I allowed myself a few days of scathing self-criticism for being fired from a mere month's employment as a telephone service representative for a company whose owners made a guest appearance on the Martha Stewart Show to promote some sort of puff candy.
I withdrew and ate avocados, with the curtains drawn. I watched NCIS.
Finally, I had to agree that it had not been the right job for me.
"It was a dumb job," Jane commented. "Let it go."
I decided to call my daughter for help with re-vamping my resume.
"Hi, Claudia," I said to her company's receptionist. "Is Katherine available?" I asked, wondering if this might be the day after 5 years of frequent calling that Claudia would recognize my voice.
"Who's calling, please?" Claudia asked.
"It's her Mom," I sighed.
"Hi, Mom. What's up?" my daughter answered cheerfully.
"I need some help with my resume."
"Oh, boy. Do you have anything written down yet?"
"Of course I do. I've had other resumes, you know, for other jobs."
"Well, send it along and I'll take a look at it."
"Could you possibly look at it now?"
"Yes, now would be okay," she agreed. "But, you're sort of pushy."
I emailed what I had, and waited.
There was the sound of muffled guffawing when my daughter returned my call. "Okay, so what is this?" she began.
"You know what it is," I said.
"Well, first of all, everything ran together on the page. Do you even know how to send an attachment?"
"Of course I do!" I said grouchily.
"Well, never mind, it has to be redone anyway. Completely redone."
"I know, I know, that's why I called you," I said with mock sweetness.
"First of all, no one cares that you played on a traveling 4.0 tennis team, or that you like to hike, garden and take pictures."
"But - "
"And where are the dates? You can't just put "The 80's," and list stuff. It has to be specific. But, don't worry, we'll fix it."
We laughed while my daughter patched my resume, and I was able to remember some important dates, like when I had graduated from college, and what years I had taught and the specificities of teaching literacy and writing. My happiest times, career-wise had been working in school, exploring literary themes, encouraging reading skills and self-expression. I remembered the sweetest expression of pride, when a child struggled through reading a difficult passage aloud. The shy triumph. I had loved connecting with those students.
Recently, I assisted at a Montessori School. The space with its many windows and wooden floors and plants was large and bright, filled with sun. There were learning stations where the 4 and 5-year-olds did their "work." They swept the floor and connected a set of wooden railroad tracks, and kneaded and rolled homemade play-doh. They shared. They painted wooden holiday trees. They mixed food coloring with soap suds and made observations.
"Sam is my boyfriend," Lela said, indicating a small boy wearing a ball cap and grey plastic sunglasses with orange lenses.
"I'm not a boyfriend," Sam said.
At snack, the teacher Steff and I sat at the oblong table with the children, me trying to tuck my long legs under the child-sized table. Sara and Jarod passed plates of carrots and dip, while Susanna and Zeke handed out napkins and cups. I shared my dried papaya.
"Shall we say our poem today?" Steff asked.
"Yes!" everyone cried.
"1-2-3," the children recited, "Take a deep breath. Bon appetit. It's time to eat."
"Now Miss Amy will teach us some meditation," Steff said, as we reassembled in the circle area.
We each had a small mat and I smiled at the rapt little faces, at the flexible little bodies sitting so effortlessly cross-legged, hands placed on their knees.
"Does anyone know what a sentient being is?" I asked.
"Is it a planet?" Jarrod asked.
"Close enough," I said. "Let's just sit and feel our bodies breathing. It's how we relax and just be."
"I like just being," Susanna said.
That's how I discovered the classroom is where I want to be now, in some capacity, preferably at an elemental level - say kindergarten, where I don't have to worry much about math.
