I have tables in my classrooms instead of desks. Usually I love them, except....
There I was, watching my class work quietly. Enjoying my super-teacher status as all of them were engaged and actively writing. Suddenly, one of my students started playing with something on the table. The student beside her leaned closer and started looking and giggling. The little boy at the end of the table was soon distracted and he, too, was looking at whatever was on the table.
I quickly walked over, "Hey guys. What's going on? What are we looking at?"
The boy looked up at me with a grin, "It's a baby roach. Isn't it cute?"
Three things here.
One.... it wasn't a baby roach.
Two... no way in hell that thing was cute.
Because, number three, it was a louse.
A. Louse.
LOUSE.
As in the singular for lice.
As in crawling across my table.
As in that thing was looking for a new wig to crawl in to. God, please, don't let one have found their way into my hair.
I quickly made a face, and said, "Oh! We definitely don't want THAT in here!" And I killed it. With a thousand pounds of pressure and shiver up my spine. The kids never wiser.
I'm sorry. I'd write more but I've got to go take a shower and wash my hair again for the seventh time.
In gasoline.
And napalm.
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