I miss teaching.
Well, I am teaching. I guess what I mean is that I miss teaching as I used to know it.
As I read through childcare reopening recommendations from various states yesterday, the reality of what life could look like in the classroom became more and more clear. These recommendations make sense. They clearly prioritize health and safety. I feel sure, deep in my bones, that these recommendations are the best that can be offered, given the perimeters of our current reality.
And yet.
I felt a wave of grief wash over me.
I felt a sense of loss for so many of the things that I love about my job. This job that is a huge part of my identity.
Well, I am teaching. I guess what I mean is that I miss teaching as I used to know it.
As I read through childcare reopening recommendations from various states yesterday, the reality of what life could look like in the classroom became more and more clear. These recommendations make sense. They clearly prioritize health and safety. I feel sure, deep in my bones, that these recommendations are the best that can be offered, given the perimeters of our current reality.
And yet.
I felt a wave of grief wash over me.
I felt a sense of loss for so many of the things that I love about my job. This job that is a huge part of my identity.
I miss the dark stillness of my classroom before the children arrive. I miss the sensation of walking into this space that feels like home, imperfect and beautiful. I miss preparing the classroom alone with my thoughts and savoring the sweet silence before the crashing waves of energy burst through the door.
I miss the quiet reassurance in seeing my teaching partner's coat draped over her chair on the other side of our shared desk; a piece of fruit, a familiar water bottle that remind me I won't have to go it alone.
I miss the cheerful "good mornings" of my colleagues as they bustle down the hallway to their classrooms, coffee in hands and arms full of bags holding treasures brought from home. (How do teachers carry so much?)
I miss small feet running in my direction. I miss hands clutching crumpled artwork made just for me, the immediacy of dialogue without pleasantries, voices layered one on top of the other, eager to share, to show, to be heard. I miss the tired, loving smiles of parents and caregivers. I miss bearing witness to the "one more kiss," "one last hug," the million tiny traditions and rituals that bind us to one another. I miss the truly sacred moment that the caretaking shifts to me - the goodbye, the child in my arms, the tears of love. I miss the sweet-smelling head resting against my shoulder, sad but secure, discovering that the world is a safe place to trust. And I miss the transformation that happens, abruptly, at times, when the child bounds away from me, eager and ready.
I miss the quiet reassurance in seeing my teaching partner's coat draped over her chair on the other side of our shared desk; a piece of fruit, a familiar water bottle that remind me I won't have to go it alone.
I miss the cheerful "good mornings" of my colleagues as they bustle down the hallway to their classrooms, coffee in hands and arms full of bags holding treasures brought from home. (How do teachers carry so much?)
I miss small feet running in my direction. I miss hands clutching crumpled artwork made just for me, the immediacy of dialogue without pleasantries, voices layered one on top of the other, eager to share, to show, to be heard. I miss the tired, loving smiles of parents and caregivers. I miss bearing witness to the "one more kiss," "one last hug," the million tiny traditions and rituals that bind us to one another. I miss the truly sacred moment that the caretaking shifts to me - the goodbye, the child in my arms, the tears of love. I miss the sweet-smelling head resting against my shoulder, sad but secure, discovering that the world is a safe place to trust. And I miss the transformation that happens, abruptly, at times, when the child bounds away from me, eager and ready.
I miss the arguments, the miscommunication, the conflict that is borne of learning to be together. I miss the uncensored expression of emotion, the vulnerability and lack of fear in naming feelings. I miss those moments - so quiet, so subtle that I sometimes have to lie in wait, like a hunter, to catch them - of spontaneous generosity, affection, and kindness.
I miss the chaos and the noise. I miss the mess. I miss the lost mittens, the shoes on the wrong feet, the braids undone. I miss the coat that takes five minutes to put on and two seconds to take off. I miss band-aids - so very many band-aids. I miss the ice packs that soothe the soul more than the body. I miss muddy puddles of paint, mixed from all the colors of the rainbow.
I miss the spills. I miss opening a thousand tiny packages of food. I miss the blue bin holding dishes to be washed. I miss colleagues greeting my students with high-fives as they pass through on their way to the snack cabinet. I miss the steady hum of the washing machine and its happy little tune that signals this load is done. I miss the constant parade of teachers with baskets of laundry. I miss "When did this load start?" "Can I leave this here?" "Would you mind popping it in for me?"
I miss hearing the hushed giggles coming from the bathroom, where potty humor is allowed - and relished. I miss tiny, swinging sneakers that don't quite reach the floor. I miss all the imaginary culinary creations that I am served every day, the little ways that my students find to take care of me. I miss the missing pieces. I miss the things that are broken or don't have a place to go. I miss those circle times when I surrender to the hysterical laugher that has taken over the group, and the times when I get so choked up reading aloud that my teaching partner wordlessly takes over.
I miss the chaos and the noise. I miss the mess. I miss the lost mittens, the shoes on the wrong feet, the braids undone. I miss the coat that takes five minutes to put on and two seconds to take off. I miss band-aids - so very many band-aids. I miss the ice packs that soothe the soul more than the body. I miss muddy puddles of paint, mixed from all the colors of the rainbow.
I miss the spills. I miss opening a thousand tiny packages of food. I miss the blue bin holding dishes to be washed. I miss colleagues greeting my students with high-fives as they pass through on their way to the snack cabinet. I miss the steady hum of the washing machine and its happy little tune that signals this load is done. I miss the constant parade of teachers with baskets of laundry. I miss "When did this load start?" "Can I leave this here?" "Would you mind popping it in for me?"
I miss hearing the hushed giggles coming from the bathroom, where potty humor is allowed - and relished. I miss tiny, swinging sneakers that don't quite reach the floor. I miss all the imaginary culinary creations that I am served every day, the little ways that my students find to take care of me. I miss the missing pieces. I miss the things that are broken or don't have a place to go. I miss those circle times when I surrender to the hysterical laugher that has taken over the group, and the times when I get so choked up reading aloud that my teaching partner wordlessly takes over.
I miss the hugs. Oh, I miss the hugs. From children, from co-workers, from parents and friends. I miss the countless, tiny expressions of love that we have created together, through our everyday routines.
Taking attendance,.
Wiping down the tables.
Putting away the nap cots.
Running the dishwasher.
Brewing the coffee.
Taking attendance,.
Wiping down the tables.
Putting away the nap cots.
Running the dishwasher.
Brewing the coffee.
There is so little that I am sure of, especially now. But I do know this: I am a teacher. The way I teach may change. It will change, it has already changed. I grieve the things I love and lost even as I stand sure in the knowledge that I will always teach with my whole self, with my whole heart.
And nothing - nothing - will change that.
And nothing - nothing - will change that.
