I had lofty visions of my last minutes with my students. After a joyous end-of-the-year party with parents thanking me and students eating cake and playing Bingo, I would give a short speech and then announce that the bell would soon be ringing and we must bid goodbye. Tears would stream down the students' cheeks as they hugged me and walked to their buses.
Unfortunately, I didn't calculate in clock failure. The party started at noon, with early release scheduled for 1:25. Ending the party at 1:15 would give me enough time to send the kids out the door calmly.
I started the games at around 12:45. I figured that would give us enough time to play, eat cake, and clean up without people beginning to get bored. Strangely, though, the minutes just dragged past. Each time I looked at the clock, it read 12:45. The kids were losing interests in the games, and the parents looked ready to leave. Still, time refused to pass.
The bus announcements on the intercom and the increased frequency in which the students asked to pack up should have alerted me, but my mind was still zoned in on how I would fill up those never-ending thirty minutes.
When my sister finally whispered across the room that it was really 1:15, I managed to sigh with relief and gasp with panic in one breath. I pushed the kids out the door in one last frantic scramble, and my first year of teaching was finished.
