I’m a planner by nature. It’s a good thing, too, because as a teacher I do a lot of it—especially in July and August, when I create that syllabus for my as-yet unmet students with lessons that hopefully are engaging, flow well, and meet all of my learning goals. But I sometimes forget the factor that can throw a wrench in all my well-laid plans: the kids. Come August 15 or so, those theoretical students have names, faces, and wills of their own! As a result, my days in the classroom rarely turn out how I planned them on paper. 

Take the following spelling lesson, for example. On this day I think I will be so clever if I make a sentence with the words and then diagram it, getting our spelling and grammar done in one fell swoop. "How very efficient I will be with my time today!” I think. I decide to write the following silly sentence using words for the week: 

“The bloody flood caused double trouble to the mother and her couple of young sons.” 

Well, not the best, but it uses the words correctly. As I launch into explaining why “bloody” is an adjective that modifies “flood,” about ten hands shoot into the air: 

“Wait... a bloody flood of WHAT?” 

“Why two troubles? What kind of trouble?” 

“Doesn’t she have any daughters? Where’s the dad? Can’t he help them?” 

This is starting to stray from the lesson I had planned. I sigh. This is so often the way of things.  

I go with it, letting the students tell me why the flood is bloody (turns out it wasn’t real blood, but ketchup the baby son has squirted all over the kitchen), and why the mother is alone in this supposedly dangerous house with her two young sons. I casually suggest that they can add more adjectives and adverbs to make it more descriptive (grammar lesson: check!). They are rather delighted with the result, and they actually believe they have pulled a fast one on me by getting out of their grammar lesson. Still giggling about the “bloody flood” of ketchup, they line up happily for recess, go outside, and I assume that is the end of it. But no. A few minutes later: 

“Mrs. Midani, come right away! We’ve found it! The bloody flood!” a gaggle of third grade girls cries, yanking on my arm. Terror strikes me. What have they found? A decapitated chicken? Heaven only knows. 

Behind one of the garden sheds, they have discovered some pooling water that mercifully isn’t bloody after all, but is a kind of a brackish color from the red soil in the garden. Some large stones are jutting out of the water. The girls begin jumping happily from stone to stone, avoiding the “bloody flood” of water. 

That’s why I keep doing this job, really. As much as I like to plan moments of learning, so much of it happens spontaneously. Each group is unique and creates their own magical moments. Next year’s students won’t care about the “bloody flood.” It will be something else...something that only they can come up with. What I am realizing on my journey as a teacher (25 years in) is that all I can really do is create opportunities for learning to occur, walk through them if I can, and have a good enough sense of humor to realize when the students are changing the plan on me and be okay with that. Somewhere in the intersection between my best-laid plans and their reaction to those is where the real magic happens. And you really can’t plan for that.