"Hey, Mrs. Hall, look!"

This past summer, to be totally honest with you, I did everything in my power to quit my day job. I just plain did not want to go back to work. It was a combination of things, not any one thing in particular; but I really, really, didn't want to do it.

First, I'd had a rough couple of years in the classroom. I mean like screamers, criers, throw-a-pencil-at-my-eye kind of kids. I'd get up every day and think, "Hey, maybe today I'll get in a wreck and not have to go to work for a few months." I tried every trick up my sleeve, but some years are just like that. Some combinations of kids are just, well, tiring. So, there was that.

Also, I don't teach with Jill anymore. In fact, I don't even teach near Jill anymore. After 11 years of team teaching, 14 years of planning together, I don't have Jill to bounce all my ideas off of. And that has been so strange, so life altering, that I'm not even sure I could accurately describe what it's been like. And, since I kind of still teach the same thing, and she's moved to kindergarten, it's really felt a lot like we divorced-- and she left me. So, you know, there's that, too.

Then there's the fact that, in June, I went to this awesome writing retreat (props, Wade), and got some serious work done on my novel. The novel that has been in my head for six years, but only ebbs onto paper in tiny increments, and then is put down for months (or years) at a time. Working on the novel, reading other writers' writing, it really made me feel ready for the next chapter of my life. The one where I am a full time writer. Where I plan out what part of my day I'm going to write, where I travel and do book tours at little independent book sellers like Saturn in Gaylord, where I have time to research what I want to say and do. I even tried desperately to get editing jobs (because editing is such a part of me that I often want to stop and change stores' signs or mail back edited versions of letters businesses have sent us), and I couldn't get it off the ground. Apparently, you have to have editing experience in order to get hired (and get some experience). So, then, there was that.

Put it all together, and I was one reluctant puppy come August. In fact, I don't think I even went into my classroom until LATE August. Normally, the whole room would be set up, I'd have cute boards up and new nameplates and arranged it all... This year I was lucky it got done by the time their little toes stepped through the door. But, step through the door they did and so, I'm back being employed as a teacher.

Every morning, at what I like to refer to as "the crap of dawn" or "five-freakin'-thirty" Eric turns off the alarm, turns on the light, stands up, and says, "Come on. Get up," in this just-this-side-of-mean voice. I really hate him then. I stay firm in the covers, wish him leprosy or a severed limb or something, and eventually get out of bed. It's still dark, very dark, at five-freakin' thirty, for those of you who are still slumbering, blissfully unaware. As I pull on my stinky work-out clothes and trudge down the steps to ride the exercise bike, I think, "I hate my life. This sucks," and I am not a teacher. No, I am a lump who moves the pedals, stares straight ahead, waits for the timer to go off.

After a quick shower, I dress my own kids for day care, eat a granola bar, make my coffee, chase my teenager around the house, and get ready to start the day. Still, I am mindless, hollow, aching for the other life, the one where my fingers are flying across the keyboard and my every idea is a masterpiece. I think about clothes I would wear to book signings, ideas I have for new stories, witty comments I would make to publishers. Then Em and I pull into the parking lot, we face the school, and reality sets in. I am not a full time writer. I am not home for the day or flying off to New York (though that part's probably good because planes scare the shit out of me). I am teaching a room full of 6-year-olds, and I better get ready.

At 8:05, my world completely changes. They come in. "Mrs. Hall, look at my new shirt." "I made this for you!" "Mrs. Hall, did you know that sharks don't have any bones? They're all just carnage!" (You mean cartilage, sweetie.) Hug. Hug. Love note. Funny story. Hug.

Yeah, they actually pay me to do this. I get to spend my whole DAY with these people. Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes they can really get under my skin. But, man, they are the cutest. Show them a new song? They'll dance it. Drop a marker on the floor purposefully? They'll laugh like you're an A-list comedian. Teach them a new reading strategy? They'll mimic you until they've got it right. Say words like "close to the moment," "schema," and "number sentence"? They'll use those terms like pros.

See, the great thing about teaching is that you always get a do-over. Maybe you start off with a bad attitude, but you can try again. Every fall, a new batch comes in, even if you're looping, and you get to start fresh. So, these people will laugh at my bad jokes and try out my tricks like they're brand new ideas. Because, to them, it's all new. They are little sprouts of what they'll someday become, and I get a chance to be the sun and water in their lives for a little while. Honestly, it just doesn't get much better than that.