The End, But Not the End, at the Beginning

I teach high school. Or taught high school. Today is the penultimate day of classes, which means I am sitting in front of my 23 English 10 students who are writing, with great adolescent, seven-twenty-five-in-the-morning enthusiasm, their final essay exams. Because I am not returning to work next year, it is my penultimate day as a teacher. Next year I will be free from paid employment, dedicating my efforts to volunteering both here and at my kids' elementary school, learning French, and coordinating the family move to Brussels.

But the greatest lesson I have taken from this back-to-work experience is . . . what is the greatest lesson? That being a working mother left me perpetually exhausted? That I still love and know my children intimately in spite of our crazy juggling of schedules? That it may be healthier for us all for me to have a professional identity? All important, but I don't want to talk about those (yet) because I am so not ready for this blog to enter the mommy wars. Really. No, the lesson I take is that I, even when not employed, am a teacher. Even after the eight year hiatus to be mommy-to-babes-and-toddlers, the teacher part of me was in tact. I could still do it, and do it well, (at least most of the time), and do it with passion and energy and pleasure.

So I won't be employed for the next two years, at least. These years are better spent transitioning my family from American suburbs to American expat. But I will always be a teacher. Always. It's as essential to me as being a wife or a mom or a friend.