extraordinary.

This summer, along with other things, has brought a new addiction into my life: the show Grey's Anatomy. And although some of you will find this hard to believe, what draws me to this hour-long hospital drama is not, in fact, the drama. The relationships and romance, while entertaining, could be found elsewhere on television. No, what draws me in time after time, is the incredible surgeries performed week after week. And sure, I have no doubt that there are more staged dramatic medical emergencies in each single hour of the show than what really occur in a week in a real hospital, but I am impressed none the less. There is something captivating in the life and death balance, the romance of the high-powered job, and the constant state of uncertainty in which these "surgeons" live.

It makes me want to be a surgeon.

Of course, then I turn off the TV and remember that (a) I don't like blood, (b) I don't like science, and (c) I need at least 7 hours of sleep every night to function and realize that perhaps surgery isn't the road for me to take.

But I like the idea of being something extraordinary. Of being important.

And so I think - what is "important"? Isn't my job, the care and upbringing of 65 young children, important?

I think so.

So why don't I feel extraordinary?

Maybe extraordinary isn't about what we do to earn our paycheck. Maybe it's about the way we go about our vocation, whatever it may be. Because, let's face it: being a daycare worker isn't exactly a romantic job. There is nothing captivating about being called "giant gorilla" and having yogurt drooled on your shirt. It isn't glamorous.

But maybe it is time for me to reevaluate.

Every day, I walk into a room of children who are smiling and laughing and happy to be alive. They are innocent. They are vulnerable. And they trust me. And I'm starting to believe that I can change their world.

It may not be brain surgery, but it's pretty extraordinary all the same.