle school:   6^th grade Science, to be exact.  I hated it.  Not only was I stuck with these hormonally and emotionally unstable bodies reeking of perspiration, hairspray, and hot fries, but I was expected to teach them Science—which they probably knew as much about as I did!  Things couldn’t get any worse.

Wrong again... 

I became pregnant with my first child during my second year of teaching middle school.  I was excited, but also extremely nervous.  I had never been one of those girls who played with dolls or volunteered to hold the neighbor’s baby when she came over for a visit.  I didn’t find babies cute, cuddly, or curious; to me, babies were little alien creatures who sucked all the life and energy out of the families they invaded.  My younger brother was the only real baby I had ever known.  He spent most of his infancy ill with ear and sinus infections, so my definition of a “baby” included a lot of crying and a lot of sleepless nights.  In fact, that’s what I thought Motherhood was all about…insomnia.

However, when my daughter was finally born, I was rather surprised by how little my lack of sleep bothered me.    The first three months were the worst.  But by then, I was so “in love” with my baby—with being a mother—that it really didn’t matter.  Once that stage was over, it all seemed like a bad dream.  As a parent, you move on to the next big moment in your child’s life and the hours lost late at night in a rocking chair looking at the clock and praying as you lie back down that you’ll get at least three hours rest before the next feeding, are all but forgotten. 

At least until the next one is born.

By my third year of teaching middle school, thoughts of working with “little” children had also been forgotten. Sometime during my first twenty months of working with those big kids bursting with body odor, I fell in love with being a teacher.   When it became possible for me to realize the dream of my childhood, I found that the dream had changed. Surprisingly, I’ve found that I love working with middle and high school kids.  They have a sense of humor and a sense of self that both amuses and inspires me.  They don’t always look up to me with “adoration,” but every once in a while, they look up to me with appreciation…and that is, in many ways, much better.  I’ve also found working with older children to be a way of giving back to the many teachers I appreciated.  The ones I remember most were my middle and high school teachers; they helped me find myself.  The self that sat hidden under an overweight, braces-wearing bookworm that desperately wanted to fit in.  They made sure I did.  Many of my students today are looking for themselves. 

My job is to help them.

My other job is no less taxing.  After Cassie, I went on to have three more children… one girl and twin boys.  Ironic isn't it, that the young woman, who once was afraid of her own baby brother, now had a brood which rivaled that of the old woman in a shoe.  I’d be lying if I said that everything about having a large family is wonderful.  I often miss the days of being able to just “go out” whenever I want—especially when my girlfriends want to get together on a Saturday night for a drink or my colleagues want to meet for happy hour after work and I have to go straight home.  Sometimes I am envious of my neighbors who are able to live in a house that is devoid of diapers, toys, and scratch marks on their walls and furniture.  And most of all, I wish that we could just get away.  I’d love for “date night” to include something a little more exciting than dinner and a quick stop at Shop-n-Save for milk.  Someday I hope that we’ll be able to take vacations again like so many of our friends who don’t have to spend a small fortune to travel. 

But if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t change things.    Cars, houses, and vacations can’t look into your eyes and tell you that they love you and friends—if they’re really your friends—will always be there.  For that matter, so will that bottle of wine.  Someday—if I do my job right—my children will give back a little of what I have given to them and then it will all be worth it.  That’s what we all hope for, isn’t it?  As a teacher, as a mother.  That our children, our students, will give back what we have given them.  That makes all of our jobs worth it.

If we’re lucky, life will grant us such serendipity.

What I've learned...

When I was in high school, if a teacher asked me what I’d learned I would most likely reply with what I thought she wanted to hear.  Deep down, I’m a people pleaser; therefore, how I feel about things is often complicated by how other people feel about things. 

When I was in high school, the things that were important to me were…things.  I remember going to three different department stores to buy my first pair of Jordache jeans; the ones with the big horse’s head on the butt (I had to have THOSE jeans because that’s what all my friends were wearing).  When asked out on a date, the first thing I wanted to know about a guy was the kind of car he was driving.  Christmas and birthdays were characterized by the size and cost of the presents I received.

Back then, I thought I knew what it meant to be responsible, unselfish, and loyal.  I turned in my homework on time, I did what my parents wanted me to…often without being asked, and when my best friend’s boyfriend made a pass at me I told her immediately and we laughed and cried about it over the phone for hours one night while my parents slept across the hall.

I took pride in my accomplishments; I made high honor roll every semester of my high school tenure and I graduated in the top 10 percent of my class. I felt like I deserved the accolades I received.  After all, I studied hard and I turned in quality work.  I didn’t drink, smoke, or stay out past my curfew.

When I was in high school, I thought I knew a lot.

When I got to college, it was not what I expected.  I earned my first “D” EVER on a paper I wrote for my Children’s Literature professor and I was so embarrassed I sobbed as I told my mother about it over the phone.  Everyone was “smart” like me; many knew more than me.  The first time I sat in the auditorium at Forbes Quad with 200 other students, I thought I was going to vomit.  I didn’t, than k God, but I did struggle to stay awake, remain focused, and take effective notes—things that in high school came easily to me.

Before long, six years had passed.  My first teaching job was in Prince George’s County, Maryland.  I was living on my own in a “posh” apartment complex, making my own money, and planning my own wedding.  I was also crying myself to sleep nearly every night.  The kids hated me, the principal hated me, and I hated me…I couldn’t’ understand how something that I wanted so desperately—something I wanted since I was a little girl—could have eluded me so completely.

I wondered if I knew anything at all.

Fast forward twelve years.  I live in a serene suburbia just a few miles away from everything important.  My kids play in the street with neighbors, roast marshmallows in our backyard, and watch firecrackers from our deck on the fourth of July.  I love our neighborhood.  But like high school, I find that things are important here.  When parents congregate on the street while our children play, our conversation revolves around who has a  pool and who’s getting one, who went on vacation and where, and which parts of our houses we plan to “fix-up” next.  I realize that our manicured lawns have replaced the Jordache jeans of our youth and the conversation has shifted from what car our boyfriends drive to what car we drive; however, the focus remains the same. 

I realize, too that my real accomplishments  lie in the smiles of my children; in the way they share with each other, in the way they comfort each other, and in the way they love one another.  Being responsible for me now is making sure I’ve scheduled all of their after-school activities and left enough time for dinner and homework.  Unselfish is letting them choose the first piece of pizza and the movie that we watch together at night.  And loyalty is spending time with my family instead of my friends on a Friday after work. 

I’m still a teacher and I love my job.  Not because of how it makes me feel, but because of the difference I know I make in how others feel.  Ironically, success came for me through the mistakes I made.  If I had an easy time of it my first year of teaching, I wouldn’t be the support to the young teachers I mentor today.  My failure was painful, but necessary.

What I know now is that things don’t make you happy.  True happiness comes from within.  You have to find it; it’s not something you earn…no matter how good you are.  Someday when it’s all over, no one’s going to stand next to your hospital bed or kneel at your casket and talk about what a beautiful marble floor you had in your foyer.  Nor will they remember if you ever wore Jordache jeans with the horse on the butt.  They’ll remember your actions, though.  Your deeds.  Your words. And your spirit.  Those are the things that are truly important. 

That’s what I’ve learned.