Summer Begins in Exhaustion

Or sprawled like a starfish on my son's nursery.

As my tenth year of teaching ended the other week—my thirteenth in education overall—I found myself sprawled like a starfish on the floor of my son’s nursery.  Asleep.  Deeply deeply asleep.  I started sitting next to my wife, who had the bottle, until I laid back on my arms and sort of surrendered to sleep.  Meanwhile she shrugged her shoulders and continued feeding our three-month old.

Summer had started in exhaustion.  Yet after ten years of teaching, I forgot.

Previously, I wrote how school ends in a roar—the crescendo that explodes as students course through the halls like a wave.  Summer, however, begins in silence.

For nine months the school year churns like a furious treadmill.  As fatigue sets in and summer beckons, the kids grow energetic while you… don’t.  Commonsense says you never stop a treadmill cold—you gradually slow down.  However, the school year runs counter: It gets faster and faster and faster until it suddenly stops.  And that stop leaves you disoriented.  Off balance.

At one time, I remembered how to start summer: I would plan to do nothing that first week.  Yes, plan.  Some years, I’d devote the week to reading a thick novel.  Take a mental vacation.  Some years I’d play through an RPG like Kingdom Hearts.  Take a mental adventure.  And some years I’d immediately up my mileage and start that Monday with a Saturday run.

Even then, between activities, going from overstimulation to under-stimulation never sits well.  The week before, fatigue makes you quick to both anger and sleep.  That last frantic day frazzles and frays.  You pray for summer to come quicker, but when it does, when you finally cross the threshold… what happens next?

• What do you do when there are no more bells?  No more hallways to supervise?

• What do you do when there are no more lessons to prepare?  No more grades to input?

• What do you do when you can use the bathroom any time you want?  Eat lunch any time?

What do you do?  Struggle and blog about it, apparently.

Each year I remind students that a second passes the same for everyone, but the experience is subjective: One year to five year old is a fifth of their lives.  One year to a ten year old is a tenth.  And one year to a twenty year old is a twentieth.  New experiences slow time while sameness accelerates it.

The school year itself begins slowly in newness, but gradually gains steam as sameness takes over.  Then it ends.  Over.  No new experiences.  Then the summer circle starts the same way, slowly at first with newness then with gaining speed.  But each time—school and summer—you have to remember both how to start and how to end.

Many school years start the night before, repeating a script over and over again: “Tomorrow you start school.  You are the teacher.  You’ve done this many times.”  But when the treadmill stops, you just sort of stumble off and stay home.  You never have to say, “Tomorrow is summer.”  Remembering how to rest—that’s what I’m poorly expressing here.

Now for a little detour, a thought experiment I run after that last bell: Summer vacation ends after the Fourth.  And I largely agree.  Time speeds up once again.  But if your June is packed—from summer jobs to traveling or, heaven forbid, summer school—then June is the Fourth.  No, if you really want to enjoy summer, you’d best do it before that first weekend.  No!  Stop!  Before you even leave school.

So what am I building to?

Basically, this summer started and I forgot how to rest.  My previous draft had triple the word count and barely said that much.  So I’ll cut the other stuff.  I’ll cut talking about the nature of rest and what teachers actually do during the summer.  I’ll even cut talking about how the year actually went and lessons learned.  (This includes talking about my teaching conferences and summer goals.)  Instead, I’ll muse about the little guy watchin’ his daddy type.

My first nine or so summers were me-centered.  Used to be, June silence restored while July silence drove me mad.  As a twenty-something bachelor, I needed June but truly struggled with July.  I had that rhythm and accepted life and enjoyed being content.  Even after getting married nearly four years ago, I was still alone during the day.  Same old, same old.

But this summer I’ve got a chubby three month old with a gummy smile who can almost laugh and roll over.  His blue eyes shine like a clear sky on a sunny day.  “Rest” doesn’t mean what it used to these days, I reckon.  But I’m not complaining—just relearning.  I still get up before five to exercise.  My next twenty or so summers are spoken for, and I’m happy.  Next summer he’ll hopefully be walking and it won’t be long before I have someone to drag on trails and get ice cream just because.  He’ll only be little this summer, so while I spent last week forgetting how to start, that’s okay.

In the meantime, summers begin in exhaustion.  That’s all.  It’s the rest that matters.

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• Schools Should Teach Letter Writing. This two-parter argues schools should teach more than academic writing. Our mental models for writing differ whether you started with letters… or text messages.

• Stop Grading Essays with Amnesia. Many teachers burn out and waste time giving student feedback. Check out other perspectives and time saving tips!

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