The secret life of teachers

You know how when you were in elementary school you were sort of convinced that your teachers all lived at school and if you would run into them outside of the walls of the building where you learned arithmetic and said the Pledge of Allegiance every Monday, there was always that moment of “does-not-compute”?

It’s totally different from the other side.

I love it when my kids recognize me in public. And I call them “my kids.” But I’ve also recently become more aware how even when I’m out in the community, I’m working. Whenever I hear one of my students yell “Madame Emily!” I quickly evaluate if they’ve caught me in any potentially compromising positions. 

Usually, when I’m at school, I feel like a teacher. But there are also those times when I still feel a little like I’m faking it. Like my kids are going to figure out that I don’t really know what I’m doing. When my one class of students learned how to ask what people’s ages are, I told them I was 30. Twenty-two runs too big of a risk that some of my students are older than me.

Usually, in times like these, I like to threaten giving them a pop quiz. Just so they remember who’s in charge.