This is my sixth year as a molder of young minds. For the last two weeks, I have been preparing my classroom for the onslaught of eleven-year-olds. It looks the same as always, but something is going on.
This is the first year I am not excited about going back to school.
I am a really good teacher. I am the kind of teacher that connects emotionally with her kids. They become my kids. I laugh with them and read to them, and enjoy their company. Really! At the end of the school year, I hear from parents that this is the first time their child has ever enjoyed going to school.
Having lived through sixth grade and beyond with my own children, I have my priorities straight about sixth grade. The curriculum is not life-changing, but my relationship with your kid can be.
Your kid's heart means more to me than your kid's GPA. So sue me.
And I'm not excited about going back. I think I could easily stay here in my own house eating, sleeping, reading, and writing for the rest of my life. I don't think this is a good sign.
Maybe it's the unending pile of crap-ass meetings, where we discuss mission statements, and goals, and a limitless load of topics that mean absolutely zero when it comes to the work I do in the classroom. But really, that stuff has been part of teaching longer than I have.
I like to request that pain-in-the-tuchus boys be placed in my class. Really, if I could avoid all the hormonal pre-teenage girls, I'd be happy as a clam. Boys are so much simpler to deal with. No drama. I like the boys who have files this thick because no one can figure out what the hell is wrong with them and why they do so poorly in school. Those are my boys. I take a peculiar pleasure in telling their previous teachers, "Really? We don't have a problem. He's doing a great job for me!"
Even with all that? I'm not excited to go back. I know I'll still be a good teacher. If something tells me that I'm not, I'll need to reassess. Or something.
Damned if I know what.
