The papers were on the table when we walked in from work last night. “Read, read, every day. Read, read, to fly away.” That was the “poem” on one of the signs, next to a marker drawing of my stick-figure daughter in her peach-colored shirt and leggings.
In this picture, she is a teacher. And the sign is an advertisement for one of the “teacher workshops” she plans to hold at our house this week–and every week. Somehow, Ava has decided that she wants to be a teacher, and she has gotten it into her head that she must–URGENTLY must–practice this skill, with the neighborhood children as her pupils and her bedroom as the classroom.
After making her stack of signs, and proudly announcing her intentions to us, she eagerly ran upstairs and was quietly occupied for some time. When I arrived upstairs, the control freak in me was dismayed to discover that she had amassed a jumbled pile of “favorite” clothing–tights, shirts, skirts, dresses, and leggings–on her closet floor. She informed my dismayed face that these were her “teaching outfits” and needed to remain separate from the rest of her wardrobe. She said, “I have to dress like you, when you go to work, Mommy!”
Then she wanted to run outside to give all the neighborhood children copies of her flyers. She was absolutely certain that they would want to attend–and would plan to come each week on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She would serve them snacks first. Then she would teach them reading. She jammed her Crocs on her feet and flew out the door, breathless, on her way to accost the unsuspecting, already-well-schooled kids playing soccer on the lawn.
My heart was in my throat because I feared that none of them would match her joy and excitement. Why didn’t I know, when I first held her, that these small moments would be the ones to hurt me the most? Why didn’t I know, when I was marching around, beaming, with my basketball belly, that I wouldn’t be able to shelter her from pain and rejection . . . from the shameful, lonely feelings of not fitting in with the crowd?
Thankfully, the children were kinder than I’d thought–albeit a bit confused–and one younger neighbor girl agreed to come over this Tuesday. Last night, as we were lying in bed together, Ava said, “I’m so nervous.” Forgetting her plan for a moment, I said, “About what, honey?” She said, “I hope I can be a good-enough teacher.” I said, “Honey, this is just for fun. It’s something fun to do on a playdate.” She replied, with a strident edge to her voice, “No, it’s not, Mom! I have to learn the teaching PROCESS!”
There, in the dark with her, a flood of conflicting feelings washed over me: fierce love, mild exasperation, desperate tenderness, niggling worry, and secret pride. I wanted to explain to her that no one else will care about this plan of hers the way she does. I wanted to warn her not to boss around her friends too much–or they won’t want to play with her. I wanted to remind her, “You’re not a teacher; you’re just my little girl.” I wanted to urge her to believe that she can fulfill any dream she has. I wanted to caution her that not all our lives turn out the way we think they will. I wanted to hold her and never let her go. Instead, I just said, quietly, “You’ll be a great teacher tomorrow, Ava. I love you.” And then she closed her eyes and fell into her dreams.