I used to think that at some distant point on a shimmering horizon—five or 15 or 25 years into teaching—suddenly it would get easier.
I would know exactly how to teach struggling readers to read. I would handle misbehavior with the masterful, no-nonsense tone of Mary Poppins laying down her expectations for Jane and Michael Banks. When I got a new student with out-of-control behavioral issues, I would jump at the chance to stretch myself for a new professional challenge.
Once that distant day arrived, my face would no longer flush with awkwardness and self-doubt each time my principal walked into my room to observe a lesson. I would never again see glazed boredom settle over each student’s face like a limp rubber mask. I wouldn’t once lose my temper, no matter how many times my students refused to listen or work quietly at their desks. (continue reading this article here)