Yesterday, one of my students guessed that I was 32 years old.
I don’t know why I’m letting this bother me.
I’m torn in different directions. I want to linger as late as possible, watching Carter sleep. I want to leave school as soon as the afternoon bell rings and run to my baby.
Instead, I’m staying late. I’m planning more, grading more, demanding more of my students this year. I’m taking on extra responsibilities, extra hours, to earn extra money. I want the most for my students. I want even more for my son. My hands are dirtied to keep my heart clean.
So this must be why I look a solid seven years older than I am.
I wrote a referral the first week of school. Today I assigned an outside reading project that requires a total of 15 paragraphs and a lengthy letter to be written in response to a work of fiction, which cannot be under 250 pages. I found myself giving students scores of “8.7” and “7.2” out of 10. Either I’m a total nutjob or a complete badass. Your vote.
The real problem here: Why, why, why did we purchase a house without a proper bubble bath tub?