Next stop... Plateau?

I try to avoid crying under the covers. It reminds me so much of high school, back when stalking the boy of my eye would inevitably cause me to “coincidentally bump into” said crush and the apple of his eye. I was never a boy’s apple as a teenager. Rather, I was more like the odd star fruit—so delicious and sweet inside but painfully difficult to peel. And, being the prude and high-maintenance star fruit I was, I spent many a night crying under the covers, desperately wanting to be an apple, or even a slutty banana that strips down with one tug at the top.

That level of uncorkable crying is what I experienced last night, while sobbing into my Shabby Chic duvet and begging my husband to turn off the lights because the tears made me as blind and sensitive as a baby hamster. “Please turn off,” sob, sob, “the lamp.” Sniffle, sniffle. I know he was trying to help me by forcing me into the light, but I wanted to cry privately and quietly, like I did in high school, and try not to indulge the anxiety spouting out by way of tears and snot.

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m just so uncomfortable! I don’t want to go back to school. I want to stay home, with you—and my mom and sister. I don’t like going back.”

“I hear ya! But I thought you said school was good today?” Curtis offered, obviously confused, and uncomfortable himself by my sudden emotional collapse.

“I did have a good day. The kids were fine. Great even. I don’t know. I’m just feeling anxious and I’m sure it’s just nerves and post-holiday shit, but I’m really upset.” Obviously.

“OK…It’s OK to cry.”

“I know it’s OK to cry,” and upon spicing up my response with a pinch of sass, knowing that the last thing I needed was to spark a marital fight, I curled into his armpit and said, “I just hate not feeling right, you know?”

“I know.”

“I mean, am I going to teach forever? It’s already been three years.”

“Not even—2 ½, Jo. You’re not used to doing one thing for a long time. And that’s not even that long, but it’s just starting to feel easier, which is what’s supposed to happen after you’ve done it a few times. You don’t know how to just be.”

The truth is, I do know how to be—but being for me is synonymous with moving. This is the case for most people. You start kindergarten, lunchbox in hand, letter on napkin from mom, excited to take this official first step. No more pretend school, this is the real deal. But before the paste has dried on your macaroni collage, pig-tailed Jessica swipes your last piece of dry pasta, slaps it on her paper, and proclaims her carbo-loaded creation done. The teacher then gingerly hangs up Jessica’s sticky mess and says, “Oh, you’re an artist! Good job. Now you’re ready for the clay table.” Having earned her ticket to first grade, Jessica learned a very valuable lesson: The end justifies the means.

And the cycle continues, unbroken, allowing you to rise up in the ranks from freshman to upperclassman, doing what you have to do to get to the next level and reach the golden ring. Then, one day, graduate school is over, dust collects on your backpack and you’re supposed to have found this magical destination you’ve worked your whole life to find. You’ve grabbed the golden ring… Now what?

Yes, you'll probably receive a promotion or two, but that’s just so you can make more money doing more of the same. Promotions seem to odd to me, because usually they just plop more responsibility on your plate with a little more money, but when are your supposed to enjoy the financial gain when you’re stretched thinner than ever carrying out your new found responsibilities? If you ask me, it doesn’t add up.

As a teacher there are many routes I can take from here. I can go back for my administrative license and become a principal… But then I’m really out of the classroom, which is my favorite part about being a teacher-- having a community of little friends. I can become a consultant and teach teachers how to improve their craft… But then I’m not only out of the classroom but I’m traveling from school to school, and I am not a fan of being away from home, obviously. I can earn my doctorate and teach at a university… But after watching my husband complete his doctoral program I’m just about turned off to the whole idea of post-graduate work of any kind.

I’m not sure what my professional future holds. All I can do for now is go to work, bond with my little pupils, and read up on the latest and best teaching practices. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll graduate from third grade—if only I can just stop eating the paste.