Learning Curve

It's definitely not as easy as it use to be, and it's certainly not as easy as people think. You'd think that after over twenty some odd years I'd be use to it or at least a little more accustom to it, but you'd be wrong. Every Monday is like the first Monday. When that alarm clock goes off at 5am and I roll over and see those numbers staring at me the first thought every time is, "Oh my God it's Monday again already." Weekends go by so much faster than they use to. Maybe that's because most of them are crammed full with all the things that you needed to do during the week but couldn't because of the hours that you work. Or it could be because you spend most of the day thinking about the fact that Monday is coming again really soon. Either way I get up and sit on the side of my bed, waiting for my eyes to adjust to either the light or the lack there of depending on the time of year.

Doesn't take long to get myself together, dressed and groomed and ready to go. I take a moment and eat a little breakfast while watching either something I've recorded the night before or some random infomercial. I pick up my back pack and head out, locking the door behind me and trying to remember if I've forgotten anything and I usually do. The ride in usually takes about thirty minutes depending on the traffic, accompanied by either NPR or a playlist of Max Richter and Ludovico Einaudi. I do a quick drive by the riverfront to watch what's left of the sunrise and before I know it I'm in the parking lot.

Sitting in my car I think about all of the firsts. First meetings, first days, first sick stomachs, first lost cuddlies or misplaced shoes, there have been a lot of firsts. As I walk to my room door and unlock it I think back to some of those first meetings, the look of shock on their faces when the door opens and I'm standing there. "Not what you were expecting?" is usually the only thought in my head. I think over the years it's gotten better though, at least with parents. I've been doing this long enough now that the majority who come know that their not going to see the typical face that they'd expect to see when they enter their kids Pre-K classroom. This is still a very female dominated world. I think that's probably why it's still such an under appreciated career.

I flip on the light and get started. First clocking in on my classroom computer and writing the daily message to my parents on our class message board. Then it's time to prep whatever materials I'll need for literacy and math lessons along with any art projects we'll do that day. Before I know it I can hear the first one, there small but heavy feet moving at the speed of sound up the ramp towards my door. I take a deep breath as the door swings open and they scurry in. I can barely get out the words good morning to their parent before they've closed the door and left again leaving me to hear all about whatever extraordinary events took place over their weekend. It doesn't take long for that moment to be repeated countless times and for the room to quickly become filled with little voices telling big stories about the giant bird that they saw or their trip to the beach where they saw sharks.

After hands are washed and everyone is seated, it's time for breakfast. As usual there's at least one turned over cup, someone shouting that they don't like it while another is still having a melt down because they didn't get to wear their favorite shirt, or shoes, or hat, or coat, or whatever garment of clothing they weren't allowed to wear or about toy that they weren't allowed to bring. Then I remember that this is going to be a first day for a new student. I pray to myself, not about the kid but about the parents. Sometimes they can be a little extra, but it's something you get use to and learn to deal with. I think about all of the new parents, the nervous ones, the anxious ones, the helicopter parents who don't want to leave, and the free range parents who can't wait to leave. I've learned to appreciate them all.

The day goes as usual, nothing to extraordinary until later in the day when I'm forced to catch the surprise projectile vomit from one of my littles. I'd be out of commission for at least an hour but their laughing and smiling about it 2 minutes later. I get them cleaned up and contact the parents who say they'll be there soon. By the time they get there their little is fine and they give me the raised eyebrow, wordlessly questioning why I called. I smile and tell them I'll see them in 48 hours.

Songs, the occassional argument over who's taller or who's older, or who can be Spiderman, or who is going to be Elsa on the playground, is interrupted with lessons on alphabet and numbers mixed into learning about our weeks theme of dinosaurs. By the end of the week they'll all have their favorite giant reptile, some of them claiming it as their new persona. They'll be able to recognize the names when they see them in print and they'll be able to name them when they see them on television in the future. As the day slowly creeps into the afternoon, I've answered the same question at least thirty times from a single student giving the same answer every time but knowing that if I don't answer it will send them into a tizzy so I smile and answer for the thirty first time.

Parents are starting to show up now, retrieving their littles and smiling as they're told about the day. As the number drops lower and lower until its me and just one sitting at a table drawing together they tell me about the argument that they overheard between their parents, or the fight that they had with their sibling, or the time they had to go to bed hungry because mom or dad didn't have the money to buy food that day. And then sometimes it's about what they want to be when they grow up. Doctors, race car drivers, pilots, astronauts, a queen who makes ice fly from her hands, a cook, a cat or a dog, the options are always endless.

Once or twice they've asked if they can just stay at school all the time. Once or twice they've asked if I've got kids. I tell them my kids aren't so little anymore. Once when I replied no their reply was, "You should, you'd be a good dad. I wish you were my dad."

After everyone is gone and I'm cleaning I think back to just how crazy the day has been, how exhausted I am mentally, physically (no one tells you that being the only male teacher that you'll also be a jungle gym) and how much I'd like a vacation or something a little less draining. Then I remember the kid who didn't want to go home, or the one who just wanted me to shake their hand. I think about the kid who came into my room 15 years ago calling me Mr. Terry and who now calls me Dad through a twist of fate that I could have never expected. I think about the parents who say thank you every morning and every afternoon, and I think about the amount of trust that they have in me to place the most valuable thing in the world to them in my care. I turn out the lights and leave locking the door behind me.

On the drive home I think about the day and ready myself to do it all over again tomorrow.