May Tired.

 It's May.

The sun is shining. Third Winter finally ended. Summer is coming, the garden centers are packed, mask mandates are lifted, baseball season is in full swing.

Your teachers are exhausted.

They have permanent shin splints from balancing on the balls of their feet, standing 6' away at all times, and engaging their students both in the room and on screen through sheer determination, extensive use of eyebrows, and "active posture."

They have become hopelessly near-sighted from squinting at screens for far too many hours per day, and peering hopefully through the black boxes in Zoom, searching for some semblance of life in the layers of black. They are buying reading glasses in bulk, stashing a pair in every couch cushion and random drawer they pass by.

Photo by Tim Gouw on Unsplash

Their house is May dirty. They haven't dusted since First Spring. The laundry is washed and dried, but it's just never going to get put away and they have resigned themselves to living out of the clean laundry mountains, wearing rumpled shirts, embracing their inner Ms. Frizzle. The dishes are clean, but that's because they've given up on dishes. It's easier to just feed everyone out of the McDonald's bags and the pizza box lids. The kitchen counter is full of empty bottles and cans, but at least no one bothers to use a glass anymore. The bills are stacked haphazardly on the kitchen table, hoping to get paid. Shoes are literally everywhere. The cats have taken over.

It's May, and your teachers don't have much left in the tank. Their relationships are May ignored. They are hoping these relationships survive until Mid-June, are strong enough to ride it out; only then will they have enough energy to try to repair what's left of their friendships, family, and loves.

They don't remember what sex is. They also have lost their social filter and they're not sure if they should talk about sex or not. They live with teenagers, are surrounded by teenagers, only see teenagers when they try to close their eyes at night. They have no idea what's appropriate anymore. Looking at the teenagers in the room, it seems like daisy dukes, sweatpants, trucker hats, and socks with Crocs are socially appropriate, but that can't be right. Your teachers are confused. They don't sleep much. They also haven't had a real haircut in 8 months. They are hoping that no one has noticed.

It's May, and your teachers are frustrated. Their email inbox is May full of desperate seniors, asking what they need to do in order to pass the class (turn stuff in) and how many things they need to complete (do the math) and what they are missing (check Powerschool). Their office hours are empty, as no one shows up for extra help, or to ask these questions in person. More emails arrive. "I emailed you yesterday, but maybe you missed it. What do I need to do to pass the class? And may I have an extension, please?"

Your teachers are trying to hold it all together, stretched in the rack of work and home and their kids and your kids and their parents and those parents and colleagues and friends and deadlines and evaluations and bills and grades and so. many. emails. 

And your teachers know that their job is not harder than anyone else's our there, it's just different. It is physically and emotionally draining when you have so many lives to balance, so many kids you are trying to keep afloat, so many plates in the air. Your teachers are not asking for pity, or accolades, or cookies (maybe cookies?), or to be labeled as heroes; they are just asking for a bit of grace right now.

It's May. Your teachers will make it through this. They will get it all done. They will probably not resign. They will probably drink too much. They know that in a month, they will sleep again, and by August, they will get the house back in shape and begin to get their muffin top back in shape and get the relationships they have left back in shape and they will be ready to do it all again.

Because teaching is what they love, and teachers are who they are.

But today, in May, they are spent. Their bucket is empty. Their to-do list has filled the Blue Book and they are writing in the margins.

Your teachers need little bit of grace, a little less snark, a little more physical space, and maybe a couple more pair of reading glasses.

And they definitely need a box of wine.

Photo by Dylan Collette on Unsplash