Tuesday, March 4, 2014

When I Grow Up

When I was a little girl and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would answer with one of these three occupations: teacher, cheerleader, writer.

The teacher thing didn't work out as I had expected; while I have a Master of Arts in History, I tried teaching college and found it wasn't for me. Instead, I work with students on a different level, and help them transfer to four-year universities to achieve their dreams.

I never was a cheerleader in high school - pom/dance try-outs were the week before cheer and I made the pom squad. I was lucky - even winning a chance to go to London and dance in the New Year's Day parade!

Writer. Well in my head, I am one. I have a blog. I have my notebook at home. I have about 100 notebooks, journals, and tablets of stories and poems in boxes under the bed and in the crawl space:
  • my first book of haikus in a yellow notebook, told from the viewpoint of a 5th grader
  • my favorite book of poems filled with teen-aged angst and rebellion
  • my black and white notebook with my first vampire story
And many more, too many to list.

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing with my life. I have a career, but it is not the one I imagined.  Or is it?

Teacher - Who shows my children right from wrong? How to tie their shoes? Or make their beds? I teach the harder things too - what to do when a classmate is mean, how to act when a driver cuts me off, what was slavery and why did we do it?

Cheerleader - I am my children's biggest cheerleader! When they do well in school or help out at home, I give them praise (despite what some parenting blogs may say!). When my husband runs his races, I cheer from the sidelines and wait at the finish line. When a student calls me with a problem, I go out of my way to help him or her to get what is needed.

Writer - I write here. Some people read it. Is that what it takes to be a writer? Someone to read your words? Or is it just the ability to put pen to paper (because in the long run, I'm pretty old fashioned)? Does what I write matter? Is it any good? Can I be a writer if no one sees it?

I've been thinking lately of plans. Yesterday's post talked of life being short. Today I wonder if I'm making a difference. Did I grow up to be what I set out to be? Or did I just grow up to be ME?


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