Fly

I woke up at 4:30 AM, suddenly freaking out.

"Clearing Out" helped me come to terms with the end of (hiatus from?) teaching in schools.  There was something I hadn't really processed, though:  I no longer had a job.

I knew that in theory, of course.  But the summer was coming to a close, as was the income that teachers in this state got over the vacation months.  I didn't know what made me break out of my sleep (I blame my dog's stomach's growling), but I suddenly thought about the rent and the utilities and gas and food.

Oh my goddess!  Food!  Me and my babies are going to starve to death!   Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?!  Why strike out and try to do something that may go terribly and not even get paid for it?!  Millions of people send their kids off to school, go to their nine-to-five, do the evening routine, then get up to do it the next day.  Seems boring?  Maybe.  But it also seems like a steady paycheck, Kelly!  Oh, this is going to fall apart around me!  Why am I doing this?!  With the job market like it is, what kind of idiot quits her job?!

Shit just got real.  Really real.  And it was scary. 

I clutched my Raggedy Ann doll (BFFs since 1985!) like a scared little kid, assumed the fetal position.  Funny how fear makes you revert back to childhood patterns.

I tried to surmount the sudden panic by thinking of the reasons that my family was going to unschool.

My oldest child's teachers often reprimanded her for reading "too much": during direct instruction, standing in the lunch line, walking through the halls.  While my daughter's voracious reading seemed a testament to her studiousness, I knew there was more to it.  She wasn't just interested in the stories.  She was escaping, using a book to hide herself from an environment that was too loud, from girls that alternately (and confusingly) complimented and teased her, from a classroom culture that hinged upon yelling, intimidation, and disrespect.


My middle girl, happy to shine away from her siblings, excelled in school.  She frequently received student-of-the-month awards, performed well in every class, and was often asked to be the teacher's helper.  But one day she came home with cuts on her arm.  Apparently, another student brought something sharp enough to cut skin to school and experimented on my daughter.   Her teacher hadn't even seen it happen, and I understood why: with a classroom of two dozen children, I couldn't -- and didn't -- expect one teacher to see everything.  

Another kid hit one of my daughters while they were riding the school bus home.  Neither of the girls could seem to tell me who was hit (Were they protecting each other?  Were they both hit?), though they knew the assailant.


My son moved at his own time and pace, and I couldn't count the times that I fussed at him in the mornings, trying to push a five-year-old to do what many adults even have trouble doing: to have cleaned, dressed, and fed himself and be ready to leave by 7 AM.  And once he got to school, the frenetic pace didn't stop: a full schedule of indoor lessons with a brief period of recess... but without a nap.  He had about an hour of homework each night.  The schedule was just wearing him out.

But all of that seemed like distant memories of a time from way back when I was employed and sane.  It couldn't have been that bad, could it?  Bad enough to quit a job over?  I was still panicked. 

Then I remembered something that happened the previous morning.

My oldest daughter came in my room to tell me that she had found a math workbook from school, and she was wondering if I could help her practice finding the area of irregular polygons.  She had carried a C in Math all last semester because she had a hard time finding the area.  Her teacher, though very nice, intimidated her.  He'd get frustrated with my daughter because she was so smart, but couldn't seem to get this particular math concept.  

I'd get frustrated with her, too, because I felt she was too smart not to understand (like that's an acceptable reason to get angry with a child -- or anyone, for that matter).  In addition to that, I was stressed out and tired and overwhelmed from everything else I had to do just to keep the family afloat each day.  When we practiced at home and she'd make mistakes -- trying to work quickly so that she'd have time to play on the computer or outside before the dinner/bedtime dance -- I'd get irritated.  And I showed it.  In my daughter's mind, finding the area of irregular polygons must have equated to finding how quickly she could piss off an adult.  Anxiety City for her, I'm sure.  

And, to top it all off, that concept was to appear on the state-mandated standardized test determining whether she'd go on to the next grade.  

Even better.  

My child wouldn't touch math with a ten-foot pole.  Or any pole, for that matter.  She wouldn't even try to figure out the length of the proverbial pole; she hated math that much.  Worse, she was convinced she was bad at it.  My and her teacher's frustration, that C in Math seemed to confirm her conviction.

So when she asked if I'd work with her, I was shocked.  I wondered, Why did she want to work on it now, when there was no test, no pressure to learn how to do it, and there wouldn't be for the foreseeable future? 


Oh.  Maybe that was why.


We spent about an hour on the math exercises.  And it was fun.  When she got something wrong, I just sat there and smiled at her.  She worked on figuring out the right answer, and was proud of herself when she did.  When she wanted to check out what her sister was doing on the computer, she'd take a ten-minute break, then come sit back down next to me.  We went over "tricks" for figuring out the right answer (or, as smart people call it, estimating).  I didn't fuss at her for using her fingers when she was adding.  She was eager to work out each problem.


And she was thinking.  Really thinking.  There was no anxiety behind it.  She wasn't nervously chewing her nails or glancing at me every ten seconds, waiting for me to blow my top.


When she completed the last problem, she said, "You know what, Mommy?  You're a pretty good math teacher."  And then ran off to play with her brother and sisters.


What a great kid.

What a great kid. 

I was calm.  I had turned on the computer to do some checkbook-balancing and to send emails regarding my final paycheck and some job opportunities, but found myself writing this instead.  I need to remind myself, to see it in print.  

You're doing the right thing, Kelly.  This is the right time, and you know it.  Regardless of how things end up, you'll never forgive yourself if you don't try.  

Remember that dream that you had of a little girl jumping off a cliff? You ran to the edge to save her, then realized that she suddenly grew wings and was flying.  Remember that?  Fly, little girl.

Fly.