It’s that time of year for me. When friends text “hey, haven’t seen you!” and follow up a minute later with “right. End of July. See you in September!” When parents bump into me in the grocery store and suddenly I’m holding an impromptu “know your rights” discussion in the frozen section (next to the Haagen-Dasz “Spirits” ice cream, if you must know, and thankfully I don’t have any “Rum Tres Leches” in my cart yet to sit there melting and possibly drawing raised eyebrows.)
The time of year when I’m having my friend in the passenger seat text cryptic messages like “FOSS kits” to my work email because I’m driving and can’t write it down but I really need to poke someone about that tomorrow. When I’m cruising all the back-to-school sales looking for the BEST deals because the more money I can save now, the more we can help out a parent in a bind later. When I’m at work emailing IT, checking on desks that should have arrived by now, and calling Facilities because the AC in the gym is still down–all at the same time. When I’m tracking down seemingly-random pieces of paper for HR and giving the copier a swift kick on the way past (I don’t actually kick it, but I am pretty quick at righting its wrongs.)
We try, every year, to be ready. We do inventory and figure out what we need. We do research, and figure out where to buy it. We call people from the waiting list and interview them and walk them through applying for scholarships and hand them paperwork and calendars and information. We get maintenance lists from teachers, to have everything fixed and shining and beautiful when they return.
And every year, the things we didn’t get done come back to bite us on the butt. I’ve actually been chasing the FOSS kits since June 3rd. Today I got an email from my 7th (at least) contact that I’m “going to have to be patient” since it’s “a busy time of year.” (I eyerolled so hard I hurt myself.)
The AC is down in the gym, the library, a classroom, and a hallway. The contractor has been there several times, but we’re still too hot.
We moved all the stuff into a new classroom, reclaimed from another department. But the electrician didn’t do what he needed to do, so we had to move it all out again until that’s done.
Someone stored two $400 kidney tables on their tops outside and the surfaces are now too bubbled to write on.
The state legislature is apparently trying to strongarm the state department of education, and my students are getting caught in the middle.
Teachers want calendars, class lists, computers, keys. Parents want calendars, teacher assignments, classroom tours (um, no. Not yet. Meet the Teacher is next Tuesday, please come then, we’re giving out door prizes!) and enrollment packets. IT wants to know how many Chromebooks we want (dunno! How many can we have?) Facilities wants to know when we want that furniture moved (last week!) and Payroll wants to know why this person who was hired last week as a teaching assistant is now listed as a teacher. (Because my boss goofed. But while I’ve got you on the line, Payroll lady, did HR get the form to give me my raise over to you? Hmm? That one wasn’t a goof.)
My principal, of course, wants me on top of all of it, while she handles trainings and curriculum and people who didn’t get hired to move furniture in and out of a classroom in hundred degree heat but Facilities didn’t show up and that stuff must be moved.
And you know what? I do it. For the first four weeks–two weeks of getting teachers into classrooms, then two weeks of getting students in there too–I do it. I’m everywhere like there’s six of me. I’m on top of all of it, riding the wave. All I gotta do, I tell myself, is stay on the surfboard so the wave can’t take me under. And I do.
I hate this time of year and I love this time of year. It’s exhausting and exhilarating. It’s hell on wheels. And I’m freaking good at it.
So bring it on, back to school. I can handle it. And when the tsunami subsides? I’ll still be standing. And my principal and my teachers will be all the more convinced that I’m a miracle worker.
Because I am.