Dear Secret Blogiary,
Today, I once again came home from work with my eyes red and poofy from crying.
It was a rough day.
Not only are the students having to adjust to a new schedule because we had to rearrange classes to meet class size amendment, but with block scheduling “B – Day” is my worst day. I have three 90 minute classes of hell with no break except for lunch. Each class is overloaded, still out of compliance with class size I might add, and all three of the classes are over two thirds ESE (also against the law).
Now having ESE students would be fine IF the students had learning disabilities. I can deal with that, but with the labeling the schools have, anyone with a “behavior” problem is also labeled ESE even though what they really need are parents at home doling out discipline with a large stick! Needless to say, it is hard to actually teach when I spend 70 minutes dealing with behavior problems.
Well, when Mister W saw me walk through the door, he took one look at my face and offered to “take care of” whoever was giving me grief. He was trying to get me to smile a little, but all I managed to do was burst into more tears. Mister W did not like that one bit. In fact, it kind-of turned him into a raging lunatic for a brief moment or two (he is so adorable when he gets all He-Man protective of me).
“Just quit.” Mister W makes it sound so simple and easy.
“I can’t just quit!” I garbled into his shoulder.
“...the house, the food you like to eat, the clothes the girls keep growing out of, the new car we have been trying to save up for…should I continue?”
“We can survive on my salary.”
“Survive?” I said, “I’m not sure I want to just “survive.”
“You know what I mean. We downsize, move into an apartment, you can get a part-time job somewhere…or better yet, stay home, write your damn book and home-school the girls.”
“…” Of course this is totally what I want, but I almost feel guilty for wanting it so I say nothing.
“Oh and have dinner for me every night when I get home from work.”
“And a cocktail too I suppose.” I finally crack a tiny smile.
“Yup. Just quit. Works for me.” He smirks.
The awesome thing is, he is serious. Call him a throwback, but his mindset is that of the 1940s where the men worked and the women stayed home. So when he says this to me, I know that if tomorrow, I hand Mr. MoHOLU a resignation letter, Mister W will be fine with it. Hell, he’d probably take me out drinking to celebrate.
Then why am I so scared to do so? Why do I continually torture myself with a job that makes me cry? Sure, I am terrified of being poor. But we have lived on Mister W’s salary alone in the past.
I think what holds me back is my die hard determination to avoid quitting out of defeat. I’ve quit jobs because I’ve moved or have gotten a better offer, but I’ve never quit because I lost, because I was defeated and beaten down.
Right now, I am beaten. And with Mister W prodding me to make a change, I feel like I could almost take that plunge.