Musings from a Not-So-Master Teacher

My seven month old son is having surgery. I can't take the thought of him being put to sleep, of a two hour operation, of his face being cut open.  It's a simple procedure involving a slight cleft lip, some muscle structure and his jaw.  Yet, if we don't have it taken care of, it can develop into really bad juvenile TMJ and a speech impediment. 

I arrive to school in no mood to teach.  No, there is a part of me that wants to teach and escape the constant fluctuation of sadness, hope and terror.  For an introvert like myself, I want to be alone.  I want to be locked in a room and process my feelings through writing and crying and occasionally escaping into a classic rock song.  So, my moments of introversion occur during bell work or in the transition period between classes. I gaze out at nothing and fel numb.  Self-soothing gets a bad rap.  I need a little emotional tranquilizer to reduce the extreme shifts. 

In the last hour of the day, I feel bad for snapping at a few students during bell work.  I simply cannot take the whispering and it hurts, because they know I can't be energetic and "on top of it" the way that I typically feel. I pull out a candy bar and pop in a video and wonder if this is how the burn-outs feel when they teach. "It's a simple surgery with a high success rate," I tell myself.  "Why is it bothering me so much?"  My rational side asks. 

As the class closes, I am in a better mood, simply enjoying the prescence of my students.  Then, a few of them hand me some papers.  I clutch the three Get Well cards they had made the day before and passed around for signatures during bell work.  I am choked up by the gift of compassion and my eyes water.  I teach some of the best students on the planet!