Carrying Hearts

 Their binders are going home today. I hesitate to send some home, wondering what their parents will think when they see all the unfinished papers, the ungraded tests, the projects we never got around to finishing. I watch my students shove them into their backpacks and, as tends to be my motto these days, decide to let it go.

The cubbies are lined with piles of unclaimed items: headphones and keychains and earrings without a pair. Hoodies are hung on the hooks that, despite how many times we've asked parents to label the tags with sharpie, have no home.

I'm so tired. Tired of getting to school so early in the morning. Tired of feeling like an underpaid babysitter. Tired of trying to get students to still care about school when their neighborhood friends are all on summer break, days of pools and parks and sunshine stretching ahead. And we're still here, in this windowless room, running around like madmen.

It feels silly to be here, but it's the hard reality of our year-round schedule. And, on year three, I'm beginning to see the pattern. Oh, this is what I felt like this time last year. And, oh yeah, the year before.

And underneath it all? Underneath my complaining and getting out of bed 30 minutes after my alarm first went off and packing things in my lunchbox that hardly resemble an actual meal? There's a deep, heavy sadness. Because my kids are about to be someone else's. And that's something I find a little harder to let go of.

As a teacher, I'm a lot of things throughout the day. A nurse, a mediator, a listening ear, a disciplinarian, an observer, an enforcer, a positive behavior specialist, a counselor, an entertainer. On the good days, or somethings just in pockets of good moments, I'm able to teach.

But what I've learned and, mostly decided, throughout my four years as a teacher, is that my real job is to carry hearts. Every day I show up to ever-so-gently hold the tender, fragile hearts of students that I love. 

The other day, my boy Jackson was making noises - constant noises - constant, annoying noises. I had asked him to stop so many times throughout that entire day and it just continued and continued. It was 2:30 - dismissal time - and I just didn't have a lot of capacity. After a short respite, his noises resumed yet again. I looked at him, my eyes widening, heavy sighed, and put my face in my hands. I was just tired. And so irritated.

He was immediately defensive, and I immediately felt bad. Although sometimes it just is the truth, I try not to make my kids feel like I'm tired of them.

After a few minutes, when I felt calm, I asked Jackson to come over. He did.

I'm sorry I got so frustrated with you, I said, I'm feeling really tired. You've been making a lot of noises lately, and we have to be mindful of those things when we're in a classroom with a bunch of other people. What's going on?

He looked at me, emotion building in his face as I had seen so many times before. Jackson was a feeler, something he was deeply aware and, at times, ashamed of.

I'm just sad lately, he said, tears welling in his eyes. I don't know what it is. I just feel sorta depressed. 

Together, we wrote a note to his mom, sharing his feelings. His mom was a parent I'd grown pretty close to throughout the year. We talked often.

I've reflected on this moment since. How easy it would have been to not have called Jackson over, to brush aside his noises as annoying behavior, to attach those behaviors to him and who he was. To not have gotten to the reason behind his choices. To miss the truth.

And so that's what I aim to do, every day - carry hearts.

This year I gave my students awards for the first time - "Most Likely To." I had so much fun writing out these awards. For the most part, it was so easy. After ten months, I know them quite well. They were so proud of their little "most likely to's." They were so proud of themselves.

And then, on Friday, we sat in a circle and shared our favorite memory of fourth grade. And suddenly it was 11:30, and time to go home. It was the first day of school, their nervous anticipation buzzing throughout the room and then, suddenly, it was June.

This year's last day of school came with a lot of emotions. Kids spinning in circles, playing with a ball, losing all inhibition in this new-found freedom of chairs and desks stacked against the wall and a teacher who no longer cared. Other kids stuck to corners of the room, heads in their hands, crying. There were a lot of tears.

And then their name popped up on the computer screen, and it was time for them to go, carrying their backpacks with all their fourth grade treasures, heading out to summer, leaving behind a room of growth and challenges and love and memories. A room I'll return to in August, but they're leaving for good.

I hugged them all tight, saying, I love you. Some said it back, some cried, some said nothing. They all left, heading down the hall, a little taller and braver than the year before. 

And then suddenly it was my turn, my room all packed up and tightened, a wrap on year four.

And now I'm home, and tomorrow's Sunday, and I won't have to meal prep for the week. I won't have to mentally prepare for work. I won't get the Sunday Scaries, as they say.

Monday morning will roll around, and at 7:25 I'll likely still be in bed, or on my couch with a cup of coffee and a book. 

But I bet you I'll look at the clock and think about where I'd be on in any other morning in the past ten months. I'll think about how I'd be at the door, greeting my kids shooting like rockets from their cars into our teeny tiny room. Ready to wear all the hats. Or not so ready, but there all the same.

It's exhausting work. It makes you tired to your bones. It can drain you if you don't protect yourself and your boundaries like a hawk. It's heavy, the load we carry, the hearts that our ours for safekeeping. And it's a burden I will gladly bear, these hearts I get to love.