Ten Minute Missive

Somewhere this week or so marks the 8th anniversary of my starting my last semester of teaching. That occurred to me today as I stood too long in the shower, trying to make sense of my day. Eight years. The passing of those years has witnessed changes in my body, family configuration, hair color, skin tone and psyche. Time has passed. But one thing among many has remained constant: the reason I left a career that spoke so loudly to my head and heart that I was always a teacher whether I was in my classroom or not. I left teaching because I was at my breaking point.

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When I was in my twenties, I saw a bumper sticker that made me both wince and laugh:  Minivans are a sign of the devil.  And in that very smartie-pants way of twenty-somethings, I promptly pinky-swore with myself that I’d never drive a minivan.  And, of course, here I am close to twenty years later…driving a minivan.  Honestly, as a young childless person, I never saw myself as the mother of three, schlepping kiddos about town from one errand and appointment to another, but that is what happened.  However, what I really never imagined happening in my future was that my life would give people opportunities to describe me in such oddly pejorative terms.

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