First

First.

I am the first born sibling out of three.
First to drive.
First to get married.
First to have a child.
First to buy a house.
First to get divorced.
First to fail my family, my kids. Split us up.
First to accept the marriage was over.
Ah, first of anything can be celebrated, good or bad. Right or wrong. At TCU, I would always want to go first. Get it over with. Take the leap. Sometimes leaping with my eyes closed.

The "First" time I hit a handstand.

"Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step." Martin Luther King Jr. 

First. That word rings in my ears daily.

First year teacher. First 'big girl" job. First pay check. First Grade.

A year of firsts.

A student asked me today, "Do you teach first grade?" I hear myself say, "I do."

I still cannot believe I teach first grade. I just knew I was a fourth grade writing teacher. My friends knew it. My professors knew it. And it was not to be.

My "first" First Grade Class.
21 first grade bright souls fill my every thought. I drag myself through intense workouts to quiet the constant chatter, which plagues me daily. I teach reading and writing. I put on a one act play, as I am sure most teachers do in their classroom, to engage their bright minds. To turn on a light bulb, which I know is there. "Please read when you leave my classroom," I pray.

First time to miss Halloween. I was in a parent conference.
First time to miss my son's first tennis match.
First time to miss my son's football game,
First of many invitations and dinners I have missed.

A year of firsts.

I teach writing. Not the writing I thought I was going to teach. I have a student. He would sit there and our dialogue would sound something like this. "What are you going to write about?" Student: "I don't know. I don't know how to write."

The many explanations, picture drawing, conversations, tears (both his and mine) yielded nothing.

It is day 95 in the school year and today was the FIRST time that student picked up a pencil and wrote during our writing time. He came to show me and the smile on his face is something I will remember forever. Was is perfect? No. Not even the genre we are covering. I don't care.

If I could frame that first story, I would.

Today was the first day I realized I am a writing teacher.

As I came running into my yoga studio, change of clothes in my hand, smile on my face because I left my desk a mess but I would get to do something so wonderful this evening, I received a warm smile from my teacher whom is an amazing, gifted writer. She shared a story at the beginning of class about stepping in a hole in the street over and over and over again. We walk down a street and fall into a hole. We walk down the same street the next day. We see the hole and continue to fall in the hole. We find comfort in the hole. We eventually know the hole is there, try to walk around it, and still we fall in.

Maybe one day, you don't step in the hole but accept a different path, a different street.

A "first" time down a new street.