Give Up and Go Home

"Give up and go home."

I say to myself after a day that's been too rough to even wrap my head around.

Give up and go home.

I sigh, reorganize my desk for the seventeenth time today, and grab my coat.

I walk the eight steps it takes to get to my classroom door, pause, and turn to stare at my dark, empty classroom and absorb the day that has passed so quickly, so slowly, so joyfully and so painfully.

When I stare at this room, I see the floor that still needs to be vacuumed and I notice the math book that still has not been put away, even after the many, tired requests to do so. I see the stack of papers in desperate need of grading and the window covered in dirty finger prints.

I see myself, sitting at my desk earlier this morning. I'm pouring over the inbox of emails that needs attention before I can even attempt my to-do list for the day. Tunneled vision and already tired, I hear, "Miss Simpson?"

I stop and realize I have a buzzing classroom of young voices begging for my presence. Asking me to read our class book, asking for a band-aid, asking me to look at the drawing that was made for me the night before, asking me to ignore the emails, asking me to ignore the critics in my inbox and in my head and just be with them.

So little they ask and yet it feels like the impossible when your mind is telling you that this job is too much to handle.

I'd be better in marketing, or business, or law, or anything else, I think to myself.

I start to remember the days when I thought getting a job after graduation meant I'd feel confident and capable. Clearly, I'm still waiting for that to kick in.

Give up and go home.

Whether they know it or not, I'm one more parent email away from the door.

My head thanks me for finally accepting the hard truth.

This job isn't for me. It's too much. You're too tired. You're too stressed.

Give up and go home.

And do what? Sit at a desk all day and fill out Excel spreadsheets? No thanks.

"Miss Simpson?"

I turn and look at the doe-eyed, dimpled face in front of me, anxiously waiting to hear what I think of her new scarf.

"Oh, it's beautiful, love."

It sufficed. She smiles and says, "Thank you, I got it to match yours."

Okay, now, I'm a couple parent emails away from the door.

She prances back to her seat and smiles to herself.

"Miss Simpson!"

My eyes widen and I wonder how many times I've heard that name called this year.

"Yes?"

"We should have a field trip to Laser Quest."

"Great idea, I'll put my two weeks in tomorrow."

Laser Quest really does sound like a great idea right now.

"Miss Simpson!"

"Yeah?"

"I gave up homework for lent," says the smirking blonde, avoiding his desk at all costs.

"You're hilarious. Sit down and fill out your agenda book."
 "Oh man, what would I do without you guys?"

"You'd miss us!"

"You'd be lost without us!"

"You'd have more hair!"

They're all right.

Give up and go home.

Too late. That's all it took.

That's all it took for me to remember, whether I like it or not, I've made a difference in the lives of some pretty endearing eleven-year-olds.

I can't now, because when I stare at this classroom, I don't see myself anymore.

I see them.

I see that look they get when Monday morning calls and they're asked to pull out their math books. I see the tears that form after he's tried the same problem for the fourth time in a row now. I see the anxiety that floods her face when the test is headed her way.

I see her giddy smile as she walks in the door and realizes we both wore our hair in a bun today. I see his eyes thank me for helping him through the "worst thing ever," otherwise known as long division. I see them giggle when I tell them how lucky they are to have the greatest teacher in the world. I see them chattering in line after class and one surprised little boy happens to let slip, "Hey, that was pretty fun!"

I sigh again, relieved that I'm wrong, in the best way possible.

Give up and go home?

Who would give this up?

I smile and turn toward the door.

No, you need to go home, but no giving up.