The school year is three weeks old and I haven’t succumbed to the stress yet. As I was wondering and marveling at this (no small feat), it occurred to me that being an administrator in an educational setting is a lot like giving birth to a child. More specifically, like laboring to give birth without an epidural.
Of course, I wrote that first paragraph three weeks into my second year as an administrator, and while the metaphor might still work, starting year three is more like giving birth to your third, not first, child: quick, relatively painless, and over before you barely knew it started. Of course, the real work has yet to begin: like bringing a newborn home, most of your time is spent caretaking–feeding, cuddling, and reveling in this tiny miracle who demands only a few simple things of you.
Our teachers are like this, at first: their requests are simple enough. They need copious amounts of copy paper, a few pens, whiteboard markers, maybe some glue sticks and post-it notes. They need constant reassurance that despite all the demands of the outside world (central office, and the larger system in which they work), you are ready to help them navigate. And when they worry that they can’t, you will be a safe place to land. Like the parent of a young child, you will shield them from negative forces and support them when they face challenges. To someone built for leadership (or parenthood), these needs are easy to meet.
Unlike becoming a mother for the first time, when attending to these needs takes a seemingly impossible toll, I am now aware of how to be prepared for (almost) anything. Like a third child, this school year seems easy enough to nurture and tend to. The external forces may be ever-changing, but the basic needs of an infant (and the launch of a new school year) now feel automatic. I have a muscle memory and (some) institutional memory to rely on. I no longer cringe and panic every time my infant (or teachers, or students, or evaluators) cries out for something.
The best part of developing these reflexes is how they allow you the mental and physical space to enjoy the fruits of your labor: this year, even more than last year, and certainly unlike the first year, I am able to walk down the halls with the purpose of enjoying the way the fresh coat of paint has brightened and livened our learning and common spaces. I have time to be available for teachers’ last minute needs, to simply say hello and check in on students, to attempt to learn our new students’ names. Instead of reacting, I am responding. The difference may be subtle, but it is palpable. Like a seasoned mother who has raised three relatively well-adjusted children (one of whom is almost ready to venture off into the world), I no longer worry that I am not doing enough and can instead focus on what I’d like to do differently.
(mostly) full disclosure 