Crazy good life

I haven't been writing much lately. Frankly, I'm just too tired, but in a good way. I'm back at work, and our lives are back into full swing after our wonderfully busy and crazy summer. The past few weeks have made the summer look downright sleepy.

I don't know if it's stranger being back in a physical education classroom or just being back to work. It's been an enjoyably stressful experience, if that makes any sense. I really want to do a good job. I confess, I feel pressure to do more than just a good job. My resume suggests that I should be an old pro at this teaching stuff, considering I've dedicated the better part of my last two or three decades to the profession. I've even taught the teachers. But I wonder if the adage is true: those who can't do, teach. Perhaps that's why I spent so much time in the University, teaching the teachers to do what I'm doing right now.

I put a lot of pressure on myself anyway, but I have been in a full display of anxiety lately. So much so that I'm wondering if it is disproportionate to the amount of stress this profession deserves. We're talking sleepless nights, hours on the internet or interrogating my husband for activity ideas, and saddest of all, color coding my attendance book. Is this normal behavior for a P.E. teacher? We didn't cover this in any of my college classes.

I've had mixed successes, so far. Great days are followed by some stinkers. Last week I read the riot act to a class full of adorable, wide-eyed (but mischievous) 2nd graders, and fretted about it all Rosh Hashana. Every so often my thoughts would drift back to the stern 'talkin' to'. Girls, I said in my firmest teacher's voice, the way you behaved in my class today was unacceptable! I don't want to see that behavior in here again, understand? I punctuated the 'understand' with a severe look. Most of you girls were patient, quiet, and followed instructions, but a handful of you... I paused and looked around meaningfully, as if I knew who the perpetrators were (they all look alike at this point)...have ruined it for everyone else.

So there.

I replayed that speech over and over in my head wondering if their classroom teacher, trying to blend into the wall behind me, thought I was psychotic. I worried myself sick about it all weekend long.

The next school day I sought out the teacher and began to apologize. She stopped me. "I'm glad you said something. I'm having the same problem. We should talk about some strategies."

Strategies? I thought. My dress down won't do? This teaching stuff is going to be harder than I thought.

The principal came to observe that class today, to give me some support. And I thought I was tough? She gave even the most minor infraction a withering glare and demanded, "is that respectful? Is it? IS IT?" I wanted to crawl under the stage with the poor girl. Needless to say, the class went much better. Surprisingly, I received three handmade cards covered in hearts declaring "P.E. is my favorite class!"

I wish I could say the same about the next group of 2nd graders. By the end of class I had eleven hypochondriacs sitting on the stage sniggering about their dupe of a teacher who let them all sit out together. That is, until I made them remain there until their classroom teacher came in. She looked like she could strike a fair bit of terror into their limit-testing hearts, despite the honey-sweet smile. Go get 'em, lady! I thought, from the safety of my "multipurpose room".

For the most part, it's been a really nice experience. Most of my activities have been successful, and the feedback has been really positive. Kids greet me walking down the halls.

"Are these good gym shoes, ma'am?"

"Do we have gym today, ma'am?"

Mostly, I get shy smiles, and hellos. It's a good start, although it underscores the enormity of my task: learning all 450 names, with my faulty memory. I'm doomed.

I'm only working 3 hours a day, but it has made an enormous difference in my life. None of the other demands of my family have diminished. Quite the opposite. In addition to the usual responsibilities of cleaning, cooking, laundry, and childrearing, I now have chauffeuring kids to soccer, ballet, piano, and shlepping the baby to and from day care in Skokie every day to contend with. It's wearing me down, but it, too, has its upsides.

In addition to the predictable benefits of activities, learning sports skills, being physically active, making friends, learning male crotch-grabbing rituals, my children are physically wearing themselves out each day.

Bedtime has never been so pain-free. Anyway, they look so darned cute in their uniforms.

My daughter is back in ballet this year. She is, by far, the youngest one in her class, but interestingly, she is also the most focused and serious. While the other three are clowning around, falling down, and being silly, she stands with her perfect posture in rapt silence, straining to get her body to imitate her teacher's. I asked her teacher if she was perhaps too young, but she shook her head. "She gets the concepts and she's really trying hard. She'll do great in this class." I swelled with pride.

We've just started her on piano with my son's beautiful Russian teacher. She's only doing 15 minute lessons, but, like ballet, she's intensely serious and focused. It's kind of spooky in such a little girl.

Life is borderline overwhelming. Things have not slowed down an iota for my husband. He's still interviewing, still taking classes, still doing his externship and the journal, still president of the Jewish Law Students Association, and still fighting off infections from exhaustion and stress, but he never complains. I complain enough for the two of us.

He listens patiently and says, "Don't worry, in two years we'll be able to afford a (fill in the blank)." My sister insists I need a wife.

I complain, but in truth, I'm happy. I have a purpose, my children are thriving in all of their activities, and even the baby has settled down in her routine.

Still, I won't turn down the dishwasher, housekeeper, or house-with-a-garage in two years. Even a good hectic can stand to be less intense.