Summertime

As a teacher, I have a love-hate relationship with SUMMER.

As a gemini, I suppose I have a love-hate relationship with everything. Including myself.

But summer, in particular, is something I long for like the thirsty longs for a drink. All year, I have my eye on the prize- through the endless hours of grading writing assignments, the pointless minutia of faculty meetings, the daily grind of working "full time" or what seems like "all the time." I just need a rest after a while- a rest longer than two days; longer than a week.

And the end of June is wonderful. So is the beginning of July, as I enjoy soaking in the vitamin D. It's the end of July and the dreaded, God-awful, gut-wrenching beginning of August that I despise. August is one long drawn-out Sunday of gut-rot and nerves. July is our month-long Saturday, because we know we always have August, too. But what happens when August ARRIVES? Like Lois Lane said to Superman, "You've got ME? Who's got YOU?"

I don't mean to sound spoiled or lazy. People not involved in education who overhear teachers complaining about the summer drawing to a close have every right to think we're brats. I understand what we sound like. My own husband reminds me that his vacation FOR THE YEAR is over, and I still have weeks off until I begin working, only to have 28 holidays throughout the school year. I know, I know. But, and this is a big but: when you come home from work, you flop onto the couch. You don't even think of your job on the weekends. And really, (no offense) you're not IN CHARGE of anything. No buck stops with you. There's no end to what a teacher does and can do to become better. I think it's one of the many Catch 22s of our lives: to be a good teacher means to drive yourself crazy with work.

And another Catch 22: my growing resentment for summer! As much as I long for the absence of responsibility, I get bored just as fast! Hence this newly generated blog so that I can have an outlet for my thoughts that doesn't feel like work. Here goes nothin'.

Sleeping softly. Waking slowly.
The standing fan hums;
Last night's lullaby barely lingers;
Sun beams bake beyond the window;
Angry mowers chomp grass in the distance;
A hedge somewhere gets a haircut.
The clock says 9, but
The July page of the calendar screams freedom.
The white lace curtains
I washed and hung up wet last night
Do a little dance in the breeze.
Scrawling a "To -Do" list in my mind,
I massage my pillow and flip it over, checking off "nap."