A Labor of Love

Labor of Love

A couple of weeks ago a persistent sore throat sent me reluctantly to the doctor's office. As I sat impatiently in the reception area, awating the call of my name, I discerned that the room was full of chatting, soon-to-be mothers in various stages of pregnancy. Scanning a three-month-old copy of Better Homes and Gardens, I tried unsuccessfully to turn a deaf ear to their incessant litany of symptoms. As their voices droned on, however, I was suddenly struck by a revelation: Although I have never been pregnant, I too, have experienced the identical aches, joys, and anxieties: I am a teacher. To teach is to vicariously experience the pangs of pregnancy -- a nine month odyssey of child development.

As I entered school that sleepy September morning, the start reality that I have begun the first month of my first trimester registers in my already queasy stomach. My body and mind grow fatigued, thinking of the physical and emotional demands that await me in the ensuing nine months ahead. However, in the span of a minute, I find my mood swinging from uneasy fear to eagerness and anticipation, confident that my students will revel in the heroic antics of Beowulf, and feel the anguish of Marc Antony. Now buoyent in the belief that I will be the great Mother of Knowledge, my students silently enter the classroom. As I gaze into each pair of eyes, eager to discern the first flickers of life, the unwelcome urgency again emerges -- just forty-seven minutes more and I shall be able to dash to the bathroom once again. Thus September passes.

Although October and November carry with them many symptoms reminiscent of September, I find myself experiencing new and confusing ones as well. The fatigue and nausea still plague my days, but accompanying them now are irrational and unexplained cravings. I am suddenly filled with the desire to change my kitchen shelf paper or clean those long forgotten closets, chores that would have never entered my mind during those carefree, pre-contract months. However, now that I am held captive in my new surroundings, the cravings intensify. The days are marked by occasional headaches; my body is still adjusting to the enormity of the task that lies ahead. Thinking I now detect movement and life within my students, my hopes are dashed: Movement will not occur until the fourth month -- closer to report card day. As November emerges, my mood swings occur with less frequency, and I now experience a welcome sense of calmness; Thanksgiving vacation is near.

With fatigue still its vanguard, the second trimester of child development begins. The annoying mild swelling in my ankles and feet, though unwelcome, is now expected, as is the nagging backache; all painful reminders of the seven hours spent daily on my feet explaining the difference between metaphors and similes. Nasal congestion now begins to plague me; after all, December is the breeding ground of virus-infected children, as yet unschooled in the art of covering one's mouth during a sneezing attack. Although my mood swings have temporarily stabilized, I discover that irritability is now second nature to me; consistently late assignments and bickering children are beginning to erode my normally pleasing personality. (Although the bickering does at least indicate movement and life!)

January and February, too, are unkind in their contributions to my delicate condition. My clothes, now too snug from the months of faculty lounge doughnuts and potato chips, are relegated to the back of closet as new and unfashionable "fat" clothes replace them. Unpredictable anxiety attacks intermittently appear and disappear with staggering speed -- fears that my weight gain will be permanent or my students are not progressing as they should. However, as February draws to a close, my anxiety is replaced with a new, and often, frightening boredom with my condition. The novelty and excitement of my odyssey has waned, and I resign myself to my fate.

Since March has arrived like a lamb, I steel myself for my final trimester, aware that the inevitable lion awaits me. My students are now extremely active, allowing me no peace during the day. The difficulty I experience sleeping nights is evident as I force my swelling, cramping legs to drag me around the room for individual student conferences; after all, the welfare of my students is my main concern. As my temples pound, my feelings of boredome beging to dissipate, replaced by an uneasy apprehension. In less than three months my students will be released into the world, and it is my responsibility to prepare them! Calming myself with the knowledge that the end is near, I painfully continue my rounds. The hemorrhoids are not improving; the continuous strain of the weight of my students assaults my body. Two more months and this torture will end.

April and May differ little from the aches and pains of March, yet now it is my emotional state that dominates my thinking. Still anxious and impatient, I daydream and fantasize about the fate of my students, visualizing that Joel will win his scholarship and Susie will be accepted by her dream college in the East. Lost in the revelry of my fantasies, I am seized by a crippling pain; final exams are complete and the task of grading them awaits -- my labor has begun. With measured breaths and an eye on the clock, I struggle to deliver final grades to the office. Urged on by the support of fellow teachers who assure me that I am doing fine, it is time to push; grades are due in less than fifteen minutes! Exhausted, I summon my last ounce of strength and record the final score. With a giddy sense of relief and tenderness, I cradle the grade sheets in my arms. It is over. I have succeeded. I have given birth to a new class of graduates.

As the relatives gather, the flashes of Polaroid cameras record the miracle. All memories of pain and anxiety fade as I feel the touch of my students shaking my hands or hugging me in tearful good-byes, with diplomas clutched tightly to their breasts. These are my children, they are products of nine months of my love and nurturing. While I watch my fledglings reach out to the world, thoughts of new children enter my mind. Forgetting the trials and tribulations I will experience, I turn my eye to the future, and prepare for the conception of the next class. I do hope to have an easier time next year.

Nancy Samp
El Dorado, Kansas