My school chose me as teacher of the year.  I have a special parking space right up front near the principal.  Our teacher of the year last year transferred to another school and so they raffled off her parking space for the SGA.

As a humorous response to my disbelief that I was the teacher of the year, I shot off an e-mail to my principal that went something like this, “With Korea up in nuclear arms, a meteor headed our way,  and my being the teacher of the year, I realize the world is about to end.  But until then, do I get to park in the special parking space?”

I can’t tell you the embarrassment I felt when he actually shuffled an assistant principal’s parking spot around to give the raffle winner a different prime spot and me the requested space.

But I’m over that now and enjoying parking near the door.  I’m still embarrassed when someone compliments me, or I see my name across the glowing marquis out front.  I’m not a lime-light kind of gal.  However, it feels pretty stinking good to know that I’ve come a long way since that dreaded video was made of my teaching an onomatopoeia lesson back in college–the one my children occasionally pop in just to razz me.   Experience really is the teacher of the year.

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