honeymoon’s over.

To be honest, it’s not hard for preps to adore someone and be keen on giving and getting some well-behaved attention during the first three weeks of meeting somebody new (me).  But this is week four and sweetheart, keep dreaming, they’ve reverted back to the children I don’t remember meeting. Under tables, defying and boisterous, graffiti-ing tables, hard floors and cardboard boxes, inattentive and apathetic to my instruction.  Either that, or my unorganised, half-hearted fluke efforts are being revealed. The drive home was gross. A nauseated and pathetic wave kept me uneasy and I wanted just to curl into a ball as rocks of deserved criticism were hurled at me. Woman, get up and over yourself.

I’m glad for this inadequacy to humble me now. Let’s be honest – if I had continued my adamant pride at being so good with kids – it would have destroyed both me and the children under my charge.  Now, there is much hard-work to sow. Fruitcake, hardwork is my undoing. I told myself this morning that there are terrible teachers in the world and I couldn’t be the worst teacher, so I could easily get a job – I could just about hate myself for such arrogance.  The worst part is that I’ve been taking the path to passionless teaching, just about disgusting my soul.  Could I loathe my hands any more?

I’ve just remembered how unqualified I am to be a real teacher.

Dear God,
forgive my complacencies and cover the insult of my uninformed pride. I want to be a good teacher. I’ve managed to fool myself into thinking that being a good teacher is completely unattached to being a good student.  I’m so far from both and I don’t want to have to ruin my first batch of kids getting there.
-Sincerely, the humiliated fourth year student teacher.