Page 8 of Vicious Cycle
As I paced back and forth in front the overly decorated bulletin board, I fought to catch my breath. In the distance, I heard the happy shrieks and shouts of children along with the anxious voices of their parents.
Today was the Meet and Greet at my school.
The day I met the new group of students I would spend the next nine months with.
You’d think from my nervousness this was my first year. But no, this wasn’t my first time at the rodeo. Today marked year five for me. My first year I was practically a baby myself at twenty-two. I’m not sure how my principal had complete confidence that I could handle a class full of five and six year olds.
Somehow she’d been right.
Despite my years experience, the Meet and Greet was always nerve-wracking for me. While I was completely at ease in front of five and six year olds, the introverted side of me shriveled up at the thought of making small talk with all the parents.
As if he could sense my apprehension, my therapy dog, Atticus, nudged my leg. I stared down into his warm brown eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve got this.”
At his happy yip of reinforcement, I reached out to scratch his dark head. While I personally didn’t require a therapy dog, I had jumped at the chance to have Atticus become one when the school put out feelers about starting a therapy program. Although he was already two years old, he was still a great candidate as a black lab since they were easy to train. For the last three years, he’d been accompanying me to school everyday and giving love not only to my students, but throughout the school.
After adjusting the multi-colored ABC’s bandana around his neck, I hurried over to the closet to check my reflection one last time. I did the usual fluff of my dark hair while checking to make sure I didn’t have anything in my teeth from breakfast.
Once I was satisfied with my appearance, I gazed around the classroom to make sure everything was perfect.
From the time I was a little girl and played school with my dolls and stuffed animals, I had wanted to be a teacher. I couldn’t grasp the idea of being anywhere else but in the classroom. I’d happily followed in my late parents’ footsteps into education. While my father had been a high school math teacher, my mother had also taught kindergarten. They spent their life molding young minds, and I felt my career choice also honored their memory.
I grew up in a fairy tale where bad things always seemed to happen to other people. My younger brother, Charlie, and I were insulated in a protective bubble of love and adoration. Our family was the one others envied and aspired to be.
And then one rainy February evening when I was seventeen and Charlie was twelve, our beautiful world shattered. On the way home from soccer practice, my parents were killed in a car accident. Although he was trapped in the mangled wreckage for hours, Charlie miraculously survived.
The day I buried my parents I buried myself as well. Or at least the person I was. I’d scraped and clawed my way back up from absolute rock bottom.
I did it for Charlie.
And for my parents.
You didn’t have to look hard to see reminders of them in my classroom. The old play kitchen set had been my mother’s along with the rocking chair I sat in for rug time. Their faces smiled out from ornate frames on the shelf behind my desk.
The familiar ache of grief twisted in my chest. Even as the years passed, I didn’t think it would ever completely go away. The only way I saw myself getting out of the crippling loneliness and ache for my family was to have one of my own.
At twenty-seven, I certainly wasn’t past my prime for getting married. There’d been two long-term relationships since losing my parents. But in the end, they weren’t the one.
And each year that passed, the ache grew not only to have someone to share my life with, but also for children. Somedays I even debated becoming a foster mom or a single mom by choice. I had so much love to give a child.
For now, I directed all that love on my students. Especially the ones who came from homes that didn’t always give them the love and attention they needed.
As the children’s voices grew closer, I glanced up the ceiling. With a smile, I murmured, “Hey you two, could you send a little strength my way.”
My attention quickly shifted to the doorway where a dark haired little boy with a mischievous grin bounded into the room. “Hi, my name’s Carter.”
Putting on my most welcoming smile, I started across the room to him. “Hi Carter, I’m Ms. Evans. Are you ready to have the best year in kindergarten?”
And with those simple words, all my nervousness faded, and the Meet and Greet officially began.
The next hour passed in a blur. When I waved goodbye to my last student and their parents, I couldn’t believe how fast the time had passed. Not only did my cheeks ache from smiling so much, but my feet were screaming in agony.
After limping back to my desk, I collapsed down into my chair. Slipping off my heels, I gave them the stink-eye as they dropped to the ground. “Fucking torture devices,” I grumbled.
Normally, I didn’t wear heels. My school’s dress code was pretty lax. Most days, I wore comfortable clothes and shoes. It was the one area of teaching I differed with my mother. She never left the house without styling a dress and wearing a pairof heels. To her, dressing down was sporting one of those apple vests from back in the day.
After throwing my head back in ecstasy at the way the foot massage felt, I popped open my eyes to see a dark-haired little girl standing beside my desk. I’d jumped out of my skin and almost fell out of my chair.
A warm embarrassment rushed to my cheeks that she had seen me being so goofy. Trying to play it off, I wiped my hands on my dress and held out my hand. “Well, hello. My name is Miss Evans, and Ireallylike foot rubs and hate wearing high heels. What’s your name?”
