inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. AND remember this is a public genre as I am uber tempted to go say far too much, "dear diary" style. This summer, as I put in my spousally-testing, parentally-guilt-inspiring number of hours preparing for my iPad classroom, I had grandiose visions of students sprinting to class in anticipation of what's next, scholars creating and thinking and writing beyond anything I'd ever seen before, even (ha, ha) teaching being a tad less exhausting.
'twas the height of utter foolishness.
After a day of technological challenges, stacks of other responsibilities and needs floating my way, and a mixed bag of classroom fair, I sat down after 8th hour to make sense of it all - the many emailed papers to me, some sent to the right place, some not; some with clear headings in the subject line (which hour? which assignment? which student?) others not; I was organizing my desk when I noticed movement on the screen; I looked at my monitor to discover the last 6 days of emails systematically disappearing from my inbox. I was not touching the keyboard, nor was any random object touching the keyboard. Once this cryptic robbery ceased, I discovered that all emails sent between 5:14 p.m. on 9/8/11 and 2:54 on 9/15/11 were nowhere to be found, not even in the trash, student work included.
Tomorrow, I shall grovel; tonight I shall regroup, This year, I shall survive; next year, move ahead. Professional growing pains, called growing pains for a reason. They feel like big fat felt-tipped "F's"
I was never very good with non-A's, much less F's.
