So tomorrow I'm going back to work--just for a few hours, a Thursday morning poetry-teaching gig to last me through summer--but I'm terrified. I'm afraid I'll walk in and start counting toes and talking about piggies going to market; I'll holler out Old MacDonald and sing tweet tweet tweet; I'll make raspberries and say A-goo and roll 'em up, roll 'em up, throw 'em in a pan.
I don't know how women do it. I understand why they would want to or why they might need to, but really, I've been wearing this mommy hat [trust me: the hat-hair (read: wild garbled unwashed mess) is evidence] for so long now that putting on my working hat--let alone buttoning my working pants!--seems next to impossible.
Hello, I will say, I'm your poetry teacher, and I'll cross my fingers that I don't have poop on my shoulder or milk spots on my shirt. What is poetry? I'll ask them. The light will stream through the windows, and hopefully, someone will raise a hand and say something--anything--because right now, I'm not sure what I'd say if the room stayed silent.