Tuesday, October 28, 2014
My alarm sounds at 6am and after sleepily hitting the snooze button a few times, I crawl out of bed at approximately 6:30am. Since I was out yesterday due to the invading germs elementary students habitually spread, I mentally prepare for the abnormally long day ahead as I drowsily ready for work. Without warning, my morning grouch of a husband begins to nit-pick about the neglected laundry. The sun isn’t even awake but we plunge into a recurring war of roaring finger pointing and grimacing insults. Esh. What a glorious way to start the day. I am but an object to satisfy the demands of wife, mother, teacher, student, and non-profit founder & director.
7:15am. I arrive at school (work). Students flood my classroom. They peer at me, waiting as I rummage through my mind’s library of lessons. What am I doing? This teaching thing is challenging. They wait for an “order” just as soldiers do. Public school is run in similar fashion like that of military boot camp whereby teachers are the drill sergeants and students are drilled of their obligatory role to perform according to a universal standard. They are objects of our education system and I’m a contributor. For 45 minutes, five days a week, they are my objects to control and manipulate. This teaching thing is complicated and complex. I have no idea what I’m doing. I am also an object of the system, required to perform to certain standards.
11:05am. It is now time for my lengthy 20 minute lunch. I scarf down some crackers while I read and respond to emails. A 5th grade teacher wants me to incorporate a project into my class time. A pediatric cancer mother is requesting financial assistance. I make a mental note to go by the post office tomorrow after work to send her gift cards for food and gas. I reach for my phone to call a local Olive Garden so I can fulfill our monthly promise of delivering a hot lunch to the families who are inpatient at Egleston and Scottish Rite. But I am distracted by a text from my ex-husband notifying me that one of our foundation’s kiddos have passed. I cannot cry. I do not have time to cry. Besides, objects don’t cry.
Finally 2:20pm! The bell rings to signal the end of the school day. As I am leaving, I am bombarded by a flux of students. Am I ever going to remember the name of every single student? A precious 1st grader asks me to come to his house to fix his computer. An excited 3rd grader begs me to take a look at her assignment on Google Drive. Another student tells me what he is dressing up as for Halloween. Some just want to give me a hug and I gladly accept. But I wonder why in the world do they want to hug me? I am not worthy to receive these hugs. No sense in arguing…this makes every teacher-thing I do worthwhile. This teaching thing is rewarding
On my way to school, I call my husband. We have a cordial conversation and he indirectly apologizes but never actually mutters the words, “I’m sorry.” But then again, neither do I. All in all, though, everything seems patched up from this morning’s crossfires.
3:58pm. That’s a first…I am actually on time for once. Hooray for the small accomplishments! The victory is short-lived when I learned I overlooked and failed to complete two written assignments that were due last week. I feel a migraine approaching. This college thing is stressful and time-consuming. I realize that I am also an object of the education system…
7:20pm. Thankful to the medicine that extinguished my migraine, I have the bright idea to attempt at completing the homework assignment that was just given in my Statistics & Probability class. I get as far as writing the first question when I look up to find Greek splattered all over the board. Great. Evidently I have an abundant amount of time to teach myself.
9:30pm. I am finally home. To my surprise, my 21-month-old daughter is still awake. I kneel as she giddily runs to me. She knocks me over when she gives me a bear hug and a long kiss. My heart is filled and my day is made perfect. She is my object of affection and adoration. I am her object for survival and she is mine. I love it.
9:45pm. While giving her a bath, I enjoy the musical squeals of my daughter’s laughter. But, I overhear an argument in the kitchen between my husband and his mother. It’s about something I did…or didn’t do. I try to recall what I did in the brief time I have been home but my mental checklist only indicates that I must have breathed her air. I am an object that breathes.
Quarter after 10pm. My daughter is down for the night. I remind my husband about my scheduled GACE exam tomorrow. He’s irritated now. He asks, “How did you pay for it?” With sarcasm I reply, “With money.” But I desire nothing but to end this on & off again argument and attempt at adding humor to lighten the mood, “I offered a trade…one test for the annoying cats outside. But they just wanted my arm and leg. The audacity. And apparently bartering sex is frowned upon…even illegal. Can you believe that?” Humor failure. Well that is my cue to do one of my ‘object’ duties: laundry.
11:45pm. Craving to conclude the day, I climb into bed. I cannot sleep.
It’s a quarter past 1am. I’m about to loose it! I might as well get up and try to finish one of my forgotten written assignments. I take a look at the requirements for the reflection…nope, that is too complicated for my mind to process right now. I will instead do my timeline summary.
1:42am. I climb back in bed. I still cannot sleep. This is ridiculous!
2:15am. OMG! It is going to be another long day tomorrow. How do I even function by doing this shit? Yes, I have resorted to cursing. The accumulations of the day’s irritations have taken its toll.
3:00am. Who needs sleep??? Objects don’t sleep.
3:30am. My migraine has returned. I should have taken Benadryl but it is too late now. Arg!!!
My alarm sounds at 6am…I must have finally drifted off. A little over 2 hours of sleep. Awesome.
