Changes

"When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."
--Julie Andrews, the Sound of Music


My college graduation is in three weeks, and in August I start teaching ninth grade English.

So I decided on a new look for my blogger for a new chapter in my life.
Thoughts?

When I Grow Up to be a ... ??

“When I grow up…” is a phrase I’ve used a million times in my life and two hundred times since the new year began. Despite the fact that I’ve lived on my own for nearly two years, my college degree is weeks from my grasp, and, as of last year, can now order any beverage of my choosing, I still feel like a kid.

Like every other American kid, I counted down the years, the semesters, the weeks, the hours until my high school graduation—the day I no longer had to go to school. A good student and book worm, I always enjoyed learning—it was the homework that I minded. With three generations of teachers—my mom, her mom, and Grandma’s mom—before me, many of my childhood peers expected me to go into teaching. This was an expectation I railed against. For nineteen years I swore the one profession I would never, ever go into was teaching or education. As a college freshman, I flirted with psychology before changing to social work. When the social work major required that I pick up a specialization, I happily added English. At the end of my sophomore year (with the realization that social work was okay, but English classes ruled all), I began to think a lot about the inevitable growing up.

To change my major or not to change my major, that was the question. Thank God I did.

Even two years later, with a nearly completed education degree, I still say to myself, “When I grow up…” How do I see myself? I don’t know. That hazy picture just won’t come into focus.

I was pondering this last night when my roommate stuck her head in. “Wanna watch The Lion King with me?” she asked flashing the cartoon drawing on the video cover. “Duh,” I responded as I jumped up and popped a handful of dry Froot Loops in my mouth. “I’m right behind you,” I continued as kicked my glow-in-the-dark sandals off my feet and across the room into a pile of stuffed animals. When in doubt, revert to childhood.

Today is my birthday. I brought treats with me to student teaching for the kids. (Okay, for me as well.) “How old are you, Miss Acton?” at least one kid in every class asked me. Usually my answer got no response. Whether this was because the kids thought I was too young to be teaching, or they thought I was old, or they just had no opinion one way or the other was unclear to me until the last period of the day.

“How old are you, Miss Acton?”
“Twenty-two.”
Her response was simple, short, and, at two words, directly to the point: “Whoa. Old.”

The class got silent and turned with interest to see how I would respond to this. I paused and searched for the right words. (“Yep.”? “Hey, I’m not old!”? “Well, that’s one way of putting it.”?) Then I burst out laughing and said, “You know, all day long I’ve been unsure about how to feel, so it’s nice to know where I stand.”

The odd thing is, after she said that, I felt younger.

When I grow up I’m gonna be one of those adults who still thinks of herself as a kid. Hey, I guess if I’m using that logic, then maybe… I mean, it’s possible … that … I’m already grown up …

Sort of.

Holy crap.

Bliss

With only five weeks of student teaching left, a job lined up for August, an apartment to myself, and 4 new books to read over the weekend, Miss Rixie is feeling blissful for the first time in months.

Completely. Blissful.