Ahhhh… the first day of school. The crown jewel of the academic year. And this time, it comes after professional learning. Two glorious, soul-crushing days where you learned… well, you’re still not entirely sure what you learned. Icebreakers, slide decks, team-building exercises so awkward you briefly considered faking your own death. Somehow, someone convinced you that we are all lifelong learners, which, frankly, feels like both a threat and a dare rolled into one. Where’s the coffee…?

Then—sweet relief—you get your keys to the classroom. Keys! Little metallic talismans that promise ownership, power, control… but mostly the illusion of it. You march in like a general surveying a battlefield that smells faintly of last year’s glue sticks, forgotten lunches, and the faint hum of existential dread. Bulletin boards go up with expert ease, student desks arranged for “optimal learning,” and now… the teacher desk placement. Oh yes. The pièce de résistance.

Over the weekend, you agonized. You measured three times, paced the room twice, consulted a compass, a protractor, and possibly a small oracle. You considered sunlight angles, traffic flow, proximity to the Wi-Fi router, and the mysterious “energy” of the corner near the door. Three feet left? No. Slightly to the right? Hmm… maybe. At the northwest corner, but rotated at a daring 3.7-degree angle? Revolutionary. You even debated whether sitting closer to the window might imbue your lessons with extra brilliance—or invite an unholy glare. 

Eventually, you moved it, then moved it back, paced again, squinting, nodding, muttering, and imagining students’ reactions as if you were directing an invisible orchestra. And of course… when the first student opens the door on Monday morning, the desk ends up exactly where it always has been. But today, today it is bold. Today it is new. Today, it is glorious.

Students arrive. Wide-eyed, sticky-handed little humans who clearly didn’t get the memo about your weekend-long, highly strategic desk decisions. They scatter. They chatter. One student begins juggling pencils like a circus act, while another silently ranks the bulletin boards in order of aesthetic merit. Chaos reigns. Someone loudly declares that the stapler is a weapon of mass destruction. Another insists their desk is “haunted by last year’s science project.” You greet them with a smile, while your inner voice whispers: You survived two days of professional learning to get THIS?

Announcements, handouts, icebreakers. You try to appear enthusiastic about “building community,” but your inner voice runs a running commentary: Look at them. Tiny humans. Already judging the ceiling tiles. Can they even see your genius desk placement? Probably not. Welcome to your survival course, kids. Somewhere in the background, the memory of that faculty meeting about “data-driven engagement strategies” creeps in. Yes, that same meeting with 47 slides, half of which were clip art, and three of which explicitly contradicted the other 44. You smile. The absurdity is timeless.

Lunch arrives. A brief oasis—but only briefly. Emails ping like tiny digital grenades. Hallway traffic rages like miniature stampedes. One student insists the cafeteria food is a government experiment, another claims the milk is plotting against them. Somewhere, the ghost of a curriculum pacing guide sighs audibly, as if asking, Are we doing math today, or just surviving first-day chaos? You sip your coffee like it’s ambrosia—the elixir that keeps you from mutating into a classroom hermit.

After lunch, you return to your classroom, expecting a calm, controlled afternoon. Ha. Of course. The fluorescent lights buzz with conspiratorial glee. One student sidles up to another and whispers, “I don’t want to sit there. That’s too close to the wall. I want a corner. You’re in my spot!” 

Suddenly, what should have been a simple seating arrangement erupts into a full-blown diplomatic crisis. Chairs squeak like squealing pigs. Voices rise into a miniature opera. One student produces a protractor and insists, “Optimal desk feng shui is a human right!” Another announces that the Wi-Fi is obviously “sentient and biased.” Devices freeze mid-click. Students groan in unison like a tiny, panicked Greek chorus.

And yet… instead of panic, a strange calm settles over you.

You begin to notice the details: the soft patter of sneakers on tile, sunlight slicing through the blinds and landing perfectly on a student’s shoulder, the faint smell of crayons and pencil shavings mingling with your coffee. The scratch of a pencil on paper, the quiet laughter over a whispered joke, the barely perceptible rise and fall of a hand raised confidently—it all forms a rhythm.

You are in the zone. Each gesture, each sigh, each tiny rebellion—student moving a chair, tilting a protractor, quietly shifting to an empty spot—is part of a subtle dance you’ve been leading for decades. The fluorescent lights, humming Wi-Fi, squeaking chairs—they fade into the background, instruments of a strange, beautiful orchestra. You feel the pulse of the classroom in your chest, the tiny victories echoing like a secret song.

Time stretches and contracts. Lessons flow, interruptions weave into the fabric of engagement, and even chaos feels orchestrated. You marvel at the brilliance and absurdity of it all: the sticky hands, whispered negotiations, oddball observations. Somewhere in your mind, you chuckle remembering that last department email that demanded “student engagement metrics for fun” by tomorrow. This is your element. The chaos, the absurdity, the unpredictability—it all fits together like a puzzle you didn’t realize you’d mastered.

By the last bell, you sink into your desk with a deep, quiet satisfaction. The desk—your perfectly, painstakingly positioned desk—is in exactly the same place as always. Your Stanley mug waits patiently beside you. So does the morning’s coffee, left forgotten after the first sip, its warmth long gone but somehow still comforting, a small testament to survival.

You inhale slowly, catching the faint scent of pencil shavings, crayons, and the lingering aroma of glue from earlier projects.

You watch a few students linger at the door, whispering, laughing, their voices soft now, their earlier chaos distilled into small, manageable moments. Tiny victories—an argument resolved, a hand quietly raised, a joke shared—float through your mind, each landing like a tiny, perfect note in the symphony of the day.

You breathe. You survived. You thrived. You were present, fully attuned, and strangely exhilarated. There is a rhythm here, a pulse you recognize and cherish, woven from the absurd, the unpredictable, and the quietly brilliant moments that make this room yours, day after day.

Your inner voice whispers, quiet now, almost reverent: After all the years, all the professional learning, all the weekend strategizing—this is why you do it. The chaos, the absurdity, the tiny victories… they’re all worth it. You’re here. You’re alive in this room. You belong here.

You flip the light switch, hear the familiar click of the lock as you secure the door, and step into the hallway. The building hums with energy—hallway echoes, distant laughter, the faint scent of lunch lingering. You smile to yourself, carrying the rhythm of the classroom with you, knowing that tomorrow it begins again. Different, unpredictable, beautiful. And you’ll be ready.

Because after 25 years, after professional learning that promised enlightenment and delivered mild existential dread, after a weekend spent arguing with a chair, a protractor, a whiteboard, and the cosmic forces of chaos, the first day of school still manages to be: rich, absurd, chaotic… and perfectly, gloriously alive.

To those who have already survived the first day (or week) of school: may your coffee be strong, your Wi-Fi steady, and your students just slightly less chaotic than you feared. To those who are about to embark on this glorious, absurd adventure: may your desk placement feel revolutionary, your classroom buzz with life, and your inner voice remind you that, despite the chaos, you belong here. Good luck, my fellow warriors of the classroom—may this school year be rich, ridiculous, and wonderfully alive.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.