Transitions

We went to the beach today on our first day back from Spring Break. I didn't sleep much last night worrying about a million little details for the week. Will they all remember a sack lunch? Will they have the right shoes and warm clothes? Did I fill out the field trip paperwork? Did I send that email to the parent who asked me a question on the last day before break?

Of course, the day went well. Three kids weren't dressed well and one brought a lunch that needed a microwave. No one was worried about paperwork or emails, but despite all of that, I'm exhausted tonight.

"I think the thing I'm looking forward to the most," I told Ann tonight, "Is not having to hold 23 things in my head every 5 minutes."

She smiled knowingly as she, too, must hold all the flotsam and jetsam of classroom teaching.

I have 9 weeks left. 9 weeks. I'm trying not to focus on the time, but today, when we were loading all the kids into the cars of the parent drivers, making sure they all had their raincoats and backpacks, that they'd all gone to the restroom, that they had their lunches and field journals, 9 weeks seemed both a long time to carry myself through and a short time before I am free of all of this.

I'm torn, too. After school my teaching partner showed me some resumes of the new candidates to take my place. There were strong credentials. She was excited to read the lists of achievements. I could feel a little jealousy creep in, envious of her enthusiasm. I won't be missed, I thought, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I would be missed though someone excellent will take my place.

Transitioning from vacation back to work is always tough for me. Not only do I struggle holding all the bits and pieces in my head, but the voices, the questions, the constant chatter overwhelms me when I first return. Today was no exception. The kids were all bubbly, calling my name all over the beach to show me a sea lemon or a burrowing sea cucumber. I pumped up my energy. I cracked jokes about mollusks (alls whelk that ends whelk) and stuck my finger into the siphon of a piddock to watch a spray of water shower a student I'd lured over.

On Thursday nights I've been taking a dog to obedience classes and as I drive the 30 minutes north, I don't think I can make it -- I'm so exhausted from my days of teaching. But when I arrive to the arena, when we start working the dogs and challenging them to sit or stay or lie down and roll over, I'm not tired at all. It feels simple in so many ways -- train a dog to walk by your side, sit on command, come when you call her -- but learning the complexity of a dog's mind, of a particular breed of dog's mind is fascinating and invigorating.

It's what teaching used to be for me.

I know the next 9 weeks will be a struggle. I know the months after I leave teaching will be a struggle in ways I can't imagine. I worry about finances in this time of economic crunch. I worry that there's too much for this old dog to learn. But just when I think that maybe I should just stay where I am, in a classroom teaching kids, I hear the dog trainer ask me after class, "Do you want to teach a refresher course for me this summer?"

I was shocked when she asked. Turns out I'll still be teaching, but that she even thought I could do it blew me away.

Transitions are so fascinating. I suppose I hate them so much, I rush through them and miss the learning that can come from them. I found myself doing it today, but then I decided to just play in the moment, be glad I was on the beach exploring the diversity of life there on a cold day without rain.

I need to do the same thing for the next 9 weeks and after that, go easy on myself as I transition into whatever comes next. Something will come next and I can't force it. Just keep moving forward, slowly, deliberately, and with minimal worry. It will all go as it should.