My heroes, their teachers
< div>I’m really going to miss Ms. Patti and Ms.
Human.
even with the heat starting to get oppressive. In May, I still find something
romantic, in a Southern gothic way, about the heat and humidity, though the
sentiment inevitably disappears by late June. It’s not the inevitable
overscheduling, as everyone tries to cram everything into the last few moments
of the school year, picnics, parties, and performances of various sorts, though
there are a few signs that no one in our family is getting enough sleep, except
Aodán, who very possibly only needs four hours a night to perform
cheerfully. Actually I should be grateful because May seems to mark the end of
the cold/flu/earache/strep epidemic that has left us quarantined it seems at
least 15 of the last 60 days.
No, I
suppose it’s not the month, it’s that I hate the end of the school year. This
isn’t just dread of endless days at home alone with three kids — I’m actually
excited about getting to spend more time with them than the exhausted hours
after school, the rush to get ready for bed each night. What makes me a maudlin
mess every May is the knowledge that these important relationships we’ve spent
the year developing with our children teachers are going to be simply ended in a
few days. Next Wednesday Xander will be Ms. Patti’s student; Thursday he
won’t.
I suppose I could make a list of
things I find hardest to do as a mother. I might realize that while persuading
Xander to get dressed quickly so we can head out the door at the same time I’m
trying to change a diaper and stock a diaper bag is hard, it’s a skill one does
acquire with time. Recognizing that one of your tactics is not working and
letting it go, being creative enough to find a new solution, being aware and
listening to the things not being said, anticipating problems and diverting a
child’s attention or will when necessary, doing all these things when you’re
tired or even, let’s admit it, a little bored — those are gifts, and they are
gifts that make great teachers. But I think the very hardest thing I’ve done
for the last six and a half years is let go, from donating outgrown baby clothes
to trusting a babysitter for the first time, to putting on an excited smile the
first day of school, at least until I’m back in the car by myself. And the
rewards are getting to see the amazing new people my children are growing into.
But then I contemplate their teachers, who do love them, clearly, and somehow
let them all go, year after year. Even growing up in a house with two teachers
as parents, I don’t know how they do that.
