My kids. I talk about them all the time. I talk about how they make me laugh, how they annoy the hell out of me. How they don't listen, except that they do listen and usually all too well, pointing out hypocrisies, mistakes and humor at my expense. They can speak French better than I could at their age. They help me with technology (my cell phone). They teach me about race and racism. They teach me about age and ageism. They prove to me that in my head are at least two middle schoolers, one a boy one a girl, a 14 year old high school girl, and a 21 year old man. I haven't grown up quite like one expected I would. I talk about how they make teaching worth it, how they make me proud, how they amaze me with their wit, their intelligence, their grace, their humor. I can't stay angry or annoyed with them for long, no matter how often I lose my cool. I love them too much.
"Wow, you really do love your kids. How many do you have?" someone inevitably asks.
"121 of them this year. At most I've had 133 and the least I've had is 40."
"Oh!" they laugh, "you're a teacher."
"Yep."
"Wish I had a teacher like that" they usually respond. "I'd have loved French."
"I don't know how much they all love French, but they enjoy the class; usually."
"I wonder if they know how lucky they are."
That doesn't matter to me. In my darkest, sickest times of my life, I have been absent for days or months at a time. When I was in a court battle over my late partner's grave, I was a basket case for two years. Kids thought I was nuts. I was, sorta, and afraid.
See, no matter what I've gone through my kids have supported me whether they know it or not. If they judge they keep it to themselves.
I may have let my kids down over the years, but they have held me up.
They don't know that when they hide their faces on Google Meets how much I miss seeing them. All of them. Each one of them.
No, they're not my kids, not really. They're your kids, mom and dad, grandmother or father, uncle or auntie. But I adore your kids. My kids.
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