SNIFF HENRY DAY

Sometimes I do shit that I know is going to backfire on me, but I simply cannot stop myself.  No, really.  I think in my head, "You are so going to regret this, but you are so going to do it anyway because you are a dumbass."  And then I actually do what I tried to stop myself from doing simply because I am partially (or perhaps completely) insane.

For instance, today I was trying to maintain some semblance of order in my classroom when I blew the whole thing to Hell not once, not twice, but three goddamn times.  That's right, you read that correctly, and better yet, I didn't even spread the wealth - I screwed up three times all in the same class period.

And it was awesome.

Before I tell you exactly what I did to cause multiple mayhem, I should probably give a little background for clarity's sake.  Every day I write on my side board interesting facts about that date in history.  Like if someone infamous happened to get beheaded that day, or if something incredible were achieved that day, or if an important historical footnote occurred that day, I write it on my board.  I write between three and five facts every day, depending on the significance of the events.  I also write down unusual holidays, like National Pasta Fazool Day, or Unicorns Are Our Friends Day, or Go Hug A Porcupine Day.  I do try to avoid holidays such as Go Juggle Sharp Knives Day and Take A Serial Killer To Work Day, but other than that, I'm reasonably open to celebration.

Today while taking attendance in my first class (which is also my homeroom), I noticed a smell in the air.  I know, I know; you're thinking, "Middle schoolers … probably a fart joke coming here."  Well, to be honest, I had warmed up an asiago cheese bagel in the microwave I keep hidden under my computer printer on a rolling cart that's in a corner behind some book shelves, so there was a distinct odor that resembled smelly feet.  But this smell was different.  It was familiar.  It was pleasant.  It was … maple syrup.  I had it narrowed down to one quadrant of the room, but no one would fess up to being the maple syrup-scented culprit.  Finally I asked a simpler question: "Who ate pancakes or waffles or French toast for breakfast?"  One arm shot up.  "Oh, so you're the one who smells like maple syrup."

With that simple statement, everyone jumped out of their chairs and ran over to sniff the boy.  They were all excited because he really did smell good, like a country breakfast, like comfort foods, like Vermont.  If he'd only eaten bacon, too, it would've been Nirvana.  So I did what any teacher who causes mayhem in her room would do; I added to the daily holiday:  Today is Sniff Henry Day.

Later in that same class after all the quizzes had been taken, we decided to clean out our binders of stuff we no longer needed.  Recycling our papers usually means the kids shoot balled-up wads of old assignments into the large bin in the front of the room.  Sometimes, though, I let them have snowball fights, meaning they get to shoot at each other (no eyes, no winding up), but they have to have permission because it can get a little crazy if not properly supervised.  Today a spontaneous snowball fight broke out even though I had not sanctioned it.  Considering we just read about the Vietnam War … or … Conflict … it seemed apt that a sudden skirmish had broken loose.  I gave them the thirty-second notice and let them have at it.  Then we picked up errant paper snowballs, gathered the recycling, and brought it out to the large bin down the hall.

The last thing I did to cause mayhem in the middle of what should be considered educational time was preventable.  I started it.  It was totally my fault and I actually debated with myself as to whether or not I was going to light the fuse.  I knew full-well what would happen.  I have been teaching for decades, and I was also a middle schooler myself once, believe it or not.  I knew what dark and dangerous territory I was walking into, but I walked in anyway.  I only hoped the teacher next to me would forgive me, and I knew for the price of a chocolate bar, I could buy my way out of the Teacher Dog House if needed.

There were about two minutes left of class, and I stood in front of the kiddos explaining the upcoming literature unit that starts tomorrow.  I faced the windows and the students faced me, so as soon as I saw it happening, I abruptly stopped talking mid-sentence.  Those wonderful children who had sniffed Henry and tossed paper missiles at each other now paid rapt attention without even flinching.  So I paused.  And I paused.  Then I paused for a full thirty seconds before finally saying, "I am waiting patiently for one of you to turn around and notice what it is that has my attention outside."

Twenty-four heads all turned in unison.  Twenty-four voices all gasped in unison.  Twenty-four young teens in unison erupted from their seats, ran to the windows, and started yelling, "IT'S SNOWING!!!!!!!!!!!"  Suddenly they broke out in song and began singing, "Ole! Ole, ole, ole…. Ole …. Ole …" like they were at a European football match.

And it was awesome.

Later that morning, I heard lots of loud revelry coming from the classroom next door.  I found the teacher at lunch and asked, "Did you just have my homeroom?  Were they the ones making all that noise?"

He nodded and replied, "Yeah, they were off the wall today."

"Hmmmmm," I smiled back, "I can't imagine what got into them." 

He gave me the did-you-forget-I-heard-them-first-thing-this-morning look with the customary "tsk tsk" to which I've grown systematically immune.  After all, he knows the same thing I do:  I am partially (or perhaps completely) insane, and I have to admit, it's pretty damn awesome.