I don’t really want to write this anywhere permanent. If my longhand could keep up with my thoughts I’d find a journal, write everything I’ve ever thought to say, ever could say, and then burn the whole damn thing when it was through – hopefully, it would be a single journal. A slim one.
I digress. I meant to say I just want a piece of paper that no one will ever see and that I can later destroy in an instant. This is that paper.
There was a knock on my door just now and I rushed to answer it internally promising an open-mouthed kiss to whomever was on the other side. It was the wind; there was no one. I don’t know why I thought that anyway; such thoughts are in no way indicative . . . but isn’t that what everyone always says? We go through life doing terrible things and getting them done to us with supreme disassociation, because we are not the type of people, we are not usually like this, we didn’t think we were capable of, and – worst of all – we never wanted this.
I shouldn’t be a teacher in a prep school. I should be on an airplane somewhere, in a hotel lobby, walking on a bridge.
I’m an anonymous Lola.
I will promise you three things: one, that everything I say is true, has happened, is felt. Two, that no real names are used. Thirdly, that I won’t edit. Every word that hits the paper stays there.
And one further thing, since you are me: the children are not part of the bad parts. The children – ask anyone who has ever been in daycare, teaching, anywhere, ever – the children are brilliant. Adults have no monopoly on being flawed and beautiful and raw and tender and ten thousand contradictions all at once. Adults have a monopoly on ego.
Daycare Chronicles 