It's nearly the end of the school year. Don't be jealous -- teachers may get a few weeks off in the summer, but, contrary to popular misconception, we do NOT get paid for summers (nor holidays, nor spring breaks, nor snow days). In my district, I get paid for 184 days, and, believe me, the district will get those 184 days if it kills me and the The Powers That Be in the process.
The very last thing that I want to be doing next Wednesday afternoon (although I probably will be) is packing up my room. This year it's exceptionally painful because I am packing up essentially from 2020 when we shut down suddenly in March due to Covid, and 2021 when I was on a rolling cart all year.
So, my partner-in-crime and I decide to stay late on Friday to get some of this crap finished. Well, I should say that I decide to stay and so does she, independently of each other. When we discover the other working away, we make a pact not to stay too late. This way we can keep the other one honest about leaving before it gets dark out.
I get a lot done. I reorganize and repack two entire closets, partially work through a third closet, and rearrange desks. I still have data to enter, novels to pack up, paperwork to file, grades to finish and submit, and a day and a half to plan for (sans technology for the kiddos). However, I am lightyears ahead on the "next week" front for time-management.
As we walk out, it's impossible not to notice that we are the only ones here. Not just amongst teachers, but including administration, district personnel, and, most unnerving, the janitorial staff. We are the very last people in the parking lot out back, or any parking lot, for that matter.
It's creepy and it's sad.
I certainly hope I'm not pulling a repeat performance next week as the year winds down, but, if I know me, I probably will. Feel free to draw chalk lines around my car like some CSI drama, letting me know my post-school life is officially dead for a while.
