This is my view as I watch three boys in my son’s class write their Father’s Day poems:

Really short hair, short hair and long hair.  I noticed the boys in the class are all, coincidentally, seated by hair lengths.   My son is part of the long hairs.

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.



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