I love Ruth’s reminders to celebrate each week on her blog (HERE).
Tuesday
will wrap-up my fifteenth year teaching in Monticello. Saying good-bye never
gets easier. Never. Each year I look at that beautiful sea of faces staring up
at me – most excited to begin their summer, some a bit apprehensive about
leaving what is known – and I get choked up. Five years ago that sea of faces
expanded. No longer was I self-contained and sharing my year with 25 or so
students, but my circle expanded to three of the five fifth grade classrooms
and 75+ children each year.
It is hard
to say goodbye.
Friday was
our last day switching for subjects for the year. Monday will see my students
helping to close up our room, pack away their supplies, and a chance to learn
from a speaker. Tuesday we will have our “field day” will all sorts of events
for the kids to play on. So Friday was it.
I began the
class the way I always do on our last day, reflecting on our reading for the
year, taking photos with each child sharing how many books they read during our
time together. The room was filled with laughter and chatter. Kids shared
titles, exclaimed over how much they had read. We had a long discussion before
beginning regarding these “numbers” – how there was no competition. 12 books
were celebrated as much as 200. The students were fascinated on the total
amount the entire classroom read and cannot wait to find out how much our three
rooms read once my class does this activity on Monday. And with the last photo
taken, it was time to read.
I read
aloud every single day to my students. Often it is a picture book. Occasionally
it is a chapter book. With our condensed class time, those books are often
saved for the homerooms. Sometimes it is an article or the back of the book for
a book talk. Today would be our last read aloud time together.
The students moved into the position they knew well after our time together. Circled up at the carpet, they smiled. I told them it would be a new book; I have never read it to a classroom before. When I shared the title, author, and illustrator, murmurs of recognition flooded the room. They knew this pair’s work with previous picture books we have shared. And then, I read.
As I read,
my brain kept jumping ahead. I was thinking things like:
I’ve totally got this. In control,
no problem.
I wonder if they understood that metaphor?
Love this one, so powerful.
Oh no, sadness creeping into my heart, no. Still will see them before Tuesday. I’ve got this.
And then,
all too soon, I reached the last two pages. The impact of the book and the
finality of this time hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew the cry was coming. A
sob escaped my lips before I could stop it. I looked up at their faces and saw
watery eyes staring back.
Not
helping.
I finished
and put the book on my lap. Deep breath.
I stood and
started to talk. I tried to tell them how much it meant to be their teacher.
How I will love them forever and will always be here if they need me. Why I fought
so hard to make reading and writing a part of their life.
I don’t know
if they heard me. Tears were streaming and I couldn’t hold them back.
I finally
surrendered to it and told them they were welcome to read for the last few
minutes, that I needed to have a moment. I turned to get a tissue and was
surrounded with arms. Student after student came to give me a hug. Words were
whispered. I heard more than once, “I don’t want to go.”
Teaching is
so powerful; sometimes we forget the impact we can make. In the day-to-day part
of our job, we are juggling so many balls; we’re just trying to keep them from
falling. Friday morning I got that awesome reminder that what we do matters. It
really does. There is nowhere I would
rather be.
For the
record, I made it through the second class with minimal tears. I was prepared.
I make no
promises on reading this book to my homeroom on our last day. I think I should
probably stock up on the tissues now.
And, should
you want to have your own emotional meltdown, go check out the book that caused
the ugly cry. You will be glad you did.
