Sometimes, when I'm sitting in my car, in yet another school parking lot or someone else's parking spot in a run down apartment complex waiting over 45 minutes for my student, I need to gear up. I need to make it through a day of 20 some kids who don't care what you have to say or, (in tonight's case), one only child who gets away with calling all the shots. I need to let go of the fact that I'm irritated, tired, and disgusted by the disregard and pretend that the two week dried vomit and pet droppings at the top of the four flights are just a new take on graffiti.
I really want to voice my frustration, to shout that it's not okay to continuously keep jerking me around with scheduled sessions, but know I have to turn that switch off and do my job. I need to make everything easy, pleasant, and as interesting as possible. I need to help to make everything better; to reassure parents that Johnny is learning more even if it's like pushing a boulder up a mountain. It's times like this that I take one more big gulp of coffee from my travel mug in preparation for the performance and take comfort in knowing that there are hugs waiting for me at home. I will be done soon and the discomfort will dissipate after an episode or two of The Real Housewives.
As I come closer to the front door I hear that sad, slow saxophone intro play in my head once again like I'm about to enter a seedy dive that will steal my soul. I take a breath, knock on the door, and wait for the crowd of various children and their pets to greet me. If a rockstar can to handle gig after gig than so can I.
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