854. There Is No Substitute

Lately I have been a tad bit depressed because both of my sons have eight-months pregnant teachers.  Yes, I am thrilled for these young, beautiful teachers and I am ecstatic for their happy families.  But to be perfectly honest, I am not fully embracing the idea of long-term substitute teachers for my sons. 

They just got into their routines.  They just got acclimated to the teacher’s systems.  They just figured out where the water fountain was. 

And now everything is about to change (probably not the water fountain location though).  A new teacher is going to come in and meet my sons for the first time and try to make sense of everything.  And then in three or four months, the original teacher will be back.  

My sons thrive on consistency.  They love knowing that Monday is macaroni and cheese, Tuesday is soccer practice, and Friday is go out to dinner.  They expect the expected. 

I started to think if we (as adults) suddenly had substitutes in our lives.  What if you went to Starbucks just like you do every day, and instead of Starbucks there was some sort of juice bar inside.  The guy would say, “Yeah, we’re gonna sub out coffee and have orange juice smoothies.  Hope you don’t mind too much, it is just for today and tomorrow, then your regular Starbucks will be back.” 

Or if you walked into work and some random guy in a suit was sitting at your boss’s desk, looking at his watch.  “Hi, you must be MOV.  Your boss will be back the Tuesday after next, but she did leave me this giant folder of new assignments for you.  She said she might need you to work some overtime.  Oh, yeah, she also said no more coming in to work late.”

Or, you go to call your sister and some other woman answers.  “Sorry, Oakley is going to be off for a few days, my name is Stephanie and I will be filling in for her.  Did you want to jump right in with emotional issues from childhood, or would you prefer to fight over money?”

I don’t want to think about it anymore, it is making me mad.  I grab my purse and zip out to my local sandwich place.  I walk up to the counter and place my order: 

“One sub, please.”

MOV              

682. There's Nothing To Buy There (and Not Much Food Either)

The call came in at 5:30 AM on the dot. Fourth grade. Did I want to teach today? Yes.

The day went smoothly. The students were perfect angels—smart, happy, quiet—and they did their work; they all deserve A+’s.

But.

About halfway through the day, I noticed a big, big, problem. A problem that I cannot believe (in retrospect) I had not anticipated. At this so-called “school,” there was absolutely nothing to buy.

No linen table cloths with embroidered harvest leaves on the border. No decorative ceramic bread baskets imported from Italy. No overpriced stainless steel vegetable choppers. No crystal wine glasses hand-blown by artisans in Germany. No state-of-the-art espresso makers. In short: nothing.

While the students wrote in their journals for 20 minutes about where they would like to travel someday, I was forced to familiarize myself with lesson plans on multiplying and dividing fractions. Creaky parts of my brain were seeing use after years of dormancy.

To be honest, I was not used to spending my “down time” like this. When I worked at the high-end kitchen store and there was a brief lull in customer foot traffic, I would obsess over which color Le Creuset pans I should buy next: Dune or Aubergine, or should I stick with the Classic Red? Down time at the high-end kitchen store resulted in me spending money.

Not only was I not spending money here at Crazy Town Elementary, I was stretching brain cells to the point of pain.

When the students went to art class, I had another 45 minutes to myself. Forty-five minutes to ponder that, if the school did in fact decide to offer up some merchandise for sale, there is nothing I would actually want.

Broken pencils with teeth marks? Please. Tiny desks that I cannot even attempt to fold my knees under? No thank you. A political map of China? Pass. Some white board erasers and non-permanent markers? I don’t think so.  Bent paperclips that are not even Virgo color-coordinated?  What's the point?   

Lunch time was no better. The last time I’d subbed, I’d made the (rookie) mistake of walking the students to the lunch room and then getting in line with them. The lunch lady (complete with hair net, was this the exact same lunch lady of my youth?!) said, “Teachers do not buy lunch.”

Well, thank God, because I didn’t bring any money. I stood there smiling a goofy smile, a smile that was supposed to send the mental telepathy message: Please hand me my tray of food, then.

No such luck. The principal took pity on me and pulled me aside. “Teachers bring their own lunch, didn’t you read the Substitute Food Policy when you signed the Confidentiality Information Agreement? Here, MOV, you can have half of my sandwich.” I could feel my cheeks blushing five shades of crimson. “Oh, no problem, I forgot! I have an apple in my bag, no problem!” I slunk away and gobbled up my pathetic apple, complete with pathetic bruise on the side to match the one on my ego.

This would not happen today. Today I packed my own healthy lunch. I sat in the classroom by myself eating my Thin Mints and Samoas, and I added “no lunch to buy” to the Nothing To Buy List I was mentally accruing.

I daydreamed of the lunches I used to eat at the high-end kitchen store. Cobb salad with choice of dressing. Fresh fruit smoothie. Four choices of gourmet pizza. Freshly made clam chowder with French bread. Pasta made to order. Yes, the high-end kitchen store was located in a mall, a mall with lots of great restaurants just a few yards away. I ate well every day. My bank account, however, suffered.

When I got home from school, I helped Tall and Short with their homework (talk about taking your work home with you) and waited for The Husband.

“How was teaching today, Sweetie?” he asked as he walked in the door. “How does it compare to the high-end kitchen store?”

Tears popped out of my eyes like stray bullets. “I earn more money! I can’t spend it there! I’m losing weight because there’s no food!”

He moved in closer to give me a conciliatory hug. “Oh, MOV,” he cooed, “things will get better.”

“You don’t understand,” I pulled back, looking in his eyes, “I love it!”

MOV