It is Saturday (it was when I began writing this entry, but by the time I posted it, it was Sunday). A day that many people get “off”. Counted as a Sabbath by some, a day of rest. A day to do what you want to do if you are blessed enough, a day to clean the house if it’s been awhile, or a day to browse in a bookstore, go shopping, trim the dogs, take a nap, put in volunteer time for one’s church or one’s community.
Saturdays, sweet, sweet Saturdays.
I remember when our son was a baby and Saturdays were for sleeping late, snuggling in bed, the three of us, doing nothing more than spending time with each other. Lots of laughing, and playing, and learning. Saturdays were delightful and warm and unrushed. They were babbles from the baby‘s room, and I, getting out of bed just because I had to see his baby face, rewarded with a big smile first thing in the morning, always grateful. So very grateful for that adorable face and those charming eyes.
And then he was a toddler climbing out of a crib that he outgrew a year earlier, but his parents refrained from buying a bed until they moved into their new home. Saturdays were eating scrambled eggs for breakfast, and pulling all the toys out of the box, sitting on the floor with a pillow and reading the book he loved the most, and reading it again, and again. Saturdays were listening to loud country music on the reel-to-reel tape deck, a red Irish Setter lounging in the yard by the yucca plants, and a little two year-old boy swinging gleefully in the wooden swing his daddy made for him. There were trips to the lake on Saturdays, and washing the cars, and his daddy scraping the long gravel driveway with the old green tractor.
Cartoon Saturdays became a routine with kindergarten, or maybe even before that, I don’t remember. For a few years, Saturday mornings were He-Man, Transformers, Speed Racer, french toast or pancakes for breakfast, and washing clothes while he watched the cartoons. He loved it when I threw the warm clothes from the dryer on top of him as he lay on the couch. Sometimes a friend came over Friday night and they would watch the cartoons together. Soon, there were Scout trips, Mom and Me Week-End, hiking along the Haw River, and flying a kite in a field somewhere in southern Alamance County. In summer, there was fishing on the Haw, and in winters, sledding down the snowy, ice covered driveway with the neighborhood kids. There were video games. Atari first, then Nintendo. Nothing could stop them from playing their favorite games. Until team sports came along.
Then, came the rushing Saturdays, getting up early, a bowl of cereal to start the day, driving to the bowling alley for three hours of bowling practice or a tournament. In the spring, baseball took his time, his body, and his heart, and Saturdays were getting sunburned watching the boys compete against each other. Time to talk with other parents, compare notes, swap stories, and advise the young coach on how to handle the boys. He was a fast learner.
Saturdays changed when he started driving. He could drive himself to the games now. We didn’t have to get there as early as he did. When baseball season was over, he had jobs on Saturdays, or motorcycle racing with his friends. These were new Saturdays for us, alone without him because he was with his friends at the beach, or at a game, or on a fishing trip, or somewhere not here. Sometimes he’d be practicing his baseball swing or his golf swing in the back yard. Sometimes he would run around the block, getting in shape for Cross Country, or just because he had to stay in shape for baseball. Saturdays for us, then, were often sleeping late, and eating lunch instead of breakfast, or having a country breakfast instead of lunch.
And then began the quiet Saturdays, when he left home for college. No more baseball games, no bowling leagues to rush to, no cartoons to watch, no little boys running down the hall shooting each other with the Laser Tag guns. There was no stopping it from happening. In a way, I was glad that it was happening, and at the same time sad.
I started serious journaling then. The peacefulness of the early mornings allowed me to be still inside my head and heart, and open to the fullness of life. I found words to express my doubts and fears, and penned them for rememberance. I didn't want to forget where I was at that time, or what I was thinking. I knew that it would never be the same again. Like the river passing quickly by as we stand on the bank, no day, no hour, no minute would ever be the same as the one preceding it. Time would move on, and I would never be the same person I was, and neither would they. Those were Saturdays of personal discovery that would never have happened if I had not had the time to be still for a few hours, to reflect, to meditate, or to pray.
The quiet Saturdays were scary at first. With no child to respond to, no funny antic to laugh at, no stories to listen to and none to tell, what would we do? Could we even remember what it was like to be alone like this? It took awhile, but then we remembered. And Saturdays were sweet again. Lovely, lazy, lounging, luxurious Saturdays.
Not any more... Saturdays have lost their consistent promise of a day off. My husband often works on Saturdays, and the days he has off, I’m working. We seldom have a Saturday and a Sunday off together. Where did our Saturdays go?
What did I do with my Saturday today? I went to school to work. I wouldn’t have had to if I could have gotten all my work done before I left the building on Friday, but the truth is, I couldn’t get it all done. I tried to get it all done. I guess I could have taken work home with me each night and got it all done, or I could have worked at school until 6:30 p.m each night and gotten it all done. I have worked at school that late on more than one occasion, and so have other teachers. It's not something I want to do every night, week after week.
Saturdays are no longer a part of the week-end for me, and it’s my fault. I take the blame. It’s my fault because I forgot something I told myself five years ago. I was a still a novice teacher at the age of 47 then. I had told myself that if I had to take the work home with me every night and on weekends too, then I was in the wrong field. I was old enough to realize that working 7 days a week was not the way I wanted live, nor to be remembered. Why would anyone want to work 6-7 days a week? Only if they had to, I’m sure, but not because they wanted to. When I went in this morning, I felt somewhat defeated. I did not want to go in, but I wanted to be ready for Monday. My husband was working, so he wouldn’t even know that I was putting in overtime.
Am I in the wrong field? Or am I just a poor time manager?
I want my week-end back. I’ve got to re-think this problem.
I know I want to continue working in the classroom, I love being a teacher, and I enjoy planning the lessons. The problem is the time factor. I need more time for planning lessons. Some really good, dynamic lessons. I want to implement all those great ideas I hear about and see at the workshops I attend. They require planning, making materials, collaborating with other teachers.
I also want time to be available for my family. Small as it is, it is still a family. I want to be able to go visit my son in Durham once in awhile, take him out to eat, talk with him and his girlfriend. I want some time to do absolutely nothing if I want to because I've been working hard all week. Saturday is the seventh day, after all, the Sabbath, a day of rest recognized by people of the Book, and by others who don't profess a faith at all. Common sense tells us to take a break at least one day a week. One should not work seven days a week. It isn't fair, it isn't ethical, it isn't healthy, and it just isn't good practice. It's a bad habit that ruins family relationships.
Time. It all comes down to time. Teachers are notorious for bringing home their work because they cannot get it all done in the classroom during an eight hour shift. Many cannot get it all done in a ten hour shift.
I could stay at school until 6:00 pm every night, which is possible. I have no problem with that. Except by the time I get home, I am too tired to cook. And no one else in the house wants to cook either. We live too far out to run to town to get something to eat, and I don’t feel like running to town to get dinner anyway. I just want to kick back in the recliner and rest awhile. I deserve that much.
It’s a major problem that I’m going to think about. I need to get creative with my time, the way I plan for it, use it, and I need to be disciplined about it.
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