Okay, just so you can see the manic depressiveness of my job, I had a great day today. Not with the class mind you, but with one of my students after school. It’s a long story and it’s already midnight so I am going to go to bed but the choice to quit, for me, is nor here yet. It comes and goes. One moment, I am completely prepared to quit and the next I want to be there for the kids. I love the kids. More coming really soon, I promise.

To those of you who’ve been commenting, I just want you to know that I am reading them and they mean the world to me and they are affecting my day to day life and my moment to moment thoughts. I will respond to the comments and I am so glad you are taking the time to give me your thoughts, opinions, and empathy. Thank you. 🙂

Wow, talk about a bad day! I am amazed at the optimism that seems to surround me all weekend when I plan my lessons and just assume they will work. And then I get up and go to school and the kids show up and then reality hits me. I am amazed at the kindness I want to give my students but yet the meanness I spew out in the middle of frustration and resentment. I am mostly amazed at how much I really suck at this. Just didn’t think it was possible to be this bad.

And then there’s this CNN article which I could say so much about but I won’t because my bed time has come and gone.

It’s been a long time. When I decided to do this job, I knew that I would no longer realistically be able to write this site every single day like I used to be able to. While I had absolutely no idea of the insanity that my life would become, I did know that time would become a more precious commodity than it had been in the last two years when I was working part time.

The sad thing is, now I need to journal more than ever. This site used to be a way I could think about my thoughts. It was a way I got to reflect regularly. I kept diaries for over ten years as a child but for some reason, I haven’t been able to get into it the way I really want to. If there’s one thing I know about this teaching experience, it’s that I’m going to want to remember my thoughts and feelings as I experience this. While I am confident that some things are best forgotten, I don’t want to rely on my shaken memory of these two years. I’m not going to want to forget this.

On a more practical note, I find that reflecting gives me a way to improve and perfect my thoughts on a subject. While it might lead me down the path of wallowing on what I could have done and what I should have done, that’s something I’m simply going to learn to get over because without quality reflection time, my life just becomes about making through each day, which is not an efficient way to make an impact.

So I am not really sure how to make this work. As of next week, I have class on Wednesdays, Thursdays until after 9:30pm. I also will most likely be teaching after school on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays and Saturdays. All this tightens my already crammed schedule. However, I need to make time for this. So any ideas on how I can make that happen?

The good news is that I’ve found a way to make peace with doing this job and not hating my life and myself. The bad news is that I don’t feel like I’m necessarily a better teacher. I just show up to work everyday and don’t want to kill myself at the end of the day. (Though, one of my students wrote the nicest thing on his math journal today, “Dear Ms.— When I was in 4th grade and down. Math was really boring. Now you make it fun to learn.” Isn’t that nice?)

Most importantly, I still need to find a way to get them to shut the fuck up. Any advice? 🙂

Double-preps rock! Today was a better day. Not because I was able to teach better. Not because I didn’t have kids throwing stuff in my room. But only because I didn’t want to feel angry. I wanted to be happy today. And I didn’t let anything change that decision. I guess my teacher’s comments about controling what you can control stuck with me. I can control my mood. It is mine afterall, right?

Memory is selective.

There’s a reason we forget things. Human resilience has been tested millions of times in history. Tons of women have told me that if we didn’t forget, no one would have more than one child. Well, I haven’t had any babies yet and can’t tell you what labor pain feels like or how quickly I might forget it. But I do know that I’ve been known to distort the past as things change or as time passes.

The last few weeks have been so difficult that I decided, this time, I want to keep a record so that I can’t fool myself when I choose to look back upon these memories. Think of this as a time capsule. Something for me to lock up and put away, only to be opened when I begin to forget. Something for my friends to show me when I start saying things like, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”

The fact is, it is that bad. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. At times, it’s heart-wrenching. It’s infuriating. Sometimes it’s funny. But it’s constantly overwhelming.

When I decided to quit my six-year job and change career paths, I knew that my life wouldn’t be the same. I knew that teaching would eat more of my free time than investment banking ever did. I also knew that I’d feel it was worth it. So I assume the big question now would be: Is it?

Is it worth it?

Honestly? I can’t tell you yet. All I can say so far is that I underestimated how difficult this is. Getting up at the crack of dawn, grading on the train to school, climbing 98 steps eleven times a day, four to six of which includes leading a class of 28. Spending every moment on my feet. Having to think about what I’m saying all the time. Having my incompetence stare me so squarely in the face.

My life has changed alright: I get up when it’s dark, go to school, teach, stay after school to grade, come home when it’s dark, prepare for the next day’s lessons, call parents, eat dinner and crash in bed. Every single day. I dream about my students. I dream about photocopying onto overhead paper. I dream about lizards eating me. I spend my weekends planning for the week. Preparing charts for my room. Writing papers for my graduate classes. Buying prizes for my students. Photocopying. And sleeping.

My only moments of peace come on Sunday mornings where my amazing husband and I go to the local bagel shop at 8:30 and read the New York Times for two hours. Two hours of heaven. Two hours of not thinking about all the things that go wrong in my room. Two hours of not worrying about how the next day’s lessons will go. Two hours of not feeling so incredibly incompetent.

I do love my students. Even the most mischievous ones. I can’t help but care about them. I want to laugh at their ingenuity even when it disrupts my class. But my tolerance and patience has dwindled almost to nothing. It’s gotten so bad that when I see people chewing gum anywhere, I have to work extra hard to suppress the urge to yell, “spit it out!” I fix everyone’s grammar constantly. I can’t stand it when people are being disrespectful at a meeting by having their own side conversation. I have heard every excuse and more as to why homework is not complete. I have listened to parents hollering at their children in front of my eyes. Much to my despair, I have made students cry.

But I have also made them smile. The magic of a student understanding something I’ve taught is immeasurable. Just like the drain when a student refuses to stop calling out loud in class or refuses to stop being disruptive.

So many things happen each day. I always come home with the urge to write, knowing I’m going to want to remember these days.

But I don’t write.

Days pass, I forget. My memory knows I won’t survive it if I keep remembering, so it helps me out. Maybe it’s better that way.

Maybe some things are best forgotten.

My friend Jenn has just resigned from Teach For America.

Jenn and I spent countless hours of the last forty days together. I probably, scratch that, I certainly spent more time with her than I did with Jake, my husband. We planned and replanned lesson plans. She gave me amazing ideas and copies of her materials. She helped me write up numerous directions, poems, and lists on chart paper (my handwriting still needs considerable work). She’s the reason we started our Thursday night dessert runs (even though I’m concerned about my next weight watcher’s weigh in, it was totally worth it). She spent hours talking to me when I was crying so much that my words were more like babbling mumbles. She made me laugh and helped preserved my sanity.

This might not seem like much to you, but try putting it in context of all this:

Seventeen summer school students who had one teacher on the first week of summer school, only to find out that they had three more the next week.

Fist fighting between two girls at 11:20am on our first day at school.

Changing the seating plans at least eleven times in the course of four weeks.

A girl on the first row who incessantly raised her hand, knew the answers but made loud disappointment noises each time she wasn’t called on.

A boy who raised his hand before we even asked a question because he wanted to participate so badly, but rarely answered correctly.

A really intelligent boy who had no patience for our simple assignments, would lose patience quickly and start walking around the classroom or belittle the other students.

A small boy who hit every girl taller than he any second we looked away and would deny any wrongdoing vehemently.

A quiet, sweet girl who couldn’t read at all.

A boy who continually walked in late and proceeded to sit at his desk and do nothing. As time progressed, he’s tap or bang on his desk. He also made fun of the other students.

A boy who never listened in class but responded thankfully and with interest during one-on-ones.

A quiet boy who didn’t get much attention as he deserved.

A boy who could never physically sit in his chair.

Two girls who chatted incessantly no matter how far apart we seated them.

A boy who got moved around no less than eight times because he’d behave no matter where we seated him and thus got the default leftover seat.

A boy who came to school tired everyday and couldn’t hold his head up.

A boy who cared, listened and shared.

A girl who slept or felt sick every day.

A class that knew how to use the three inexperienced teachers against each other. A class who has incredible potential. A class that made me cry several times this summer. A class where we felt like we tired everything but succeeded at nothing. A class where each student was special.

This summer was incredibly rough for me. I could explain but I don’t think it’s possible to understand unless one has been through it personally. After all how difficult can it be to manage a bunch of third graders?

I don’t think there are enough words.

Which is exactly why Jenn made a significant difference in my life in the first month I’ve known her. Which is why I feel traumatized knowing she won’t be there with me in the next two years. Which is why I miss her already.

Especially since I got my new job yesterday.

South Bronx, here I come.

Third grade, here I come.