I am officially tired. My Vitamin B must not recognize that it has to step it up a notch because I have no energy. I run like the Energizer Bunny all day, on my feet, up and down [up to] 4 flights of stairs and I have unofficially become the
Voice-of-Reason-Go-To person. Speaking intelligently, and with an ability to understand simply that which over-educated people are attempting hyper intellectualize, has earned me the right to more responsibility--mash it up like baby food and feed it back to 'em. Stat. Facilitating this committee, scribe for that committee, spearheading this project, and taking over that one. And it's only Day 2.
In this environment, I'm the newbie, & young so my ideas appear fresh and people are listening to me like I'm E.F. Hutton. It makes me laugh, though missing lunch to cover others ineptitude because "you've got it better than they do" is not going to cut it for 178 more days. I could feel that this was going to happen. This move to work with the easier, more loving and malleable age groups was going to come with a great deal of assumed responsibility because the rap is none of us have enough to do because the babies are easy. That's NOT TRUE!!! There are never ending shoes to fill as well as never ending shoes to tie, and any manner of strange scenarios in between. I love it, and perhaps more [differently] than being with my older babies, but don't let the smooth taste fool ya: it IS work. Even with an aide...cuz I'm also busy showing him the ropes.
This must be where I start surveying the landscape for prime real estate. It's time to figure out where my corner is that's only big enough for my teepee. There can't be enough space for committee meetings or members. No space for computers to type up addendums to meeting notes collected from the handwriting of 3 and the 1 person who typed hers on the laptop. I don't want a collection of lunch bags and plastic silverware or room for your book on the latest research in neuroscience that outlines the connection between children's restroom breaks and their retention rates. I just need 3 minutes (& an oxygen tank if it's on the 4th floor) to myself so I can don my smile again and the silly voice reserved for making the wee ones feel comfortable.
I feel like a walking zombie, and already feeling like backing off my commitment to not being an old school marm for 9 months, but I'm TYE-YERD!! Still, it's been good so far. I think I can not only make it, but make it great.
Watch me move.