Tugging At My Sleeves

I forgot how tiresome they can be: “Miss, I need to drop a class.”  “Miss, I want to change jobs. Do I talk to you?” “Miss, where’s my resume I wrote in your class?” “Miss, can I come use your computer to type my application?” Miss. Miss. Miss. Phew. I try to put their voices aside and admire the awesome view leading up to my home. A few hours previous some snow powdered the mountain just above the golden aspen line. Breathe, just breathe, I tell myself.

From the back seat comes, “Mom, look! Mom, you know what? Hey, Mom, what’s 3 and 5? Mom, how do you spell ‘cat’? MOM! You’re not listening.” I try admiring the view again. I try getting my child to admire the view. It’s too late, we’re home now.

Inside I can hear my baby crying–for me.

I can’t wait for bed time.


About hey miss

A teacher. A prison guard. I used to think that was like oil and water. Like lightening and metal. Some days it is. Some days it's magic.
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