People look at me strangely when I tell them I love my job. “That’s nice,” they say, but with a mix of bewilderment and resentment that reveals how odd they must think I am. Strange and lucky, I guess. Nevertheless, it’s true—I love my job and get bored on 3 day weekends, ready to go back to work.
Almost everyone else in my family went into teaching, which could explain why I chose another path. Dad, mother, stepmother, stepbrother, aunt, uncle—all in different branches of the same business. Education may be a rewarding profession, but it’s also more demanding and repetitive than many jobs. Maybe that’s why so many teachers get worn down over the years.
My father would come home most days from teaching community college students and head straight to the bedroom for a nap. “Teaching is hard work," he would say. “It wears me out.”
For many years, my stepmother worked as a substitute kindergarten teacher, because a full time position would be “just too much” given her domestic responsibilities. I recall once she had a longer term assignment, and everyone in the household was put to work helping her keep up with the chores. (I didn’t mind doing my own laundry, but preparing the next day’s bag lunches for 3 people just felt wrong.)
On the positive side, with both parents working as teachers, our schedules meshed. Leisurely summer vacations were the rule when my father and I lived alone; not long after he and Jeannie got married, the two of them would take extended trips, allowing for some marathon parties at our house.
The end of summer always brought with it a sense of looming finality, the death row feeling of numbered days. Labor Day weekend was more of a cruel joke than a holiday, and then back to school…I imagine that was one of the times that most teachers and students were on the same page.
Retiring at 60 was a true gift for my father. Unlike those men who retire and then, having no idea what to do with themselves, die shortly afterward, he’s enjoyed the ultimate long and leisurely vacation which summers only hinted at. The few times I asked if he would want to volunteer as a mentor, or even work part time, he would laugh. “Never again,” he said.
I should be so lucky.
