And I've written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones

I've now spent 15 weeks with another group of old teens/young 20-somethings and the scant middle-aged learner wearing the name badge of their full-time assignment. I've given them every piece of me that is good and worth regurgitating, though I'm sure some of the bad parts of me might've sloughed off into them from time to time.

Yesterday was the final day for their group research projects. This clever assignment works two-fold: I don't have to grade a second set of horribly drafted papers and they are forced to injest abstract theory, apply it practically to a primary text from the course, and create a presentation devised of logical fodder for conversation with their classmates. Inevitably, this task only endears me to them all the more.

I watch them all, red-faced and anxious, shifting from foot to foot in front of their peers, eyeing me nervously, and mispronouncing Jacques Derrida as "Jackez Derita," and I want to laugh and cry at the same time for the bittersweet emotions that the end of the semester brings. (I highly doubt all instructors feel such vulnerable sentiment for their pupils.) For just a moment--actually, 20-30 minutes--I forget that they are the bastard children of iPhone fame, and I begin to love them again, despite their enunciation flaws and mumbled readings.

All of this culminates Thursday when I'll attend the annual awards banquet in our department. It is not for my benefit this year, but, rather, I mean to show support to one of my darlings, who, at my suggestion, submitted his paper on Poe and placed second in the undergraduate writing competition. Perhaps this is why the notion of growing something in my womb at this moment seems so far removed from the me that is me; like a proud mama, I'm trekking that long road back to campus an extra day this week merely to clap for my young'n. That's abundantly sufficient for me.