Now What?

When I was in fourth grade, I watched the Challenger space shuttle explode, killing all seven astronauts on board - including a high school teacher.  I then decided I was going to be an astronaut.  In middle school, I made my decision even more specific - I would be the first woman to walk on the moon.

In high school, I volunteered in an elementary school as part of a course titled, “World of Education.”  I didn’t want to teach; I was tired of school and ready to be done.  The class was supposed to be an easy “A” for me.  And it was; except, I loved what I was doing.  I loved making a difference in a child’s life.

I decided I would become a teacher.

I went through college on a mission - to graduate and find a teaching position close to my home.  I did both.  And I have taught in the same elementary school for ten years.  

Now, I’m tired.  I’m burned out.  I’m frustrated.  I don’t feel like I’m making a difference.  I don’t feel valued or respected or appreciated.  And to make it worse, I’m a mom now.  So I come home from work after spending six hours with other people’s children and feel I have little energy left for my own child.  I feel like the best of me was spent doing things that I don’t want to do with people I don’t want to do them with.  (Does anyone ever really want to spend an hour discussing equivalent fractions or the rules for apostrophes?)

So, what do I do now?  I’ve got a three-year-old at home, and can’t afford not to be a two-parent-working-family.  The economy isn’t exactly booming and jobs aren’t exactly plentiful.  

I wanted a job, a career, that was meaningful and beneficial, that made a difference.  Teaching is supposed to do that.  I wanted a career to be proud of, that my son would be proud to say, “That’s my mom.”

Yet, more and more, I find myself intrigued by the idea of a more “simple” job.  “Simple” meaning you go to your place of employment, work your hours, and you’re done.  No work to bring home.  No papers to grade while I eat a bagel in the morning.  No lessons to plan after my son is asleep at night.  A job that would have a definitive start and a definitive ending time.

I really noticed a change in my thinking a few months ago.  Struggling with an on-going health problem, I realized that if I was told, heaven forbid, that I suffered some sort of fatal illness, I would not keep teaching.  I would resign.  I would not want to spend my limited time at my current profession.  But, time is limited.  I don’t know what the future holds, and I don’t think this is how I want to spend my present.

“Dreams to Jobs” is the name of one of our fourth grade Open Court Reading units.  My students come from families who practice a myriad of jobs - ranging from housecleaning to nursing.  I inform my students that all jobs are important, all jobs matter.  And I mean it.   Now, as a ten-year teacher on the verge of burnout, I am reminding myself of this same thing.  The person who works at Coffee Bean is no less important than I am.  I go to Coffee Bean assuming someone will be working and able to prepare my beverage correctly.  I shop at Trader Joe’s with the assumption that the food will be properly displayed and a cashier will be operating the register so that I may pay for my groceries and go home.  Those jobs are important.  They matter.  Their importance (and stress level) is just different than that of a teacher’s.

As a mother, I think I want to spend my time differently.  I want my concerns to be more about my child than other people’s children.  I want to go home at the end of the day feeling like my work was appreciated and valued.  (I regularly thank any cashiers and retail employees I come into contact with.) 

When I was nine, I knew I would be an astronaut.  I was certain of it.  I was wrong.

When I was sixteen, I knew I would be a teacher.  I was certain of it.  I am.  I’m doing it.  

Now, I’m thirty-five.  Maybe it’s time to try something new.

But that’s the scary part ...