Teaching during the last month of sixth grade feels like dragging fifty heavy, bored, struggling boulders up a very high hill. In the rain. Wearing stillettos, after having eaten only lettuce for a week. Some of the boulders are crying, some of them are throwing spit-pebbles at the other boulders, and some of the boulders' parents are complaining that you're not pulling hard enough, and their precious boulder deserves to get to the top of the hill just because they are a Nice Boulder, and Mommy Said So.
This week, I kind of wish I were a plumber. Or a zoo-keeper. Or a dentist. Actually, I kind of feel like all three.