Against my Better Judgement

I am a teacher.  Despite the entire make up of my being waging war against this idea, education is where I have been called to serve.

 I am not a morning person.  I loathe mornings.  My 78 year old grandmother gifted me with a travel coffee mug recently.  (Sidenote: I used to loathe coffee as well.  I had a friend tell me in the early days of college to choose one, coffee or drugs, in order to succeed at the collegiate level.  As a poor college student, I figured coffee was the more economical choice.)  Anyway, the mug….it states, “All the coffee in the world could never make me a morning person.”  Even my aging grandmother has figured this out about me.  And yet, I willingly chose an occupation that not only starts earlier than most other jobs, it requires actually dealing with little people at such ungodly hours. 

Also on my “not top ten list”: hugs, or public (okay, private also) display of affection of any type.  Specifically, I hate to be hugged, embraced, touched, poked, prodded, or rubbed.  I would have been perfectly content to be that boy who lived in a bubble from that movie made in the 80’s.  One thing I know-children like to hug, poke, prod, and touch.  And it doesn’t matter where their grubby hands may or may not have been previously (Oh, the stories I could share…will share….another day).  (Is this where I should mention I am also a bit of a germaphobe…?) 

I don’t do emotions.  I hate to cry, though I am woman enough to admit that I tear up every year when those adorable 12 year olds win the Little League World Series.  Anyway, I haven’t always hated emotion, but I had a coach once who constantly (and affectionately I’m sure) reminded me to “suck it up.”  I did.  And continue to.  And expect my students to do the same.  When I first started teaching I had a crying chair where children were “encouraged” to cease their (ridiculous) displays of emotion…

While I don’t know anyone who revels in throw up, I am particularly sensitive to what my sweet grandma refers to as “up-chucking.”  My siblings (and even my father) know the quickest way to get a reaction from me is to pretend to retch.  Even that initial gagging sound gets my eyes watering and my gag reflex going.  Ashamedly I will admit to once abandoning a young student in a bathroom (lest you call for my immediate resignation, you should be aware said bathroom was located in our classroom) as he tossed his cookies.  I did reassure him (through the closed door) that help was on its way albeit in the form of janitorial staff.  The fact is, children puke, and very often they don’t know when it’s coming until…well, it has come. 

My mother has the patience of Job.  No lie.  I inherited a lot of things from my mother, particularly in the looks department (thanks, Mom!).  However, no one would ever accuse me of being patient.  And while it has been said that patience is a virtue, patience is inexorable for a teacher. 

The above reasons may explain why I changed majors umpteen times in college (physical therapists have to touch feet-another phobia of mine; nurses have to deal with vomit more often than teachers-although, their working environment is at least more sterile…).  But, alas, eventually I settled on impacting young lives for the sake of our future, or elementary education.  I think I made the decision right after a particularly late night of studying the muscles, bones, blood vessels, cells, and whatever else one may find when one cuts into a dead cat (did I mention kitten fetuses?-ugh).  Anyway, there I was, in the hallway of my dorm, diligently memorizing where the bronchial aorta was located (sipping on the aforementioned coffee) while down the hall a bit a dorm mate was designing a bulletin board.  She was busy coloring a grinning pig-tailed child using a box of 64 Crayolas, gluing strips of fabric on the cardboard child’s plaid school uniform, and giving her yarn for hair.  It felt like kindergarten all over again-except we had adult sized toilets in our dorm bathroom-and I knew: her college life HAD to be easier than mine.  I showed up at the registrar’s office soon after.  She knew me by name, already had my status sheet pulled, and had the course catalog ready in order to find appropriate classes for when I changed my major-again.

Okay, truth is, all of the above is gospel truth, and yet I teach…because, well, I love it.  I do.  Call me crazy, but I love these little urchins that God has called me to instruct.  I love the “light bulb” moments when they (finally) grasp the concept of long division.  I love cleaning my classroom in the afternoons and finding the notes passed between friends throughout the day-particularly when those notes contain juicy classroom gossip.  I love the hand-drawn pictures that adorn my desk-especially if they include notes like, “Miss Jackson ROCKS!”  Most importantly, I teach because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt (for this season) this is what the Lord has called me to do.  He has uniquely gifted me to do exactly what I am doing every day.  And while there are moments (or days, or even years) that I may question His calling (or my sanity), I remain convinced that I am most “at-home” in front of a large group of little bodies feebly attempting to explain my dry sense of humor joke that is now no longer funny- all the while, coffee mug in hand.