Sunday night has arrived. Tomorrow is back to school, back to work. I teach in the morning and tutor in the afternoon while my son does his class in the next room over. We both hover over our laptops and manage to get through each week day. I know we’re lucky to be home. I’m lucky that I can work like this instead of being gone out the house busting my ass for 40 hours a week. I always felt like that about teaching college classes–at least I can raise my son. The hours are flexible enough to be with him even as I do the grading and prep work (and now the actually teaching) outside of the actual university.

And yet.

I wish I could quit. I wish I didn’t need it to pay my rent. I wish I could just be doing my own thing, reading and writing and not trying to persuade other people to read and write. I hate that when people ask me what do I do and I tell tell them that I teach and write and sell books, they only want to talk about the teaching part. Meanwhile, I never really meant to be a university instructor, grading on the weekends and wondering why I didn’t figure something else out yet. Even tho I’ve gotten pretty decent at it, I still can’t help but think I could be doing something different.

Other pieces I’ve written on this topic: “Working from Home (with a kid)” & “Needed: More Reading in First Year Writing” & “Teaching Rereading” & “The State of the SAT” & “Ode to Library Holds”