While I was teaching, I found myself feeling joy when I’d see the improvement after a student took my advice. Being back in the world of gymnastics in general was like taking a fresh breath of air after being suffocated. Because that’s exactly what the last two weeks have felt like, suffocating.
I hate to admit that Nina was right, but I think this is going to be good for me.
What the fuck?
I think to myself as I watch my group of ages 6-8, fooling around on the mat after I instructed them to practice their cartwheels.
While the seniors were a breeze, the younger group is proving to be more of a handful.
My patience is running thin, and it’s exhausting me.
But I muster up the ability to stay calm, walking over to the group, hands on my hips as I firmly raise my voice and say, “What is going on here?”
“We’re having fun,” a girl explains, as if that’s not a bad thing.
“What were your instructions?” I ask her.
“To do cartwheels, but I’m already good at it, so why do I need to practice?” she asks, sassy as ever.
Lord. Help. Me.
“Because I’m your teacher and I said so,” I say, my tone veering on the edge of annoyance. “Do I need to talk to your parents when they pick you up about you not listening?”
Her brown eyes widen, etched in fear. “No! Okay, I’ll be good.”
“That’s what I thought,” I mutter as she gets back in line and joins the group thatwaslistening.
As they perform cartwheels across the mat, I intervene and adjust as they go, watching to see if they listen and apply the information.
Some of the girls do, while others need constant reminders. Another difference from the seniors, as they got it in the first go, whereas the littles need more help. Which makes sense, but Goddoes it make me want to scream after repeating the same instructions over and over.
I thought teaching was hard before, and now I think it might be the hardest job in the world. Kids are exhausting, and I don’t know how people work all day then go home to their own kids.
I spend the rest of the class correcting forms, putting out fires, and demonstrating back walkovers.
When pick-up time comes around, I’m completely drained.
“I really liked today’s class, Ms. Witt,” one of my students says, drawing a tired smile from me.
“I’m glad you did, and call me Teagan,” I tell her, then ask, “What’s your name?”
“Olivia Lewis. You’re nice and very good at gymnastics,” she says sweetly.
Her compliment lifts my face into a smile. It’s exactly what I needed to hear after a long day.
“Well, thank you, so are you,” I say, remembering that she is one of the few kids who listened today.
I sense she wants to say something else, but before she can, a man with shoulder-length hair and tattooed arms walks in.
“Dad!” she yells, running up to him and into his arms for a hug.
He strangely looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him before. A lot of these kids have parents who are professional athletes, so I might have seen him on TV or scrolled past his picture online somewhere.
He takes her hand in his and makes his way over to me.
“Hi, I’m the new teacher, Teagan Witt,” I say, introducing myself as I have to all the parents today.
“Nice to meet you. How was Olivia?” he asks, slinging Olivia’s bag on his shoulder.
