To the show that never ends! Though you may have thought it did (and rightfully so-- particularly my Russian readers who somehow found this blog when 99% of traffic is currently through Facebook). My unintentional and unannounced hiatus has been the result to a very busy end of the school year. It was the least stressful June wrap-up of my career, despite everyone in my immediate family (even my dog) getting ill or needing medical attention, but I was too busy during most of April and May to update the blog. However, like Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, I am now inviting you come (back) inside and gaze into the Teacher / Parent Fun House Mirror. Today's reflection focuses on the parent side of the mirror-- after all, it is Father's Day.
Something that I realized last night and today as it relates to the teacher / parent dynamic is that emotionally speaking, I am much more responsive to mushy stories about parenting than I am about teaching. I've read feel-good, look-what-we-accomplished tales from the classroom, but none had me as choked up as an article I read last night about the Stanley Cup. (You can read it here, but the actual Grantland website appears to be in a state of flux at the moment...) The quotes from players about how they celebrated with their fathers made me a teary-eyed mess. However, I realized today that those emotions weren't just brought on by the father angle, or the fact that I love hockey. Cracking open an as-yet unread issue of Sports Illustrated from May (I told you I was busy!) gave me an opportunity to read an article about Mother's Day, and bam, I was crying again. While I am a firm believer in the existence of a "man cycle" -- the Mother Health blog has an entry about it -- I do not think these emotions were attributable to my hormonal patterns.
I believe they have everything to do with how I was raised, and how my father showed me that emotions are meant to be felt and shared, not hidden away. I was always given the impression that there was not, nor should there be, any shame in crying. Which probably explains why I well up at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, or when my son transitioned into a "big boy" (he calls it a "good boy") bed. My tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve has yet to steer me wrong, but what of this realization that the reading or watching the experiences of other parents, but not teachers illicit a more emotional response?
I guess it could be as simple as the fact that even though I was a teacher first, I will never retire from being a parent. I could not go on strike from being a parent. The government could never take away my right to bargain with my soon-to-be three-year-old. In short, I am a parent for life, and a teacher for as long as I can be until it is no longer a means of supporting my family, or until robots replace me-- which could happen simultaneously, of course. And though I normally only cry when things are beautifully innocent or heartwarming, the day T1000's replace teachers could be the rare case when sadness triggers my tears.
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