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.