You can’t make this stuff up.
My 2 1/2 year old is in pre-school now. Today she picked up a cell phone and pretended to have a conversation.
“Who are you talking to,” asked her teacher, Cindy.
“I’m talking to daddy,” she replied proudly.
“Oh,” said Cindy. “Is your daddy at work?”
“My daddy doesn’t work,” answered my daughter. “He’s a teacher.”
Apparently, the anti-tenure, union-busting, down-with-the-bums, teacher movement has already infiltrated deeper inside Sitomer territory than I ever imagined.
But funny as my daughter’s comments were, I realized, in a way, she is kinda right. I mean of course, I work. But I don’t really view teaching as work. It’s more than that. It’s my profession. It’s my vocation. It’s my avocation. It’s what I love. It’s where my passion exists, my interests lay, and where a part of my soul gets filled. Sure, I’d love to have 100 million in the bank so that I did not need to teach, but I do not want to not teach. I just get too much out of it.
It’s dorky, I know.
I guess I am just one of the lucky ones in that I do not dread when the alarm clock rings and it’s time to go to “work”. That’s probably why my daughter had no idea about what the teacher was referring to. Every day when I kiss her goodbye in the a.m., it’s because daddy is always off to go “teach” — never “work”.
Though it is work, it’s also so much more.