A Blank Canvas

Last week I saw my new classroom for the first time. I was nervous. I have spent all of July with my kids, being a mother, wife and a friend, thinking only marginally about the instruction to come. I knew it wouldn't be pretty. I expected to find a mountain of unpacked boxes as high as the ceiling. I expected the closets to be half full of unwanted but potentially useful materials that I didn't ask for but would have to consider. I expected the walls to be covered with double sided tape that needed scraping, and staples that needed removing. I expected to be overwhelmed. But I knew it had to happen. The first visit.

I was pleased to find a room with clean walls and two huge empty closets. It was noticeably bigger than my last classroom, has six times as many bulletin boards (I barely had one last year), and two walls of tall windows. The room seemed enormous. I immediately started envisioning a reading area with a couch, a research and discovery corner, a couple of computers for publishing, a large morning meeting area. This room would be a perfect blank canvas for the classroom I have always wanted to have. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt that first instinctive shiver of excitement to get started.

Before leaving I peeked at my colleague's room across the hall, a perfect reflection of my floor plan. I stopped short and visibly deflated. She had already set up her furtniture. Once the 20 desks were in place, with a couple of book shelves and a group reading table, there was not much room left. No place for morning meeting, no couch, no reading rug. The room actually looked... small. Tomorrow my two year old spends two hours with a friend so I can start unpacking. We will see what kind of feats of engineering (or magic) I can perform.