Workin' It

It has come to my attention that teaching is fucking hard. Like, ASTRONOMICALLY hard. Gigantically, humongously, earth-shatteringly, Oh please God what have I gotten myself into, hard. Yes, that kind. Where there's no escape. I could be sitting knee deep in a pile of mud out in the Amazon, getting ready to wrestle an alligator for my only child that he stole from my clutches while I was in the middle of an uphill marathon on the side of a mountain, right after getting a root canal minus the anesthesia and I would still say to myself, "Well, at least it's easier than teaching". It's THAT kind of hard. Drama-queen hard, if you will.

And it's not the material so much. It's not the kids who think they know more than you. It's not the getting up at 5 am and staying until 5 pm and having to guess what it is your mentor teacher is thinking at all times because she's not very good at oral expression. It's not even the fact that I have been wearing the same underpants for three days because I simply don't have time to wash any new ones. It's everything. And I just don't happen to be very good at everything.

Teaching is like being a parent, if you think about. You know how they say mother's have to be chauffers and chefs and mechanics and all of that garbage that we take for granted still today because they just have to be great at everything they attempt? Well, teaching is sort of like that except in the Extreme Sports area. Like, I can't just be a role model and an English expert and a babysitter at times. I have to be SO MUCH MORE AND IT'S KILLING ME.

Sprinter: For hall duty to catch those rat bastards who should still be downstairs at lunch instead of parading the halls in search of friends to bother.
Police Officer: To reprimand said rat bastard
Improv Actor: For when you look down to see that your lesson plan for the day has already run out and you still have nineteen minutes of class left and all you can do now is fake it. That's right. At least 30% of every lecture you've ever heard was a teacher going "oh crap oh crap" mentally and just plain out faking it on the outside.
Custodian: Because one sneaky heathen that I WILL CATCH is leaving his red gatorade bottle inconspicuously throughout the room everyday that I later find and recycle for him. I'm thinking about doing DNA testing.
IT analyst: For when your mentor teacher can't figure out where she's sending 90 pages worth of work when printing it. See Sprinter for when she wants it figured out quickly.
Personal Assistant: Because even on the THIRD DAY OF SCHOOL some kids refuse to turn their simple assigments in and if your mentor teacher is like mine and states that absolutely no one fails, it's YOUR job to track that kid down, give them a gentle reminder and then ride their ass every step of the way until they get it done.

and it's just all so overwhelming that when I think about how I want to be an actual mother and a teacher AT THE SAME TIME someday I almost start hyperventilating at the concept because I can't be the chef and the mechanic and the sprinter all at once and this will only end with me serving an unsuspecting student whole grain pancakes right on their desktop at school and yelling at my four year old when she walks down the hall to the bathroom because Doesn't she know she's not supposed to be wandering around after the bell rings?!?!

I love it. I know I do, despite all my complaining. Every day I leave and I think to myself, "Yeah, this was it all along Dumb Ass. Of COURSE this was it" but still. Overwhelming. Please forgive me if I forget your birthday (Scott) or sound confused when I answer my phone if you call. It's just that I don't know how to keep anything straight anymore.
And I kind of like it.

Where I Belong

Ok, so I know last night I was all 'Freak out!' and mopey and most of you were probably all "Ugh, cyanide and razor blades much?" but today was SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT.

I mean, how could it not be?

Let's just say that we had our curriculum meeting for English Language Arts across the schools and it was just a giant gathering of women eating bagels and talking and I swear someone actually said

"My daughter-in-law is studying Library Sciences in Boston and I got to go on a private tour of the rare books...where I TOUCHED original works of Shakespeare and Canterbury Tales"

and like a well oiled freakin' nerdy ass book wormin' machine the entire room goes
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" and I sighed contentedly to myself because, finally, FINALLY I have found a collection of people who understand me. Sure, I have girlfriends. The occasional other book-girl and Kelley is fantastic for a good rec but to be in a room with a ton of them at one time was just the mecca of gatherings in my mind.

From there one teacher asked me if I knew "What the fuck a nominative predicate" was and if I had read Olive Kitteridge this summer and we discussed how awesome it will be to teach Life of Pi to the 9th grade honors this year and I swear, I might have had an actual orgasm in line getting the bagels because the conversation was just that stimulating.

Well, that and nothing turns me on like an Everything with Shmear.

This is why I'm hot

I actually have no idea why I titled the post the way that I did. I'm currently wearing sweatpant capris and my 80's lovin'-exercise sweatshirt but that song is just on repeat in my head and well...there you go.

I'm pretty sure my life imploded within the last week. If you've been calling me (Scott, Beth, lady I sit for from my daycare...oh and my mom) and I haven't been answering or calling you back it's because I physically can't bring myself to talk anymore during the day. I've literally reached maximum capacity. My mouth is DARING my head to open up for yet another conversation just so when it does it will gain psychotic control and curse out at whichever unsuspecting soul is on the receiving end and is all "why did you just call me a rat faced goat farmer?" and my only explanation will be "I told you. I can't talk anymore. My mouth is psychotic. I shouldn't have answered the phone."

Really, I'm doing you all a favor.

There just gets to be a point in your week that you've undergone so much change it's exhausting to even think about any longer.
These past few days I moved back to Kalamazoo, into a house I've never lived in, with people I've never lived with, eating chicken I'm very unfamiliar with. I've started a job I don't really understand, am doing homework for brand new classes and Beth gave me two wonderfully new cd's and even that has me all clusterfucked up. I literally looked at the television I currently have on buzzing in the background this morning and said OUTLOUD LIKE A PSYCHOTIC PERSON WITH A PSYCHOTIC MOUTH
"It's weird to be able to see the whole screen when I'm laying down. My tv at home isn't like that...." and then *click*. I turned it off. Because it was different. And my mind simply cannot handle another iota of different at this time.

Not to say it's all bad. On the contrary. I love the house I'm living in. I love the family I'm living with and how freaking courteous they are of me and my space and I love having my own bathroom! I love the teacher I'm interning under...she says things like "Holy Canoli" and really, what's not to love about that? Classes aren't hard...sure they're new and different but not hard. It's just all very...different. No one is screaming at me about pants that got thrown in the dryer. Three 90 pound animals haven't tried to eat my new work shoes. No one's watching Judge Joe Brown. Have I mentioned the word "different" enough times yet? Are you getting the picture? I DON'T HANDLE CHANGE WELL.

DIFFERENTDIFFERENTSHMIFFERENTIWANTMYMOMMY.

So please, if you will,give me a while to adjust and I guarantee it will only be a matter of days before I share with you the wonder that is teaching ninth grade English. Also, please expect me to start using phrases like "Holy Canoli". OH and "Cat's Pajamas" because this lady is full of shit like that and I can't get enough.