I won’t be teaching pre-pubescent children so much as grown University-going adults when all is said and done, but the sentiment here is the same.
These words came out of my mouth several times this week. “I wish I didn’t want to be a teacher.”
This weekend I went to a brunch with one of my favorite momma friends and a couple of her employees. She is a wonderful boss of a wonderful company, and sitting around a table eating tartlets and fancy poached eggs and drinking bottomless mimosas, I thought, I wish I didn’t want to be a teacher. Because if I didn’t want to be a teacher, I would want to work here. I would want to sleep in past 6 and write pretty words on a pretty blog and go to brunches and have real conversations with women over the age of 10. And that’s where I get disappointed, because I do want to be a teacher.
For some insane reason, I want to be here. I want to be exactly…
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