They're After Me . . . Right?

My husband gave me a necklace. It's fake. I requested fake. Maybe I'm paranoid, but in this day and age, I don't want something around my neck that's worth more than my head.
--Rita Rudner

I break into a sweat every time I open my email inbox. It's not that there's anything bad in there, besides irritating ads for clothing stores that sell jeans with premade holes (which I will never understand . . . golly I sound OLD), but there are emails. Everday. Multiple times a day. Email. From parents. Oh it makes my stomach hurt to think about it. Nightmares are coming back . . . I dream about email responses.

It's not that there's really anything bad in them . . . questions mostly regarding the lesson plans . . . or papers Sherry and I forgot to hand out . . . or an assignment the parent partner (a parental volunteer who helps in class every day) forgot to stamp or record. I just always feel like I'm in trouble, a disappointment . . . the failing new girl . . .

I'm not. Everyone tells me I'm doing wonderfully. The parents are all really sweet and supportive. The kids seem to like me, they seem to be learning, and, while I feel like I'm losing my mind, my act just might be coming together. Just maybe. The point is my mild paranoia of pleasing everyone around me may just be turning into a true psychological case. Oh dear. And poor Chris has to hear me panic about it every night . . . such a good listener and encourager . . . the poor, poor man.

And did I ever mention how weird it was to be back in "first day of school" pictures? I haven't had one of those since I was . . . I dunno . . . the last one I remember was in first grade? Kindergarten? Ryan McIntosh is in it, a head shorter than I am with a combover and cowboy boots. I was wearing a jean jumper, and the hair that wouldn't fit in my side pony-tail-braid (it does exist) was pinging out in every direction. We had bags our mom's had decorated with our names. Now, I'm back in this pictures, though hopefully my hair looks a bit better, and the person next to me is a wee six-year-old in her school uniform, all smiles, while parents flash pictures like paparazzi. Everyone wants a picture with me. It's sort of like I'm a mini-celebrity, like a soap star or something . . . Anyways, it's just a weird Twilight Zone Moment. At least I'm used to being called "Mrs Bocchino" now. That helps a little bit.