It's the end of summer and for some, that means the party is over. The beach house gets locked up, fall sales accost us, and it's time to get our heads back into school. Time for alarm clocks to sound, for fighting over the shower, for lining up the lunch bags by the door. Time first to scramble eggs and then scramble for our keys. Time to discover we've forgotten our phone or our glasses when we're half way down the stairs and already late. Time for homework, papers, conferences. For most students, parents and teachers, it is plainly and simply, time.
But this is only one perspective. For some, back to school symbolizes new beginnings and life lessons. The new class, the new teacher, the new planner, new clothes, the newness of a fresh start. It is a time of great anticipation and wonder; Who will my teacher be? Will I like him? Her? What will my new class be like? What new challenges await? It is a time to share our stories from the summer and learn something new in the fall. And it's a time for maybe a new friend and a hope that success lies ahead.
Today I woke up with what my daughter refers to as "the Sunday feeling." She gets it on Sunday nights when she is scuttling through her homework, when we have a usual Sunday supper of some sort of comfort food like a stew or a pasta or a piece of salmon from our favorite market. She gets it when she has to "go back," often it when it is cold and rainy, and then she begs me not to prepare any of those foods as they only "make it worse." Today I will head back to school. It is raining. And I will begin the scuttle.
I used to get the Sunday feeling as a little girl. It was often sparked by attending mass, going to Grandma's house and watching the ABC Sunday Night Movie. But never was it caused by school. I loved school. I loved my teachers. There was Miss Peck, my second grade teacher who put masking tape on my mouth. I forgave her because she was blonde and pretty and otherwise nice. There was Miss Vishiola, who let us put on the third grade play, Wiggle Worm's Surprise. I got to accompany the cast on the piano. Secretly I wanted to be Wiggle Worm, but playing the piano was an honor just the same, and it made my dad and mom proud. And who could forget fourth grade Mrs.Hughes? She never let me forget my lunch. (I lived across the street and thought it was no big deal run back to get my lunch when I forgot it three times a week, until one day she wouldn't let me run back to get it. I sat through lunch at my empty desk watching everyone else eat. I forgave her, however, because she taught me a valuable lesson.) But it was my most beloved teacher, Mrs. Palmer, whom I'll likely never forget. She treated me like a daughter and let me swim in her pool. She was the teacher who brought in her pumpkin bread on Thanksgiving, and who reminded me of my grandmother. She was the teacher I recently visited in a nursing home. She hadn't forgotten me, and let me talk her ear off for hours. When it was time for me leave, I think she really wanted me to stay.
I wonder how much of me, if any, my students will remember. Will it be a story I told or a lesson I fumbled through? Will it be a spark I ignited in them during writing, or a time when I mistakenly hurt their feelings? Will it be a batch of cookies I brought in or a song I butchered on the guitar? Being a parent and an educator are two of the greatest challenges one can take on. Doing either of them well is commendable. If there can be one positive impact that we can have on this earth, let it be for the benefit of a child at least once. I'm navigating both on a day to day basis hoping that, like roulette, my color or number will come up. Maybe it already has. Maybe it will again.
I have the Sunday feeling today, even though it's Tuesday. And I can't wait to begin again.
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