This is my view as I watch three boys in my son’s class write their Father’s Day poems:
I volunteer at the school. I enjoy it. I have never volunteered in my life – ok, that short stint at the Humane Society where I pet cats and cried so much, I had to stop after three visits. This has been my taste of doing something because I only want to. I don’t have to, I sort of need to but most of all I want to.
I worked closely with my son’s teacher this year and I am very fortunate to have had this opportunity. I helped the kids write. It has been most satisfying.
I was able to volunteer at my daughter’s school as well. Her teacher is a wonderful man. My kids have been very lucky this year, and in turn, so have I. As the end of the school year approaches I am sad but also sort of relieved.
I am sort of relieved because it is tough being a volunteer. Mostly because I am never completely comfortable. While my job may be easily defined for that specific purpose, my role is vast and I need to find my way through with few guidelines (I have no union). I often feel that when a person at the school fails to look happy to see me that I have stepped across a line somehow. It is my compulsion to second guess myself maybe.
I do feel down some days, if there has been a slight or a moment of awkwardness or a fit of quick anger that I have tamped down.
So I think of a moment, like the one of the boys above. Those heads down as they work quietly, tongues sticking out or legs fiddling beneath the table. It is worth it – those uneasy moments – because the good moments are startling in their delight.