I don’t know how teachers do it. Their profession exhausts me. Don’t get me wrong – I love teaching writing. It’s one of my greatest joys. But holy snap (as my dear friend Andrea says) it’s a tiring job. (Andrea would call it tough yakka. Andrea has the best vocabulary of anyone I know.)
Of course, this should come as no surprise. I grew up surrounded by classroom teachers; both my parents taught for decades, and each day I’d watch them come home, fall asleep, then rise in the early evening to tackle marking and planning for the next day (all unpaid, of course). And I swore I’d never be a full-time teacher, despite a strong and relentless pull toward the noble profession.
So here I am today, teaching mere half days to budding writers. This week it’s Creative Nature Writing at Capilano University in North Vancouver; the 8- to 12-year-olds and I spend our days combing the forest for inspiration and creating animal and outdoor adventure stories. A job doesn’t get much better than this (except for maybe this one).
And yet. I come home completely, utterly exhausted. Unable to function except to munch on cherry-vanilla chocolate and complain about my aching feet. After teaching for a mere three hours!
I’m a wimp. I know it. My parents are rolling their eyes reading this. My job is nothing compared to the hours and effort that full-time teachers have to put in. We’re talking tough yakka. And I say they deserve way more. I’m thinking paid overtime, gourmet lunches, and chauffeur-driven hybrids. And heck, let’s throw in a salary increase. Not to mention a heap of respect. Why not?
But now, I shall descend from my soapbox. Because frankly, my feet hurt, and my cherry-vanilla chocolate is calling me.
