Just last weekend, I was soaking my tired feet in my brother’s swimming pool during my niece’s high school graduation party, when a younger sister party goer swam right up to me. “I just love parties at Greg and Holly’s,” she quipped to me, a true stranger to her in every sense. I guessed her age to be about nine, and I agreed with her that I also just loved parties at Greg and Holly’s house. She swam away to visit another young friend, and then swam back to me and asked, “Do you know how to tea party?” Not only did I love how she made “tea partying” an active verb, but I was instantly time traveled to my own above ground pool growing up where I tea- partied with the best of them, in addition to headstands, underwater cartwheels, make me laugh contests, etc. We spent hours in the summertime swimming in our pool. One of my earliest “big responsibilities” was walking around the edge to vacuum the debris out before friends came over.

“Do I know how to tea party?” I repeated the question to her, “Like underwater, pinkies in the air, eyes open, pretending to drink from a tiny tea cup?” She smiled, eyes laughing, and suggested I put my suit on and we could tea party together— the most genuine invitation I’ve received in a long time. I could picture this young girl in a classroom; I could hear the questions she might ask her teacher, both the invited ones and uninvited– as the mother of one who could push the envelop with his teachers, I recognize her intelligence, her sense of humor, her innate sense of curiosity– but mostly, her advanced communication and relational skill set. There is no doubt in my mind that being this child’s teacher would keep every day interesting.

Today was a wrap on the school year, number 29 total and completing 23 at my current school. About midway through the year, a mentor of mine reached out with a job position, not in actual education, whose title was Director of Storytelling. I was smitten by the title alone, and if my kids were finished school, I might have applied. There was some travel involved, which I just can’t manage right now. But, come on, director of storyteller– as if the position was created exactly with me in mind. But, instead of applying, I passed it along to a friend I felt like the position might fit. Then towards the end of the year, our guidance counselor became our director of elementary education. For about 17 minutes, I contemplated applying for this position, believing I could potentially make an excellent one. But then again, I didn’t really want to go back to school to be certified, at least not right now, given my own children’s ages, general life chaos, etc.

Then I remembered how much I still love being a high school English teacher. My students this year were extra amazing, really kind humans with thoughtful brains and writers’ hearts. Not all of them of course, and certainly not everyday. These are teenagers we are talking about, but most of them made my classroom a warm vibe of discourse and wondering. And the ones for whom reading, writing and/or speaking didn’t come easily still tried really hard most days. I brought a few of my students down to the 8th grade to talk about summer reading (yes, it’s good for you to read for fun and you should make your kids complete their summer reading– audio included of course) and high school expectations for behavior. Listening to one of my students who struggled in ninth grade share with them his personal growth story about learning how to work smarter and setting higher goals for himself. He told them that maturing isn’t about the decisions we make; it’s about how we react after the decisions are made. Suddenly, he appeared to me to be 30 years old, and I saw a glimpse of the young man he was growing into, fresh from Drivers Ed.

With that said, I have struggled teaching my own children, and I know others have survived this singularly weird teaching experience, and I will too. More good than bad is a friend’s mantra I repeat on the daily. Don’t misunderstand me. There are complex issues as with any school, but, fortunately, I still love what goes on in Room 114. I don’t love how much time I spend outside of actual school hours having to read and assess student work, which will probably be the reason I change positions or leave education sooner than I imagine. And I don’t love when parents send nasty emails, which happens RARELY at Lin-Wood, but when it happens, they still have the power to make me cry, which is unacceptable. I push back, retaining as much professionalism as possible and model for them how to write respectful emails. But for now, more good than bad. Our school is special. Maybe every teacher believes that about their school. Maybe not.

I’ll leave you with this funny story from the last week of school. My group of freshmen is bigger than other grades, and they were thrilled a couple of weeks ago to learn that the lady bug they had living in a terrarium situation in biology had laid some babies. The babies “hatched” or were born– not sure of the actual terminology, but these kids were pumped. Then yesterday someone mentioned that the babies had all died, but he called them ladybabies, and we all started cracking up. What a funny term. Ladybabies. We know he meant lady bug babies, but maybe ladybabies is the right word after all. Say it out loud three times. It’s a fun one to repeat. At some point yesterday, they had written ladybabies all over my white board; they had assigned someone to be the ladybaby uncle, and I bet these kids also tea partied themselves out when they were younger just like my new pool buddy, Abby. It won’t really feel like summer vacation for a few days because there is a need to decompress. And for those of you still in it for a while longer– Godspeed to you!

PS. Side Note: My dad was injured in a car accident on March 20, the very day I returned from a ski race at Sugarload with the kids in a terrible snowstorm. He shattered his car and his heel, but the good news is that he no longer has to wear the boot and can drive. Now, we need to just find him a car. But I want to thank everyone who supported us (him) these last LONG, 12 weeks with rides, visits, grocery store trips, doctor appointments, transportation to chair volleyball or senior lunches– we could not have managed without you!