End In Sight, Apparently

I do not seem to know that in a week I will be done teaching. There are still the out-0f-control musings on how to best set up a lab experiment; there are still the dreams about students in various states of crisis and joy; there is, more than ever, the lingering worry about parental "feedback", which this semester has ranged from gentle inquiry to forceful high-volume opinion (shouting).

Depending on how well the little darlings are able to complete the last lab experiment, we have either one or two instructional days after today. Perhaps we'll have three. You never know with these kids--some of them have really abysmal physical skills. Ask them to mix warm and cold water, having first measured the temperatures, and then do another temperature reading? That'll cost you 25 minutes of instructional time, easy.

Yesterday one of the brightest students--who has always seemed a bit uncoordinated, in spite of being the only freshman in school history to start an after school rock-n-roll performance club--was handing off a test tube of Mysterious Solid. The tube hit the floor, and we got a closer look at its insides. Previous to this accident, I had no idea what substance it was, only that our mission (should we ever complete it) is to experimentally determine its specific heat.

Cleanup was delayed because I had forgotten about the accident, and the aftermath, entirely-- until someone pointed out the large white splash decorating the far end of the lab. I scraped at it. It did not have an odor; perhaps it was wax. I suspect that forgetting to attend to a prominent mess, and barely caring whether we take a day longer to finish, and not recognizing the end in sight are all part of the same story. That I'm tired. It's time to slow down. And sometime after the impossible milestone of next Tuesday, I will.

Next week, I will sleep and write and compose an impressive to-do list. I will stay home and gestate and hang some art around the flat. I will take myself to the antique mall in search of a dresser/changing table for the little one, since 100-year-old oak often costs less than newly-fabricated particleboard. I will do all these things slowly, in my own time. I will make soup, and clean my desk; I will stock up on 50c onesies at the thrift store, and sew some swaddling blankets. I will have more dreams about the baby, and fewer about lesson planning. Best of all, there will be only one set of parents to worry about.