A Teacher’s Worst Nightmare

“Look what I brought, Miss Barnwell.”

I looked up from entering attendance on my computer and made eye contact with the impish painted eyes of a 10-inch doll. It was sitting in a coy pose, hugging its knees, inside an enormous glass pickle jar. I eventually regained the mental strength to break eye contact and look at my student. Evie had one arm wrapped around the jar which was now sitting on my desk. She had a huge smile on her face, huge even for her. I think her eyes were literally sparkling.

“This is my elf on the shelf. He does all sorts of funny things. He’s in a different place every morning and he watches me wherever I go. Look, his eyes are following me.” She moved around to demonstrate.

Unable to think of anything appropriate to say, I nodded numbly. Other students were starting to crowd around.

Evie proudly showed them. “You can’t touch because he’s magic. If you touch him, the magic dies. That’s why Mom put him in the jar. That way, it’s ok.” The students all began to talk excitedly. One disillusioned 1^st grader scoffed, “Magic isn’t real.”

Evie snapped back, “Yes, it is!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Miss Barnwell, magic is real, isn’t it?”

Eighteen pairs of eyes looked at me expectantly. Mercifully, the bell rang. “Time for class. Can you keep him in your locker for now, Evie? Thanks.”

By the end of the day, I had almost forgotten him. But as the students packed up, there he sat in his jar on Evie’s desk. I think I could feel his eyes following me as I tidied up the classroom.

Crash! The cheerful, organized chaos instantly became the most somber gathering of 6-year-olds I have ever seen. The students formed a wide, silent circle around the remains of the jar. The elf lay on a bed of splintered glass in fetal position. For a few seconds, there were no words, only wide eyes and open mouths. Not trusting myself to open my own mouth, I got the dustpan and slowly began sweeping up the glass, working my way toward the epicenter.

The whispers began. “Don’t touch it!” “What happens to the magic?” “Will he be ok, Evie?”

When I had swept up all the glass I could see, I got a large Ziploc from the cabinet. As I broke through their funereal circle once more, there was another profound silence. Taking a deep breath, I gingerly picked up the magic mischief maker and sealed him in the bag. As I put the bag in Evie’s backpack, a student reassured her, “Miss Barnwell is an adult. I don’t think it counts.” Everyone (myself included) exhaled and the students chimed in to agree with the logic of this statement.

Class dismissed.

Photo by Louise Smith on Unsplash