The light at the end of the tunnel

As every middle school teacher does at this time of the year, I, too, have started counting down to summer. I'm sure the kids have been counting since day 179, but I reserve my pre-summer daydreaming until around T-minus 40 days. Today marks 35 days until the end of the school year. That's right. Just 7 more early morning staff meetings on Thursdays when I have to be ready to either meet with my teaching team or sit and either be read TO or talked AT by our building principal. Just 7 more Mondays where I am jolted into an awakened state by whatever 7th grade drama has peaked the interest of my 1st period class (which, by the way, starts at a rockin' 7:55 a.m.).

Of course, this also means just 35 more days with my 80+ 8th graders. I'm gonna miss those little monkeys, my "sunshines" as I call them. I've known these kids for two years now, having had the opportunity to be their teacher for 100 minutes per day, 5 days a week last year and 55 minutes per day, 145 days so far this year. That's a total of (***please stand by while English teacher tries to do math***) 433 hours I've spent with these kids while they've been turning into high-schoolers before my very eyes.

Oh, they have their moments, that's for sure. My "orange boys" (I call them that becasue they have "orange" personalities from some color personality test they all took at the beginning of the year -- basically telling me what I already knew about 8th grade boys: (1) they can't sit still; (2) they can't sit still; (3) did I mention they can't sit still?) are so comfortable with me as their teacher that they openly fart in class and look at me like, "what?" when I give them "the eye" (more on how "the eye" works in future blogs). I know their buttons -- for example, I know that Carl has to chew gum. Loudly. Like a cow. Darren has to argue. Carlyle has to eat his entire lunch before lunch. Ned is secretly a wonderful writer. Braxton is as good as Thoreau ever was at writing poetry. And Kamden can't take a compliment to save his life...though he deserves them every day.

And they know me. They know that I'm in a bad mood most Thursdays (for obvious reasons derived from afore mentioned experiences at 7 a.m. on Thursdays). They know that my daughter is everything to me. They know that, secretly, I like kids who break the rules. They know my pet peeves -- which can be dangerous.

Mostly I hope they know I love them. And that each of them has a place in my heart. Each of them has made me a better teacher. Each of them has driven me crazy. I have muttered each of their names as I've driven staples into bulletin boards or sharpened pencils into nubs.

They are middle school. And I can't wait for my sevvies to become what my eight-graders are to me: special.