There is always that one quintessential smelly kid in class. As a substitute teacher, you don’t figure out who these kids are until you’ve visited their classroom on numerous occasions.
There is always the accidental case where a kid has been raising his hand while you have a million other kids needing your attention; because they’ve accidentally glued their hands together, have a shoelace undone or something else. By the time you’ve managed to get the kid with glue hands to tie the shoes of the other and you’ve made it around to the well mannered child with his hand up, you realize you’ve accidentally miscalculated his need when you enter the musty cloud of, “I gotta go, I gotta go!”
However in an older classroom it’s different. I’ve forgotten how smelly young boys typically are and how they just let it loose. In my household growing up I didn’t have siblings, so if I did something I had to fess up to it. Sometimes I did so proudly. In school however, it was always a different story. In school it had to be kept secret.
This year is the year I said I would own up to things and be honest. Here it is readers, I am confessing something to you that happened in 4th grade. This will help explain why I have such an affinity for this smelly child I encountered recently.
In 4th grade as in most small burgeoning schools, we were escorted to Physical Education class in an empty tiny gym. It was so new that there was not enough equipment to absorb sound. On this unfortunate day, after we had done our beginning calisthenics, we were instructed to do timed sit-ups with a partner holding our feet. My partner was a boy. You can already imagine why this was awkward for me. When the teacher officially started her stop-watch, I decided to do as many sit-ups as fast as I could. For whatever reason, back in the day, I felt I always had something to prove. Then, I was treated to a humbling. After about 5 to 10 sit-ups something had wrangled loose from deep inside my stomach and came out between my feet…with the boy holding them. The sad thing is, it didn’t happen just once. No matter how hard I tried, every sit up resulted in a resounding fog horn sound which then echoed off the floor and bounced off the walls.
As we all know, flatulence in awkward situations is funny. In this particular instance, the entire class was cracking up making it hard for them to accomplish their timed sit-ups. I had never been so embarrassed. (Until that point at least.) To this day, I don’t know if any of my classmates were sure it was me.
Now that you know this about me, it will be easy to understand why as a teacher I felt so badly for this kid in my class but proud of him at the same time.
I was busy working with another student when I saw this young boy whiz by the desks trying to get to the front of the room to work on math. Next thing I knew, one boy walked by in the same spot. “AaaAgGgH!” he screamed.
Then another boy walked by, “OH GOD!”
Then another, “Oh MAN!”
The first boy is trying to stifle his laughter, and the other three boys held their arms up to their noses, laughing, trying to block what was in the air. Raising the teacher’s suspicion, she looked over trying to hide her smile. “What is going on over there?”
The first boy replied, “Well, I farted and then the others walked into it one after the other. You might want to get the Lysol out.” I was proud because instead of trying to hide it, or act like it didn’t happen, he owned up to it. Granted, it’s gross, but at least he didn’t let the ire stack up between all the boys in class leaving them to wonder who really dealt it.