The Promise Of A Brave New World

Any goodbye could be our last goodbye.

But never is this a more glaring possibility than when saying it to family and friends who live really far away. 

And even more difficult to bear is their lingering presence in the small things they might leave behind; a single sock, a hair clip, the scent of their perfume in the pillows and sheets. 

You feel their absence at the empty dinner table, in the silence of your once chaotic meals.

You hear their voices in those semi-conscious moments before you fall asleep.

You even miss their "wisdom"; those hours they spent in your room reminding you of how every decision you took led you down a path of self-destruction and then trying to tell you how to live your life.

I am just emotional today.

Nevermind. 

Goodbye, blue sky.

The Bobby Pin Dentist

I once mentioned that the job of a primary school teacher is the amalgamation of many different jobs. This proved to be true yet again. Today, I was an emergency dentist and my tool of choice, the bobby pin. Yes, indeed. I honestly felt like one of those Army doctors in the middle of a battle field trying to use whatever they can find to help the soldiers.

To be honest, school during lunch break isn't any less than a war zone. Students trying to finish everything as fast as they can, running around, chattering like monkeys, throwing water at each other, crying because they don't like their food with the poor teacher on duty making sure no one gets hurt, everyone finishes their lunch, no one falls into the trash bins, opening packets of biscuits and chips for all and sundry all the while trying to finish their own food. I don't know how most of us are not alcoholics. 

Today, I was trying to quickly gobble down my pizza when one student started wailing. Why was he wailing? Did someone hit him? No. Did someone spit in his lunch? No. Did he fall down and hurt himself? No. 

He was crying because there was a guava seed stuck in his teeth. 

Welcome to the world of a primary school teacher.

I first thought I should tell him to man up. It was just a damn seed in his cavity. What are those fingernails for anyway?

Then I looked at his big, fat chubby face. Those sad eyes full of pain, looking up to me to save the day. 

So I put on my Wonder Woman costume and decided to be the savior of all mankind once more.

Okay...I'm exaggerating. There is no costume.

I pulled out a bobby pin from a student's hair and got alcohol swabs from the first aid to sanitize it. Then I washed it to remove traces of the swab and with one flick, out came the seed. The kid looked at me like I had just saved his life. And if you really think about it, I had.

So whoever said "Those who can't do, teach",  all I have to say is, "Bitch, Please".

The Opportunity Cost

Disclaimer: I love my job.

Before reading further, please commit to memory the above mentioned disclaimer. 

Good. 

Now.

This post is about how much I hate my job.

I really shouldn't say this, but I will because parents need to know what monsters they are raising. I mean for the sake of sanity of people everywhere, please stop spoiling your child. STOP. The next time your kid throws a tantrum at a toy shop about some shit expensive toy they want and you think "I'll just buy this so he shuts up" STOP. Turn around. Look your kid straight in the eye, smile and then SMACK THAT LITTLE TWERP UPSIDE THEIR HEAD. Then turn around and walk away.

No child, no matter how filthy rich their parents, should be brought up believing they can get away with everything. Teach your kids the value of hard earned money. And if your child has that kind of retarded idea about life, then you are to blame. You were too lazy to raise them right. So smack yourself upside the head. Or better yet. Let me do it.

But this isn't really what this post is about.

This is about the most basic right a person gives up when they decide to become a teacher. The one right every human should have to express their pain, their anger, their frustration. 

The right to swear like a sailor.

Or a trucker.

I mean what am I supposed to do if my finger gets caught in the cupboard door? How can one NOT scream out obscenities when in such utter pain? But no. I am just expected to eat, drink and be merry. How is that fair? 

Sometimes I feel like a nun.