Is This What I Want? by Patricia Mann Page A

honey. Mommy can’t take you to work. I have to teach the college kids, remember. You’re a little too young to come with me, but someday I’ll bring you, when you’re older.”
    “But I want to go to school with Mama! Sammy go to school. Not fair.”
    I removed the empty bowl in front of him and replaced it with a plastic Dora the Explorer plate sprinkled with Goldfish crackers.
    “Sammy goes to his school, not my school. You’ll have your own school soon too, remember? You’re going to start preschool very soon, when you turn two.”
    He pushed his plate away, pouting, which made his full bottom lip look almost freakishly huge for his face. I knew what was coming.
    “No! You’re not true. You said Sammy could go to school with you.”
    Wanting to correct his grammar, I restrained myself. I also hid the frustration on my face by turning back to the task of packing up my supplies. I regretted having the conversation in front of Jack about how Sam could come to a class with me when he turned eight. All of a sudden, Jack was listening carefully to everything we said and we were unprepared for this new accountability.
    “Jack, honey, Mommy teaches at college. It’s a very different kind of school. The students are grown-ups, not kids. I said Sam could come visit because he’s older. You can come with me when you’re older too. But first you have to learn about what school is like. You are going to love preschool. It’s so much fun.”
    “When I start?” he asked with excitement. I felt my shoulders tense up at the thought of his first day. Jack was excited about going to school like his big brother, but I knew the truth of what we were in for. I could barely stand to think about all the crying that went on the week Sam started preschool. Though I wasn’t sure who shed more tears, him or me.
    “In just a couple of months, sweetie.”
    The garage door that leads to the kitchen swung open, saving me from the current conversation and all the feelings it stirred.
    “Finally. I’m going to be late for office hours. I really need you to get here by 2:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, okay?”
    A bead of sweat sat on his left temple as he loosened his tie and carefully draped his suit jacket over a chair at the table.
    “Yeah, I know, sorry. Gotta get back into the swing of leaving work so early again. It’s only the first day. No one comes for office hours, right?”
    “Let’s hope not.”
    My car’s air conditioner made a valiant effort but was no match for our desert climate, so I stuffed wads of tissues under each bare armpit and tried to keep them in place as I drove. Please, please, please let the air in my classroom work better than this, I prayed.
    As I walked toward the office I shared with about fifteen other part-timers, who all were in and out at various times during the week, I saw five students lined up outside the door.
    “Are you Professor Thomas?” one asked in the pleading tone that I knew so well.
    It was hard to hear in the office with all the adjunct faculty members and students packed into it. The first day was always the worst. All the desks were taken, so I grabbed two empty chairs and pushed them into an open corner to meet one-on-one with each of the students who were there to see me, while the others waited outside. They each shared their stories about why they desperately needed to be added to my class. One was an international student who would be sent back to China if she wasn’t able to enroll in twelve units. Another had been ill all last semester and only recently got clearance from his doctor to go back to school, when all the classes he needed were already full. Each story was more heartbreaking than the last.
    I expressed regret for their unfortunate situations, but had to deliver my standard speech at the end of each mini-therapy session.
    “I would love to help you. But I’m not allowed to go over the limits of my classes. The best I can do is allow you sign up on the