Being a teacher means not ever being Sure.
At the beginning of the year, you’re not Sure where your classroom will be, or with what and with whom it will be filled. If you’re like me and you work in an unaccredited district, you’re not even Sure you’ll have a classroom.
Kids ask you questions and you’re not Sure how to answer. Is that too personal? Do I really remember that one bizarre exception to the rules for using quotation marks? Is that really something you should be asking?
You’re not Sure how you get exposed to various diseases, like whatever strain of viral Crud that has kept me confined to my bedroom on this one beautiful day of pre-spring St. Louis weather.
You’re not Sure why you have the capacity to swing from chipper to crabby in the space of fifteen minutes, but you think it’s probably because of all the excess middle school hormones that seep through your unwilling pores.
If you’re me, you’re never Sure if you’re actually getting there with particularly precious angels, or if they just took adequate doses of Actual Human Being pills that morning. Or perhaps they remembered their injections of Suck Up To The Teacher, You Silly Goose medicine.
The moral of the story is that even though I walk around with a certain amount of Second Year Teacher Swagg, I’m still not Sure of a lot of things. When I get asked if my kids acted like angels or armpits on particular days, I’m never quite Sure who is to praise or to blame for the answer.
One thing I am Sure about? The 9 days of children that are standing between me and Spring Break – aka eradicating the Crud – aka sleeping past sunrise – aka Pure Unadulterated Joy.