Today was my second day of school with kids in the classroom. It was Jonathan's third (as a kid in a classroom).
I like teaching. I feel pretty good at school, pretty natural, pretty in-my-element considering we haven't even cracked a textbook yet. I did hand most the textbooks out, though. I wasn't planning to until tomorrow, but I got ahead of my plan, and it felt good. I'm still trying to get to know the kids and learn how to take attendance.
At the end of the day, I sat over my lesson planner and tried to gather my thoughts. It is Thursday, a marching band day. On Tuesday, Jon's first day of school, I didn't even have students yet, but I didn't get home until after he had gone to marching band practice. Today I called him at about 3:30.
Yes, he was going to a sectional, early. He would be gone before 4:30. I still had lessons to plan. By the time I finished and drove the thirty minutes home, there would be no way I would see him.
My throat caught as I tried to stay upbeat on the phone. "Are you finding good, nutritious stuff to eat before you go? I miss you, Buddy." A tear rolled down my cheek and I grabbed a tissue out of the box on my desk, a box donated for extra credit which I need to figure out how to enter into the computer grading system. I am keeping meticulous paper records.
I held my breath and tried not to let him know his dumb mom was falling apart.
"Yeah," he told me, "and I'm going to the gym with Dave after practice."
"Well, stop by at home and say hi to me," I somehow squeaked out with a modicum of composure.
Hanging up, I gave the tissue a real workout, holding my breath, hoping not to make a sound. There were people in the hall, and my door was propped open for air.
Good grief. He is 17 years old. How do moms do this with their little babies?
Maybe it's because they aren't on the last year before the child leaves for (possibly) ever.