The Joy of Absence

I used to never be able to take a sick day. Partly because it took me far too long to figure out the SubCentral system (which, once you crack the code, is dangerously easy to use and abuse), but partly because of the guilt and anxiety over what would be happening to my kids while I was out.

This has changed. First and foremost, I found out my file number and pin. Also I adopted a helpful credo courtesy of a bizarrely profound (and profoundly bizarre) YouTube video... it goes like this (ahem hem)

"Not my chair, not my problem."

I interpret this as follows: I have plenty of things I must worry about, that I can't help worrying about, that I am paid to worry about, and that I feel it my duty and responsibility to worry about as a teacher. Really, there are almost too many worries to keep track of, the sources of potential worry are so bountiful, the branches of my worry tree so laden with fruit, the banks of anxiety river so ready to overflow at every turn, that some worries inevitably get lost in the shuffle.

So when the rare opportunity presents itself to let someone else do the worrying, I will gladly, most gratefuly and humbly accept it. Today, 5-315 is not my chair, not my problem.

On this day I am gratefully allowing a substitute to take over my worries for the day (so that I can focus on the more pressing need to not hack up a lung.) And I enjoyed my extra hours under the covers immensely.

I used to feel like my classroom would implode without me (turns out it doesn't). I used to feel like the world would stop spinning and time would stop marching if I were to take a day off. (Not so far.) Turns out, I was putting too much pressure on myself. I'm just not that important! My kids' educations haven't yet been derailed by my absence, and as a wise woman once told me, Ms. D can't be there for others if she's not there for herself first.

It used to bother me when I would hear teachers say stuff like, let someone else deal with it, that's not my problem, that's not my job, I'm not paid to do x y and z... it sounded callous and cold, a little "P.S. Pass-the-Buck," in my opinion.

But I have grown to understand these sentiments... certainly not to excuse apathy or laziness, which do exist. But the part I understand is the part about self-preservation. One of the most important lessons I have learned is learning how to shut off, close down, cordon off, pack away entire sections of my brain. Their voices, their faces, their plaintive needs, their sad stories... they will stay with you 24-7 if you let them. The waters of Rio Ansioso are wide and fast and deep, and it is easy to get pulled under and drown. And then you're no good to anyone.

So after a certain point, you eventually learn to just turn it off. Just stop thinking about it. Live the rest of your life to the best of your ability.

You forget, though, that the kids have other lives, too. Sometimes you get a glimpse of them, like the quarterly On Demand writing sample we have to collect and grade. Reading through them last Thursday night I was reminded of their lives outside school's fortress walls. Many of the writing samples were about the usual predictable subject matter: trips to six flags, the first day of fifth grade, a New Year's eve celebration, a broken laptop, a betrayed secret, a new friend. The normal, expected stuff of life of a ten year-old in 2010.

But there were others that were not so easy to swallow. F-- wrote about when her parents sat her and her siblings down to tell them there were too many bills and not enough money for Christmas presents this year. M--- wrote about coming to America for the first time. N--- wrote about watching a friend die after riding a bike into a hole, and having to tell the friend's father. That one I could hardly believe, but why would he make it up? No--- wrote about when her father never came home from work one day, and finding out he'd been arrested.

I think a year or two ago these stories would have been crushing to read. But you learn, I have learned, to accept the things I cannot change. You take comfort in hoping that maybe all those spelling words and fractions and Read Alouds will add up to make a difference in the end, that maybe something you do will have mattered in their lives. Maybe you can string together enough carefree moments in your classroom to tip the balance towards happy lives. (I've come to think of happiness as a bank account, and if you can just accumulate enough joyful moments, just 51 percent of your time on earth, then your life goes down in the books as a happy one, and it was all worth it.)

Teaching is a muscle. It used to be exhausting, emotionally and physically, evidenced by the fact that I spent most of 2008 outside of school curled up on my couch in the fetal position. But each day, each month, you become stronger - just like training for a triathlon. With practice and endurance and stubborn perseverance, you manage to accomplish with relative ease what used to be so mercilessly hard. Eventually you look up and find yourself at a point in the distance that once seemed impossibly far away.