I’m a nerd.  Check.

I have a nerdy job.  Check.

The people I work with at my job are nerds.  Check.

Seriously, it’s like nerd-palooza.

This weekend was a work travel weekend.  I was gone Thursday through Saturday.  I ate garbage while I was gone (lots more than necessary for sure).  I didn’t sleep much.  My mind went 1,928 miles per hour at all times trying to keep up with the activities and the children and the logistics of traveling with a herd of high school kids and one (and 2 half) grown ups.  It was crazy.

I loved it.

For real.  I always love it.  There are moments that aren’t that rad.  There are terse conversations with 16 year olds about how they will be doing what I want them to do.  There are times I have to repeat myself 18 times to get something done.  There are hustled moments and stress and the most intense belly laughter on the planet.  There are smiles and pouting faces (which I care much less about than they would think …) and conversations that change outlooks and futures.

Repeat: I love it.

This weekend, the children and I hung out on the floor in a hallway between rounds flipping through a college coursebook and trying to play “Let’s Plan Em’s Future” by picking graduate school programs.  I cannot choose a program.  There are too many options (and not all of them are that cool), too many offerings, too many disgruntled conversations that include other grown ups saying things like “Well, what program has the most employability?” or “Where are the most likely salary increases going to be?”


I don’t give two shits about the paycheck.  I don’t care if there are 187 jobs available after I graduate or 2.  I have a job.  A job that I adore.  A job that pays pittance in cash but millions in satisfaction.  I am indeed a grown up, though, so my mind circles the practical aspects as I flip pages just as much as the passionate ones.

The kids’ first question: “Which one would be the most fun?” Next: “Which is most interesting?”

They know how to plan a life.  Cynical old crustypants people would likely call them immature or underdeveloped in their analysis of which graduate school is best for their been-in-school-way-too-long coach.  They don’t focus on paychecks or pension plans.  They want to love what they do.

So do I.

And I thank them for reminding me of that.