A child lagging behind the class because they need extra time to complete their work.
A child crying because they were given one choice and not the other – the one they wanted – for lunch in the cafeteria.
Friends one minute and not friends the next – the feelings and emotions that are real, raw, and on the surface.
A book box, bottom collapsed from the weight of great reading materials, its contents strewn across the room.
Excitement over a book, or a moment, or simply a story they really want to share – right now.
Asking to use the bathroom at the most inopportune time.
A shoelace that needs tying (and is in a knot) when the bell rings and the buses wait for no child.
It goes on. And on. And on.
When I feel my frustration rising to the surface, when I feel like it is simply too much – the juggling of actual teaching of academics and the teaching of social and self-help skills – I ask myself the question: What would I want my child’s teacher to do in this situation? And I stop. And I look at that child as if they were mine.
This question grounds me but it is also slowly chipping away at me. The responsibility is great, as is my passion. I am finding, however, that my energy is not equal to these two.