Signs of Struggle

So, I'm that teacher. You know the one -- the teacher that's covered in chalk (or in my case overhead markers) and has several pencils in her hair by the end of the day? I also answered my own question and decided that I can wear the same pair of pants at least twice in one week; I'm pretty sure that doesn't make me any cooler. Looking back, I realize that the teachers I had who were chalk-covered and unkempt didn't have time to care. Neither do I, but my plight is also partly to blame on my genes. My mom, sister, and I are graceless. My sister could trick you -- she looks and walks like grace itself, but if you watch her for awhile, you'll notice she's just like me.

My master teacher would just laugh and say that "certain things are hard for you, eh Ludwig?" But now she's gone. Friday was her last day; she has entered the last few weeks of pregnancy and confidently left me in her stead. I think she may be too confident. I woke up with a stomachache every day last week. All the seasoned teachers tell me that it's normal to be nervous, and that, if I in fact weren't nervous, something would be wrong with me. This is no comfort. My mom's reaction? "Oh mija, you're going to be wonderful. Those kids are so lucky to have you!" Also no comfort. She'd say the same thing if I became a professional dog-walker, just replace 'kids' with 'dogs'.

To add insult to my psychological injury, my credential program has made sure to keep me drowning in busy work for the foreseeable future. This means that my favorite stress-relieving activity, reading, is not really an option. The last book I read was Freedomland. I started A Confederacy of Dunces (my new favorite way to refer to my credential program as a whole), but it was unfortunately hilarious from the jump. It took everything in my power to put it down. Now Ignatius Reilly is mocking me, staring up at me from my nightstand. Even worse, my brain turns mushy when I don't read, which perpetuates my fear cycle that I won't be a good teacher, but to be a good anything, I need to have me-time, but there is no me-time, so alas...

I'll let you know how it goes.

Too Legit to Quit

Last night as I was walking home, I passed a gaggle of overdressed teenage girls standing about 10 feet away from a homeless man and his dog.

"I don't want just a homeless person. I want, like, a legit homeless person," whined one of the girls, looking in the man's direction. She appeared to be the leader of the troop; the other girls clucked around her, nodded in agreement, and put their cameras down dejectedly. They went clicking down the street in search of more squalid pastures.

I spent the rest of my 15-minute walk home alternately angry and amused at their audacious idiocy. What is a legit homeless person, I wondered? Do they have to have dreads? Smell like urine and feces? Look hungry and hopeless? Be doing drugs on the street? Does their dog have to look emaciated and rabid? Should they be crying uncontrollably at their lot, or just muttering unintelligibly? What about the new wave of homeless people who lost their abodes because of the recession? Are they automatically discounted because it's not 'legit'?

I went to a baby shower this weekend, where I could only hope that the baby girl to come doesn't grow up to be the type of teen who trolls for human misery. Before the shower, I dutifully and excitedly went shopping for a gift -- I have six nephews; shopping for a girl seemed like fun. No. Babies R Us is, I think, the first test of parenthood. Who organizes their stores? I'll admit, I'm not a great shopper (my sister can attest), but I only lasted about five minutes before becoming completely overwhelmed and overheated. Why are there two different rows of baby washcloths, for instance? And why are the swaddly-things in different locations? Better yet, why are babies now sleeping in sacks? It's like we're raising an entire generation to live in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse. Every time I thought I located something on the registry, I'd match up the sku numbers like I had won the lottery, only to realize that the last two numbers didn't match. When I finally located a harried worker for help, she chirped, "Oh, that's right over here." We then walked across the entire store (any further and we would have been outside), and even she couldn't find the promised item. I briefly contemplated telling her the true meaning of 'right over here' but was too tired.

By the time I was finished, I was actually sweating. I found Dawson in the parking lot (he had wisely chosen not to come in), and flopped heavily into the passenger seat.

"Never!" I claimed.

"Never," he answered. And then Virginia climbed into my lap.