To Answer Your Question: Part 5
“Why Can’t You Have a Job Like My Dad’s?”
Earlier this year, I bought a little house for us. The planning and budgeting that went into this was no small feat. I’d be lying if I said I pulled this off all on my own because there are several people that helped make this happen. I think by the time you read this, you’ll still be able to remember the year that we lived with my parents. I hope those memories are full of Papaw’s music by the fire, Nan’s cookies every night, and your habit of running down the stairs repeatedly to tell them goodnight “just one more time.” But, now that you’re older, you need to know all those good times served a serious purpose: to help me save money for a down payment on a house.
I try to plan things as well as I can, especially when it comes to money. At the start of each month, I pay all of our bills and then the money left over is divided into your savings, my savings, and a weekly allowance for us. When it came time for us to move into the house, I set aside some money from the savings to buy you a few special toys for the backyard. I was so excited to get a tree swing, sandbox, and mini-excavator for you. The week we had it all set up for you, you were ecstatic for a little while and then the excitement wore off and you asked me for more toys. I told you that maybe we could add more outside toys in the future, but we weren’t going to add them just yet. I had recently started teaching you the value of money, mostly because I don’t want you growing up entitled. I tried to avoid talking to you about money for as long as I could because I honestly didn’t want you to worry about the topic. But, then it became clear to me that your perception of money was skewed. Parenting is weird because when I try to teach you a lesson, I have to anticipate how you might respond to me and then cater my approach accordingly. It’s like I have to be a few steps ahead in a game where there is no rule book. I also have to anticipate how you might communicate that lesson to others when you go to school or play with friends. The value of money matters, and I want you to understand that for my sake, your sake, and the sake of those you speak to. In other words, I cannot spoil you the way I want to, but that’s okay. I’m glad I cannot spoil you that way because you’ll be a better empathizer in the long-run. You don’t need all that you want. None of us do. Right now, this lesson applies to money and objects. As you get older, you’ll learn it also applies to people and experiences. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to paint the picture that you’re the kid who constantly goes without. That couldn’t be further from the truth. You have a stupid amount of toys. You could do better at appreciating what you have, but you’re also five. It’s a work in progress.
When I said no to getting more backyard toys that day, you hit me with this question:
“Why can’t you have a job like my dad’s?”
You must have registered the shocked look on my face, because you immediately started trying to explain your audacity. You said something along the lines of, “Why can’t you have a job like my dad’s at the hospital instead of being a teacher? He makes a lot of money. If you worked there, then you could make a lot of money and buy me more toys.”
Well played, you little tool.
Maybe it was the exhaustion from the move, or my mental state living through a pandemic, but I felt my face get red and saw the tears blur my vision for a few harsh seconds. Then, I bent down on my knees and told you that money isn’t everything. I explained that your dad has a great job that he picked based on his interests and talents, and that job comes with a good paycheck. Then, I explained that not all jobs are the same. I told you that I chose to become a teacher because I know I’m good at communicating with big kids, and I can help them be better communicators. It doesn’t pay the same as your dad’s job, but it pays for everything we have plus any trips to the doctor, the dentist, and I get to spend time with you over the summers and holidays.
You should know that the teaching profession wasn’t meant to doom your amount of toys. In fact, when I first went to college, I didn’t want to teach at all. I was studying political science and I wanted to join the Peace Corps or become an anthropologist. Those options would have still granted me a lesser income than your dad’s. The jobs I’m drawn to do not yield lots of money, and I guess that says more about my personality than anything. I don’t have the intense drive or cutthroat approach to succeed in the business world. I don’t have an interest in science or anything medical to have a job like your dad’s. What I do have is a knack for analyzing ideas until I find the most effective way to communicate them with a specific audience, whether that audience is a class of students, a lover, a friend, a stranger, or even you. The jobs that capitalize on this kind of talent are mostly not lucrative ones. You have a mother who keeps both feet dipped into the pool of humanities, and it doesn’t pay much but it makes me feel rich.
What I want you to realize today is that I can’t have a job like your dad’s because I’m not your dad. At five, you are going to say harsh truths and it’s on me to respond the best way I can for your age. But, as the young adult you are by the time you read this, I need you to hear me when I caution you against comparing one person to the other, whether it’s you comparing me to your dad, you comparing two other people together, or you comparing yourself against someone else. It’s a futile exercise that will leave you feeling frantic and insecure. Be confident in your choices, and be confident in the choices of those who love you.
Teaching is not for the faint of heart. I often wish a camera crew could follow me around for one day to see what it is like to navigate the needs of over 100 students. Many of my friends work in professional settings where they can take on one client at a time or one scheduled meeting at a time. While I know those jobs have their own challenges I could never understand, I know how specific the challenges are that I face in my work setting. With six classes of 20–30 students each, it is my talent that makes it possible for me to teach content in a way that reaches them all at their own level. This means I’m constantly switching up my approach from student to student during any given lecture or lesson, and the goal is to do it so seamlessly that they do not realize I’m slowing down for some and speeding up for others all in one fell swoop. I keep one eye on them and one eye on my email in case there is an emergency, a bit of information I need to pass to a student, or a parent’s concern. I move filing cabinets near my door in case of an active shooter and I find ways to convince my students to trust that I will protect them when we practice these drills every semester. I listen to their angst because I know they won’t be able to focus unless they have a safe space to let it out first. I wonder which of my students are hungry when we go home for winter break, and I wonder which ones are not safe in a remote learning setting. I email the ones I know who struggle with depression to make sure they’re still trying to find a reason to get up, and I remember to ask how that driving test went. I also take turns consoling my team and being the one consoled when it all gets to be too much.
I know it’s a lot of work for little pay. I’ve been doing it for seven years now, and it has always seemed like the right thing to do because it comes naturally to me, but the toll it takes is serious. I wonder if I will still be working in education by the time you read this. Either way, I need you to know this: if I ever leave education, it will not be because I desired more money to buy you materialistic things, though I do enjoy them like the rest of the world. If I ever leave this job, it will be because I finally got to a point where I could no longer put the needs of everyone else’s children in front of my own. I never want to get to a point where I’m giving my all at work only to give you whatever is left of me when I get home. You deserve so much more of a mom than that, and I have only one shot to get that right.
If I’m in a different career by the time you read this, know that my time in education wasn’t a failure. It was a success that was probably only meant to last for a season of my life. You will see that changes will come into your life, whether you invite them in or not. When those moments happen, I want you to pick your head up, show some grace, and find a way to be grateful for the experience, even if it has to end.
