A Teacher's Heart

A Teacher’s Heart

In a former life, I worked as an accountant. My life was filled with numbers. During the weeks before my daughter was born, my workplace was being audited. The auditor and I joked that the baby would be born with a calculator in her hand.   

A few hours after my daughter was born, the phone rang beside my hospital bed. It was the auditor. 

“I just have few questions,” he said. I answered them and then asked him if he realized that I had just delivered a baby. 

“What made you think I could remember all those numbers?”

“I knew you could,” he replied. “You are an accountant after all.”

It’s true. An accountant’s head is full of numbers. I remembered them all. A banker’s head must be full of money. A writer’s head is full of words, a plumber’s is full of pipes and a musician’s full of music. A teacher’s head, of course, is full of children.  And I remember them all. 

I remember the little girl who could never keep her shoes tied or her pencil sharpened.  I remember the little guy who got so involved in his work that he didn’t hear the fire bell.  I remember the kid who constantly worried that there wouldn’t be enough Popsicles, pencils or popcorn and shouted out, “He can have mine!”  I remember the two “naughty” boys who were first to offer to share when we did run short.   

I remember the kids whose parents were in the midst of divorce and the few that lost a parent in death, the tremors and tears and little fingers that slipped into my hand needing reassurance, the sweeties who shouted out that they would be a big brother or sister soon.  I remember the ones who couldn’t read but tried really hard and the ones who could and gently helped a needy friend.  

Children fill my head. Every year more entered my room and memory bank. I didn’t always remember the names correctly, but I never forgot a child. Each and every one is precious. 

Teachers often sit and reminisce about memorable students. Remember the little cutie who was so sweet that every teacher threatened to keep him back just so he could be in her class again? How about that sweetie who asked for teaching materials for her class of stuffed animals at home? Or the one who went about every day so full of life that sunshine followed her about?

Smiles and giggles fill my head. The sound of childish voices belting out a song echoes in my ears. A thoughtful reader is a wondrous thing no matter how slow or hesitantly the words come out. A budding artist glowing over a minor masterpiece, or a “mathmagician” who just figured out what regrouping is all about join the happy camper who never knew what page we were on and the quiet cuddler who reached out to touch my hand while walking in line. Rapt faces, that gazed up at me as I played all the parts in every storybook I read, reflect in my mind’s eye and slide right down into my heart.

 For that is the key to remembering. Every child a teacher remembers leaks down from her mind and seeps into her heart. Naughty or nice, they will always be your children. They will always be your boys and girls, your class, the children of your heart. And even though we borrow them from their parents for only a year, we share their joys and sorrows and hold them dear. 

  

A teacher’s heart is full of children and a heart full of children will never grow old.