I love my job.
I love that I can inspire children to be the absolute best they can be. I love that they will laugh along with me, pretend that they think my lessons are lame, but show me by their work that they have loved it.
I love that in my free periods children seek me out to tell me their latest drama, love or heartbreak. That because they can do this, they know they can seek me out to disclose the shit stuff. I love that I can be a part of making some of that shit stuff better.
I love that I haven't had an uninterrupted lunch break since the dawn of time, and that today I ate lunch with a student who was having a horrible day. We talked about why he smoked so much: it's to make him feel less stressed, and his mum gives him fags. He's 13.
I love that I spend most Sundays working - genuinely, there is a sense of achievement when I know I've given high quality feedback to my students that will make them better. It's part of the job and I've been doing it long enough to have organised my life so it works, but not at no cost.
I love creating lessons that look beautiful and go well.
I love the holidays.
[This is the box for the stuff I hate: the paperwork and the endless, endless scrutiny. The battles with parents. The never having an evening mid week where I can think fuck it, I'm going to the pub.The expectation that I'm a robot who can be faced with a highly charged emotional situation then go on stage for 2 hours and still delver an outstanding lesson. The awful testing our children have to do and the emphasis on academic success regardless of the child.]
So, you see, on balance? I love my job. I can spell. My subject knowledge is excellent and I'm not a twat.