What. A. Week. I survived my first ever parent-teacher conferences, and cried only 2 times! I’d consider that a success.
Wednesday of this week was our Fall Hoedown. Many a chicken dance was danced*, cupcakes were savored, and the candy flowed like the salmon of Capistrano. After the exhausting festivities, we retired to the classroom for a few remaining minutes of celebration.
A few of my gutsy students beat-boxed, as promised, for my birthday. I did a few rounds of the worm for them. And finally, after much begging and pleading, they made me sing for them.
You see, I sing for them on a regular basis. Usually, it’s somehow intertwined within the curriculum or lesson that day. Sometimes not. So, as I quickly combed my jukebox brain for a school-appropriate tune, only one came to mind. As I sang the first few words, my kids reluctantly joined in.
It was one of the most precious moments of my teaching career, because in my mind, we sounded just like this.
At that moment, it really didn’t matter how freakishly long my week had been. Or how much I was desperate for a vacation. I was celebrating my birthday with 22 kids who had become my reason for doing what I do. Kinda the best gift ever.
*Ps, I totally learned how to hula-hoop after 25 years of attempting to learn.