Ah, these blogger prompts.
Workitmom.com blogger Angella wrote:
Where Do You See Yourself in 10 Years?
The gist of my comment back to her:
But then I re-reasoned that response and realized that I answered only in terms of my children, not myself. Bad habit. Ok, where do I see MYSELF in 10 years?
Um...right here? Only with the house updated a little. Hello00 jacuzzi tub! No? Ok, actual wooden banister instead of badly painted iron thing? Baby and some pre-baby weight gone. Dude, I can dream. I would like a real handle on my teaching career. Producing shows, co-teaching units, and perhaps the right combo of confidence in my "expertise" and willingness to let someone else have the reigns in my classroom to *gasp* actually say yes when they ask who is willing to take on student teacher or two. Location, career-wise: again, right here. Either I or my current school district would have to go stark raving mad for me to leave voluntarily and go teach somewhere else. Of course, NJ teachers feel like fish in a barrel these days. God knows what the career of a teacher will look like in 10 years. As for the hubby's career? I am beyond psyched about his new job and his ability to land on his feet despite the mass-layoffs. We both are just praying that 1., this job isn't going to get cut next year, and that 2., this new intermediate school Music/Band position isn't like his old intermediate school Music/Band position. Oooh! Cue the evil chill up my spine.
10 years from now, personally? Hmmm... I keep promising myself that of course I'll have more time to read, write, think, sit, sleep, etc., when my little girls are big girls. Usually these promises are made when it's 9:45 at night (in our school year schedule we get up at five-freakin'-thirty AM and wake twice to feed The Little Project overnight). At 9:45 the bare minimum house crap is done. There are clean dishes and clean bottles enough for everybody to eat tomorrow, some clothing for everybody, and at least a path through the main living areas of the house. At this point I'm faced with a dilemma: I could read, or sleep. Falling asleep behind the wheel in the morning is less than appealing. My body and I, we like our sleep. So one day, I will read two or three chapters of whatever wonderful NPR-reviewed book I'm into, and fall blissfully asleep. In my matching bedroom set and dog-hair free bed clothes. Riiiiiight. Well, if that fantasy ever comes to pass, I'm thinking 10 years from now sounds like its best bet.
Now, back to those pesky 13 and 10 year olds in the house. You know what I want from that situation, 10 years from now? I want my children to not despise me. If they tolerate me and I find them tolerable, that's all I need. Because let me tell you: I have it coming. Based on my former self's attitude problem alone, I deserve it. And 10 years from now, I will have two middle schoolers in my house. Ew! I haaaaaaate middle schoolers. As a group, of course. There are definitely good ones, but for the most part I just do my best not to alternately cower and/or roll my eyes when they bound down the hall and trample whatever class I'm walking somewhere. Elementary kids I get. Middle schoolers are different beasts. I'm more than a little nervous about the care and feeding of two of them. Hopefully Dr. Karp will have written The Happiest Pre-Teen on the Block by then, and we'll be able to swaddle 13 year-old Maddie, turn her on her side, and she'll happily get good grades and only like the nice boys.
Eeep. Boys. I'll worry about that 10 years from now. Karma be damned.
While we're in the time machine, what about 10 years ago?
We had just finished our freshman years at LVC and Bob was working as an assistant manager at Cinemark, while I waited tables at Friendly's for the summer. That's glamor, baby. As a couple, we lived 150 miles apart, and it sucked. We got together every other week, alternating who traveled where. We had been dating since September '99 and we were pretty settled on the fact that we'd get married after college.
There were glimmers of adulthood there: We did our own laundry. We bought our own gas (doesn't sound impressive, but you'd be surprised). There were not wide-spread cell phones yet, so that was one less bill to pay. I think most of my meals consisted of Friendly's or fast food on the way to or from work. And Hot Pockets. I remember eating a lot of Hot Pockets that summer.Gaffigan: Hoooot pocket! We saved our paychecks to supplement whatever income we could come up with doing odd Music department jobs during the school year. We knew more field observations and practicum teaching were coming, and with them the necessity to buy some professional clothing. No plaid PJ pants from Target at observations. With whatever cash was left we'd take each other out for dinner, movies, whatever, whenever we got together. Those were sweet mini-vacations, and we lived for them.
Oh, and we both knew what we wanted to be when we grew up. At least THIS stage of grown-up, where we are currently habitating. I sometimes think I may still be playing house. I'll check the grown-up handbook, because I'm pretty sure you at least have to dust something sometime in your life to be considered a grown-up. Half the reason (the other half being split equally between "time" and "money"!) I haven't gone for my Master's yet is that I still don't officially know what I want to be when I GROW UP. Of course, it's education, duh. But where? Stay a Music Specialist? That's the trendy term in my field now. Get my Elem. cert and go regular-classroom-teacher to avoid the cuts and have the stability of the same classroom of kids day in and day out? Teacher education at a college or university? That one sounds really cool for the 50+ year-old me. For when I finally get sick of kids. Talking to a collegaue last week, we both concluded we had to get out of this field five years before burn-out sets in. Nobody wants someone at the back table at their retirement dinner to whisper, "She should have quit years ago!"
But college? Hmmm... Tuck that one away in your bonnet, sweetie. Right in front of "Write Great American Novel and retire to coastal town".
1o years from now I'll be almost 40. *Giant, disbelieving, wide-eyed stare.* Ha! Well, 40 could be very fun. For one thing, perhaps I can embarrass the crap out of The Little Project when I send in baby pictures of her for her 5th grade yearbook. Let's make a deal, E: You step it up and keep improving on the bottle thing, and I won't make your 5th grade when-they-were-babies yearbook picture one where you're sporting that lovely NG tube.