Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

One Hour a Week

By Gail Rosenblum

waits for me in front of Room 210, hands holding something

behind

his back, head tilted away as I approach. " I don't feel like reading

today, " he

announces, avoiding eye contact. He is almost ten, handsome and polite,

with

dark brown eyes as big as pennies. And he's on to me. As the year has

passed,

he's figured out that I'm a pushover.

" How about one book? " I suggest, " In our favorite spot? Then we can

play

your game. " Negotiations complete, he pulls the board game front and

center,

and we walk down five steps to a white window seat to begin reading Frog and

Toad Together. Suddenly, he stops.

" Too many pages. I can't read that many pages. "

" How about if you read one, then I read one. I'll start. "

" No, " says . " I'll start. "

And so it goes. Once a week for one hour, going on three years,

and I meet with the assigned task of improving his literacy. Mostly we goof

around. On his high-energy days, we whip through Easy Readers. I celebrate

every new word he masters with a cheerleader-like frenzy. " Wonderful!

Great!

You are a reader, ! " He fires back with enthusiasm of his own: " How

many

books can we read today? Ten? Twelve? Let's read eighteen! "

Sometimes we just play games - Trouble or Mancala. He plays to win,

and

does. Sometimes, we sneak into the school cafeteria, scouring it for a

Popsicle

or a bag of salty chips. Other days are a chore. He's distracted, annoyed

even, watching his buddies swat each other's heads as they march down the

hall

to the Media Center while he's stuck with me. " , " I tease, " where

are

you? " On those days, I feel defeated. But I'm never sorry I came.

Once came to school with a family crisis embedded in his face.

As

we sat together on the white bench, he shed his bravado and tucked wet eyes

into

my shoulder and I would have held him there forever. But he is, after all,

nine

years old. The storm passed quickly. He sat up, wiped his eyes and asked,

" Can

we play Trouble? "

A teacher I know stopped me in the hall one day to ask if I would be

returning the following year. " Of course, " I told her. " Well, good, " she

said.

" needs you. " I wanted to correct her: Actually, I need .

I am forty-three years old, with a full-time job I like and three neat

kids

who, so far, still like me. But sometimes I catch myself letting work

problems

distract me from them at home, when I open the mail instead of focusing on a

detail of their day, or rush through their bedtime rituals so I can crawl

into

bed with a book.

Sixteen years into marriage, I'm a decent spouse. But the most

romantic

getaway we have these days is to the wholesale club to buy in bulk. At

work,

where I manage nine creative people, most days go well. But last week I

missed

a deadline and screwed up an administrative detail and got some facts wrong

in a

meeting and wondered why they ever hired me.

I have friends I adore who complete my world. But we can never seem to

find time for lunch anymore, and one is battling depression and my words,

meant

to comfort, come out trite and patronizing. " Hang in there, " I tell her.

" It

will get better. " Dear God.

My world is safe and solid and good, except when the wheels come off

unexpectedly and I feel as though I will drown in self-doubt. When I say

something stupid, or feel envy, or bark at my kids because I'm tired, or

forget

to call my mother, or call my mother and feel ten years old again, or go to

work

with graham crackers ground into my shoulder and my sweater buttoned wrong.

But I have one hour.

One hour a week when I have no self-doubt. When I walk down a noisy

elementary school hallway covered with children's art and my respite awaits

me.

" When will you come back? " asks.

" Next Wednesday, silly. I always come on Wednesday. "

" I wish you could come on Mondays instead, " he says. " Then I wouldn't

have

to wait so long for you. "

One hour a week I am granted the greatest reward possible: The comfort

of

knowing that I am absolutely in the right place, doing the right thing.

My life will catch up to me soon enough. But for the moment, it will

just

have to wait.