A smile for a day counts a thousand melted frustrations.
There has never been a day that I don't feel frustrated inside the classroom. I don't even know if I am just pushing myself too much and dreaming of too much perfection. I tried to achieve with most of nerve-cracking effort to convey the concept or precept of discipline to my students. I resort to different methods and each seemed to be an entry for frustration. It's almost an illusion. It's doable, I believe. But sometimes nearly impossible. Crying seems to be my last succor, my shelter. Yet, every time they come to me, with sweaty faces and carefree innocence, I can't help but rationalize my worth as a teacher. Frustrating, yes, but fulfilling and ethereal also. Teachers are masochist I believe. Or shall I say, I almost believe. Not in an evil sense though.
All the day's problem seem to be vacuumed by that invisible vortex created by their hugs and smiles. Many times I have been tempted to stop teaching, but each attempt will just prove that their pure comfort and heartwarming (and sometimes hair-raising) embrace are more powerful. And then I forget that I have problems, concerns. I learn to play. I become a child again.
I do not love teaching, to be honest. But there's something far more magnetic in this profession that made me stay for almost half a decade. I am still in the process of discovering things. I don't know teaching that much, albeit years of experience, but I know that I still have the greatest teachers in my midst. I know the children are there. And their smiles reassures me of this fact. Everyday.
And I am melting again.