I spent last weekend in bed with a raging migraine that would not relent until early Sunday morning. This week has been fraught with details about an upcoming field trip to the Arboretum. Students did not returned permission forms or payments in a timely fashion. Now it’s scramble time. How to get the lead out? And this is part of why my failure rates are higher than I want: they don’t care about deadlines or due dates. “Someone will give me an extension. It can wait for now.” No. Sometimes there is no extension. None. You can hit the end, and there is no more. I hit the end yesterday.
I checked in with my teaching partner about our plans for next week. We are both grade level team leaders, and we also discuss which kids need to go where for the outside incentive day coming up next week. If a student failed for the marking period, then he or she would be assigned to a core teacher for extra remediation. We sorted it out, and she departed for the day.
There I was at work late with a persistent scratchy threat due to drainage from one of the little upper respiratory bugs that is floating around my campus. Not again! It is nearing 4:40, and I see a student in the hallway. “What are you doing here?” “I was playing basketball.” He was participating in the worthy American Heart Association fundraiser, but he is never in my room for tutorials. I must demand his presence during our advisory period if I want extra time to work with him. He has never passed my class for a marking period, but he’s playing basketball. After he leaves with his backpack, my shoulders sag, and my heart pounds with rage. He can play basketball, but when I reached out to his parents about his failing grades, I had no response. When I wrote about missing work due to his absences a couple of weeks back, Mom said that he had been so sick, but she would make sure he got there. He was sick again the next day. And when he returned, I had to scramble to get him to finish his makeup assignments. I knew I would not get help from his parents at that point.
It is after 5:00 as I tiredly prepared my room for next week since I have morning duty every day next week. I sanitized my desks. I stacked the chairs. I typed emails and text reminders about upcoming events. I picked up copies from the printer after wearily scanning my badge to verify my identity. I blew my nose repeatedly. I longed for a Quik Trip Freezoni drink to soothe the red wool scratchy feeling burning my throat. My stomach rumbled with hunger; I ate five taquitos for lunch around 1:00. It is nearly 6:00. I put my calendar and pen/pencil bag into my work bag, turn off the lamps, and grab my purse from the corner wardrobe. Oh, I was supposed to take that rubbish out to the bin. Monday. I’ll do it Monday. I am spent. The constant battle against inertia and apathy drained my normally robust immunity this school year. I planned to spend the weekend resting, reading, and recuperating. I’ve taken a two hour nap and worked on my novel this afternoon.
I found this picture and shared it with my team members. It is a reminder when I feel the “it’s all your fault” blues creeping up on me. I am fighting my good fight. I am pouring my energy and creative juices into a worthy enterprise. Even when I don’t get the recognition I deserve, I have still done my work and given my best. It is all I can do.