The Middle School Season

Some seasons we long to keep going. It is like that swim you want to take in September before the climate changes. 

Some seasons we want to end quickly.

For five years and five months, I faced some serious tests from graduating with my master’s degree to my son’s diagnosis with autism to a traumatic situation.

No path I walked before can prepare you for goodbye to your child.

It comes unwanted like a fear that you will have to walk through a forest in winter at night.

Life has an unforgiving, realistic way of ripping apart our expectations. Think of it like being a kid. You enter a room full of your favorite balloons. Corrie would ask for a balloon every time we went to the store between the ages of 2 to 4.  When you enter and feel the excitement of the event for all those balloons, suddenly one kid runs through and pops all of them. 

I am a teacher. I want to reach every kid. But, I may not be their cup of tea, and I have to accept I don’t get to the heart of every kid. Life does not work that way.

Sometimes we have those seasons when the sun shines, the river rushes over the rocks, and the hummingbird cares for her nest uninterrupted. Life runs smoothly without a balloon pop.

People have their one, two or more kids. They attend the baseball, video game, or cheer competitions with the 5.5 smile.  Or, some choose to backpack across Europe and embrace travel in a fulfilled life without children.

I wanted every season with children. I wanted my own and my students.

Those seasons without balloon pops are beautiful, and we don’t want them to ever end.

People say, “You’re crazy for teaching middle school.” I knew there would always be teachers for the little ones.  I wanted the ones who truly understood life was unfair. I wanted to teach the ones who either embraced life as an all night, 1980’s family friendly dance party with a disco ball, and the ones who felt like punching someone the moment another kid scuffed his or her shoe.

Because here is the truth: Everyone wants to get out of middle school. Unless you had a 5.5 time during your adolescence, this could be a kid’s Alcatraz. If you think I exaggerate, ask a kid in middle school during the year who is trying to get out.

Out of work.

Out of the way.

Out of class.

Out of sight of that one kid or teacher.

Some seasons in life are the middle school season, and depending on the school, they might be worse or better.

I had some bad situations in the past five and a half years I could call a middle school season, but I always had my family to pull me back. Corrie and her older brother, Hayes, were the flowers blooming out of any thorn bushes.

As I wrote, I came up with the idea for a book that combined with my goal to tell my story about raising Hayes and Corrie.

As I have walked, and will continue to, in my middle school season, John said something while we were out driving to keep ourselves from the abiss. He said, “Corrie’s season,” and I thought: That would be a great title for that memoir.

There were challenges in those five and a half years that would make anyone want to throw their fists at a wall, but Corrie, Hayes, and John kept me from going completely crazy.

Just like she had a season, Corrie had a way with words. She would’ve been a great orator or leader. In those years when I thought I had reached my worst, she brought me back to my favorite season: Corrie’s.