When I was teaching I always held a little extra space in my heart for my first period kids. They deserved it, and they needed it. Because I just didn’t know yet what I was doing. I planned and prepared and collated and sorted and outlined. But until that bell rang and I was standing poised to begin I really didn’t know how things would shake out.

Would that one critical slide prove confusing beyond belief? Would my “fun” activity fall flat? Would I complete the lesson with 10 minutes to spare or 10 minutes of content I didn’t even touch? Was there a typo on the worksheet that I didn’t notice until I printed 240 copies?

I’m quick on my feet and could always implement any adjustments for my 2nd period crew, not to mention the adjustments necessary just by virtue of being later in the day (later classes are rowdier, less pliable, but more responsive to questions and discussion. Jokes land better, too).

But what about those poor first period guinea pigs? I always felt a little guilty but appreciative when I graded their papers and entered their scores. I was a little more flexible and understanding. I recognized my failings and did my best not to hold them accountable for the simple learning curve that 7:45 am proved to be for the both of us. I was grateful that they were patient with me, and hoped they wouldn’t ever know or care what a short stick they often drew.

Reese is my first period class. But the repercussions are far more critical, lasting, and potentially destructive. I have never delivered this lesson before. Sometimes the lesson plan is extensively researched by parenting books, observation, discussion with older and wiser parent friends, and sheer will power. Sometimes the lesson plan is thrown together 3 minutes before the bell. But I just have to give it. I just have to go for it and hope it works. I have to learn on the fly and do my best.

I hope that, like my 2nd-7th period kids, Loney benefits from all the things I’m learning from my 1st period Reese lesson. I’m not stupid enough to believe that it’s easier or all the kinks are fixed. I may have the lesson plan down pat but the afternoon kids were a whole different animal. You have to keep your head on a swivel and be ready to adjust at all times in the day.

There’s also that scary moment when you realize that your lesson is bombing – and how do you fix it for 2nd period? Can it be salvaged at all? Did you completely botch it and you’re gonna have to botch it 6 more times in a row because you just suck at this particular unit????

If I was Reese’s mother, I’d move her out of this hot mess first period class. INCEPTION I am also the teacher and there’s no true substitute. Sometimes the injustice is overwhelming. Why should she have to be the guinea pig to this fledgling, prideful, hardass, self-serving mom? Why does she have to be the one getting half-lessons and crammed lessons and tired lessons and poor planning?

Is she going to have to watch me get it right (or at least ~more right) with her younger siblings and think “Why do they get the polished Mom?” As a first period class myself, I get it. I know what it’s like to be held to different (higher?) standards and to serve as the calibration test for each stage of development. There were so many things I didn’t understand then, but I understand now. Reese might not get it until she’s a mom herself, or ever at all.

So how do I compensate for that first period learning curve? How do I grade Reese’s papers a little easier? How do I make up for the days she only got half the lesson because I was woefully optimistic about our first period abilities? How do I stop blaming her for being a sleepy first period that’s impossible for me to predict? How do I stop feeling so terrible about my frequently failing lesson plans? How in the world do you keep showing up for a first period that is regularly ending in tears for everyone involved??? And ya know, now that I really think about it, there were so many days that I just phoned in that 7th period because I was too tired and patience-drained to care. Are we doomed for that too?

The pay is, somehow, even worse than when I was teaching. As if the situation could get more bleak.

This metaphor falls apart under any more scrutiny than this, but suffice it to say that I care so much and I want to do well – for all of my children. I have grand schemes and high standards for them. I am being made painfully aware each day that, most likely, they are punitively unrealistic for Reese. I discover this after pushing and pushing and fighting and disappointment and confusion and tantrums and self-loathing.

I lay awake worrying that I’m ruining her life and shattering her precious Reese confidence because I’m too stupid to prepare a better, more simplified and scaled-back lesson plan. Because what if that doesn’t help her hit the standard and pass the test and grasp the concept?!!! What if being lax with first period means that every period that day is academically weak and underprepared?!!!

I lay awake worrying that I’m here forcing Reese to rise to impossible heights while treating Loney like a baby because she is ~my baby for the time being. When new baby comes, am I going to suddenly start pushing Loney too hard, or perhaps be more lenient to her detriment, because I’ve worn out the elaborate lesson on Reese?

If I feel so bad about the way I’m showing up for first period Reese, why can’t I adjust better? Grade easier? Correct the pattern? I can do better. But I also need to accept that we’ll never really get out of first period. She’ll be my first period toddler, my first period grade-schooler, my first period teenager, my first period everything.

I am so glad it’s Reese. Reese with the confidence that colors the world around us. Reese with the sass to be resilient. Reese with the forgiving spirit.

Please, PLEASE, Lord, let me start making better lesson plans and please, PLEASE help me adjust the curve to be more fair for her.