I am not a teacher

I am not a teacher.

Yes, I teach. But I am not a teacher.

I give lessons in grammar. I praise geometry proofs. I reveal the seeds that, once planted, bloomed into world wars.

But I am not a teacher.

I sing Bible verses. I drill math facts. I repeat memory devices for cardinal directions, parts of speech, and snake identification.

But I am not a teacher.

I talk teens through their first moments behind the wheel. I give tips to budding chefs on how to make the perfect go-to Alfredo sauce. I outline human reproduction and advocate abstinence.

I wake every morning knowing that my job is to lead children through their wonder and discovery, and to come out on the other side as capable, God-fearing adults.

But I am not a teacher.

I am a mother.

I do not take responsibility not for a classroom or five of students, but only for the ones God has planted here, in my home. I do not pretend to know what it is to stand before 30 wide-eyed 5 year-olds, introducing the Bossy E that will rock their world phonetically. I have no experience taming a knot of middle schoolers post-lunch, or trying to ignite a passion for Beowulf in the hearts of children whose middle names I will never know.

I have cried over children struggling to read. I have listened to the lament of a student unable to grasp a concept. I have danced with a child after a French test gone well, and laughed through Latin roots. I have looked at assigned reading, rolled my eyes, and sent a book to purgatory. I have handed out M&Ms for verses explained with the wisdom that will bear fruit long past childhood.

This is who I am, not what I do.

This is my calling, not my profession.

I am a mother who teaches.

Not a teacher.