It’s a lot like the rest of Las Vegas. I’m hearing a constant, numbing jingle of electronic casino sounds, which have apparently replaced any coin-clanking sounds of years gone by. And, because the universe knows I love comedy, Kenny Rogers is singing “The Gambler” over the PA system. There’s a great deal of cigarette scent in the air.

I came here for a conference. And my brain is very full of information and experiences, but mostly I think it was great. I spent time with friends I love, and met some wonderful people. I learned things. I feel encouraged to be productive in my writing.

I’m revising a book that’s due next week. I’m making sure I remember to put setting in it (not always on my radar, to be honest). I’m early to the airport and I have a lot of space to myself. I took off my shoes and my feet are up on my suitcase and I’m working uninterrupted (so of course I’m writing this instead of working on my manuscript).

Here’s what I think: The Vegas strip is gross. There’s so much crass commercialism (Fendi, Prada, Gucci, Cartier stores we passed every day, yikes), and the gaming system is set to abuse people who behave in fear and ignorance. My hair reeks of cigar smoke because you can’t get anywhere without walking through a casino. And the airport seems to be a low-rent version of the same. Ewww.

I’m ready to go home and wash all of this off my skin. But for this moment, I’m happy to have a little space to myself and a charged computer.

I think she’s right.

Knowing I”m not going back to school next week has literally lifted me. I loved teaching. So much. I adored my students. I love our high school. It was amazing to be there with my own kids. And I’m so glad I’m not going back.

The last two years have been rough. Our state and district chose to protect and prioritize kids’ time in classrooms, which means that we did school almost every day of 2020/21 and 2021/22. When Covid numbers grew really high in fall of 2020, we shut down for two long weekends. Otherwise, we were masked and in class. All the time. It was probably what was best for kids. And that was exhausting. Both the masking and the constantly policing masks, and the emotional toll it took to do a job like teaching without ever receiving the reward of seeing kids smile at you. The understanding that if we teachers got sick, we’d be both endangering our students and letting down the school.

And somehow, last year was even harder. Maybe it was circumstance. Maybe it was culture. Maybe I’m just getting old. But whatever it was, I was grateful to realize that it was a good year to be my last. There are sacrifices here. I didn’t qualify for retirement. Our district requires 20 years or being 55, and I really don’t have that many teaching years left in me. My income has been pretty instrumental in our family’s financial survival for most of the last ten years. It was important for me to be needed. I loved being in the know.

But now I’m a fulltime writer.

That looks very different from being a fulltime teacher. It happens earlier. It ends sooner. It doewsn’t require pants. The books I read as a writer are different than the books I read as a teacher. I have to look at more numbers and create more spreadsheets and moderate different kinds of group conversations. I nap more. I go outside.

And I don’t feel the crushing pressure of the Last Week of July. Somehow that last week of July has been, for a decade, a week of impending ending. Last week of freedom. Last week of nobody’s schedule but mine. And now I don’t have it.

And apparently it’s making me stand up straighter. Look taller. Appear lighter.

I’ll take it.

And when I’m not writing, I read. I listen to audio books. I study craft books. I read fiction. Nonfiction. Romantic comedy. What-the-dramatic popular stories. Talks and podcasts. I’m learning.

I’m working.

And it’s working.

And sometimes it’s terrifying. Sometimes I look at my words and I wonder, “Who will like this? Will anyone who doesn’t already love me find this good?”

And sometimes I read words I wrote and I grin. Or I sigh. Or I laugh.

It’s good to be a writer.

Not just for the school year. I mean, I’m DONE teaching.

And I feel things about this.

Mostly super happy things. I love not having my alarm set. I love going outside when I feel like it. I love wearing sweats and not doing my hair/face. I love taking a nap in the afternoon. I love going on long walks. I love seeing the leaves on trees and knowing that the season is staying here for months and I’m not going to miss it. I love writing in the morning. I love reading messages and looking at Instagram and writing long texts.

But of course there are things I’ll miss.

And I know what they are and you probably do, too.

I’m also in a play. It’s lovely. Two of my students wrote it (one who just graduated and one who is going to be a senior) and we’re performing it in our community theater. People are coming. They’re laughing. They’re crying. They’re loving the show (and not ONLY because they love the kids who wrote it). That feels great. And it will be done tomorrow night. And that feels great, too.

I’m finishing a book, which I hope I will publish (on Kindle, etc) in a month.

I’ve lost 20 pounds. In a good way.

I’m dogless. That’s a really great part.

We’re wedding planning for Ellie and Kian. I’m looking at and then ignoring clothes ads online.

I quit using my super awesome gel nail polish/light system because my fingernails have become mere shells of tissue; I’m putting collagen in my shakes and smoothies to heal the damage.

I have a long list of stuff to do.

And I’m going to sit outside with a book instead of doing any of it. This is my life now.

And it feels good.

Last night we had high school graduation, and not only did my youngest kid graduate, but I was involved in my last grad ceremony. My responsibilities were varied, and some of them were a little scary. I read the names of the kids (and their parents) as they walked across the stage. I only messed up twice (a Hawai’ian middle name, which YIKES, and a bad page turn, where the pages stuck together and I read the wrong kid’s name. Ack).

People were gracious and lovely about how things went at graduation, and that was nice, too. Word is out that I’m done teaching: my little community has realized that I’m not going to be around to teach their kids. Kids are being gracious. Love notes are appearing everywhere — on my desk, on my car window, at my house.

And all my kids were home last night after the grad ceremony.

Do you know the song “Crowded Table” by The Highwomen? It sings my heart.

You can hold my hand
When you need to let go
I can be your mountain
When you’re feeling valley-low
I can be your streetlight
Showing you the way home
You can hold my hand
When you need to let go

I want a house with a crowded table
And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we’re young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done

If we want a garden
We’re gonna have to sow the seed
Plant a little happiness
Let the roots run deep
If it’s love that we give
Then it’s love that we reap
If we want a garden
We’re gonna have to sow the seed

Yeah I want a house with a crowded table
And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we’re young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done

The door is always open
Your picture’s on my wall
Everyone’s a little broken
And everyone belongs
Yeah, everyone belongs

I want a house with a crowded table
And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we’re young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done
And bring us back together when the day is done

I love the image of an effort-and-consequence relationship build, and I love the crowded table idea. Yesterday my kitchen table was crowded. Joyously, noisly crowded. And that was delightful. And some things are last things, and some things last.

I’m required to send out a “Stakeholder Survey” to the parents of my students. We were all given a template (that has some not particularly helpful or useful questions on it) and told to edit it or spruce it up to our hearts’ content.

That’s code for “we don’t really care about the feedback; we are simply adhering to a government mandate,” if you know what I mean.

So I edited. I asked, “As a parent, what’s your impression of the work required for this class?” with answers like “too much, too little, too hard, too easy, just about right” to choose from.

I asked, “Does your child feel known, respected, and liked in my classroom?”

I asked, “Does your child feel like we learn useful/important skills in this class?” with a slider for how useful/important our English skills are.

You know. Useful questions. Kind of. Most parents will take 2 minutes to answer the questions. And there’s a space to say “anything else” about their kids’ experience with me.

It’s the space that’s scariest.

And it’s in the space that the kindest things are said. About half the parents who answer the survey write something in that space. It’s not the ones who think my class is too easy for their kid. It’s not the ones who think I offer too little work. It’s the ones who have had several kids from their families in my classroom through the years. It’s the ones whose kids feel loved and honored and connected. Sometimes they name their kid, so I can know where the kind anonymous comments originate. Sometimes they direct the comments to me, sometimes they’re about me in 3rd person. But no matter the beauty and kindness of the vast majority of the messages, I still fear the possibility that angry parents will say the angry words. Will click the “meh” boxes. Will shrug and decide that they can’t be bothered.

I want to be the kind of respondent who says the things that make someone’s day. To help balance the positive/negative ratio — not balance, really, but carefully cultivate sincere, honest positive praise.

In the message, I told them the assignments would lock. Then I said, “If you reply to this email with a joke, I’ll give you an extra credit point. If your parent responds to this email telling me something they love about you, I’ll give you a second point.”

Moms (and a few dads) are reading emails. I’m getting flooded with messages of how much these people love their kids, and let me tell you, it sure helps me like them better! (And I know that THEY know that they’re not going to have more late access to missing work.)

Win.