The Smell of Victory (A Day in the Life of)

When I woke this morning I could still smell the lingering funk of last night. It wasn't my attitude, but instead was a rambunctious Shitzu-mixed-up dog of mine that decided the creature scurrying in the dark of our backyard needed special attention. Both my wife and I could smell the skunk as we watched tv. We knew what was about to come in running.. So this morning’s smell was not of the just-washed sheets. The familiar scent of a shower, my wife’s baby powder she applies, the distinct scents of my children’s hair and bodies (even my son’s breath!) did not persuade my nose that the skunk smell had dissipated.

We all sidestepped the dog’s cage. Poor guy, getting yelled at to “go potty” as if a bowel movement was a punishment. Coffee freshly brewed, papers signed and the van boarded. Turning towards the babysitter’s house, the defrost on the van had not yet unfogged the windshield. I’m driving blind towards the sun.

We kiss our little one goodbye. We’re off to work. No traffic this morning. We didn't even catch any lights. Still, the skunk smell had somehow attached itself to our belongings. As a kid, I always thought that no matter where my mom would drive, the moon would always follow. It was like that, only the moon was now an oppressive skunk-face, glaring down at everything I loved.

Arrived at work. Bypassed the mailboxes and the encouraging white-board message that greet us every morning. Our counselor updates the greeting white-board each day. Sometimes they make me smile and sometimes they make me roll my eyes (the old broken cynic in me still exists), but on this particular morning it gave me pause for thankfulness.

I wave at a few latchkey kids as I go towards my room. No Spotify on the iPad which means a quiet morning of prep. While our building has wi-fi, some sites like Spotify and Facebook are blocked. Sometimes I get lucky and I get about 2 songs into my Ultimate Christian Mix before the wi-if police realize I’m trying to uplift my soul. None of that around here, mister.

I spent the last Friday of Spring Break copying materials and readying the class. Print a few papers, orange out-of-paper light flashes. I’m copying on random green and yellows now. I grab some pencils and head out the door. I’m picking up the class in the gym in about 5 minutes, and the pencils need to be sharpened. Our classroom electronic sharpener died about a month ago. My students have been sharpening pencils with their scissor points, smuggling hand crank sharpeners between one another.

Time to line up. One of my students came back from Spring Break with a walker. He actually broke his hip back in the winter and he had another surgery. We send him ahead but we pass him eventually. I know he hates the walker. His student helpers treat him like he’s a crippled old man, walking ahead of him as if he doesn’t know where the classroom is located.

I apologize to another student. Yesterday I lost my cool and she spent her recess with her face buried in her arms. I hate that impatient part of me. She accepts my apology.

Lessons are rocking from the start. The skunk smell is evident but it doesn't permeate the mood. Our principal comes in to reiterate the new playground rules. Several fights just before Spring Break warranted a new plan—no more hanging out in the fields, no more football, no more fun—but the kids nods their heads and are back to work. Eventually I’m leading a small group through chapters a 9 and 10 of To Kill a Mockingbird. We get into the phrase “n-lover” and the roles of women and men in society. These kids are beginning to see that the world is setting them up for failure. Boys, if you're not an athlete you’re gay. Boys, check this girl out, but don't act too aggressively and be a gentlemen no matter what she wears. Girls, be strong and independent, but first be sexy. Girls, don't be a slut but watch as we dance in front of undressed men in music videos.

We start math—volume of composite shapes. We’re tracing lines and multiplying. We start Hands on Equations. They’re moving pawns and number cubes around their desks in various efforts to solve for X. They hold up their answers for me using their cubes, like 30 red eyes staring at me.

Lunch comes. My Shakeology shake has too-big ice chunks because our ice machine is withholding crunched ice. The straw I’m trying to drink through is causing a vein in my forehead to burst. I’m on a mission. I get supplies from the science supply room, have a quick conversation with one of the special Ed therapists about my move from 5th grade to 2nd next year. It’s also a way for me to witness. I know Jesus lives in all of my conversations, but He’s especially evident in the ones where my attitude reflects Him.

Lunch duty (I just said duty. Did you laugh? We have a kid in 4th grade whose last name is Duty. He was called to the office over the intercom and the entire 5th grade class laughed like they just heard the preacher fart). I try and get my FitBit steps in. I allow kids to go to the bathroom, extra mustards and forks. I pull on braided pig tails and continue ongoing conversations I’ve had with kids all year. Like the 3rd grade girls who put broccoli on everything—today it was hamburgers—and the bully free zone table who want to nominate more students to join them. I hi-five the same 5 or 6 kids every day.

Afternoon session. Finishing time trial in Science with the switch class. While my class has the token bully, maybe 2 that are silly in their bones, my switch class are like hyenas on steroids. Someone is always making noises, making fun of one another—shoes, edge ups, clothing—they make noises like zoo animals, bite their shirts when they’re nervous. I end up ranting to a few of them in the halls. Kids want to laugh but they know I’ll get even madder. I don’t hate the rant person, but I know that they've already tuned me out one sentence in. I am a righteous bully when I want to be.

School’s done, and we’re headed to our next event. Once a month our family serves meals at a downtown church. It’s a hustle to get there. Our house smells like skunk, so does the van. I keep smelling my hands as if the smell has attached itself to every fiber of my being. The dog looks at me when we arrive like he’s been tortured, like he’s in one of those animal cruelty videos.

There’s a wreck a few blocks from their church. We’re almost late. In order to to avoid wreck, we go the alternate route. Reynoldsburg cop pulls up behind and I’m ticketed for an expired tag. My kids get to learn how we treat cops when you’re pulled over, but they also learn something of our finances. It’s a sobering conversation, as if the kids just found out Santa and the Easter Bunny are just imaginary figures.

Serving meals goes smooth like gravy over cheesy potatoes. My little one claims it was much better than being at soccer practice. My son likes passing out the pre-packaged cookies. Have a nice day he probably says about a million times, ends up with leftover cookies that erupt from his pant pockets.

I separate from the wife and kids. She’s off to find the ingredients to ward off the skunk smell—hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dishwashing detergent—while I’m back to church. I find myself singing with a group of men onstage. Victory in Jesus, my Savior forever! I look at the crowd and I’m ready to drop to my knees. How can performers not just utterly well up with emotion when they sing?

The sermon is about being in the shadows and prepping from an upcoming challenge. How many times do we pray for God to give us a challenge? I’m in tears again.

Back at home eventually. Pizza is baking. The dog knows the eminent bath is coming. My wife bathes him in the sink, all the while we’re talking to him as if he understands what’s going on. It’s like my rant this afternoon. No one listens.

The blessing by night’s end is that I’m stuffy from the weather, either that or my sinuses are protecting me from the residual smell of the skunk. That’s the only thing that still lingers from the day.

Sleep? Yeah, I’m about to finally do that. It’s a new day tomorrow and I get to wake up try again. Victory in Jesus, my Savior forever. I’m in tears again. Goodnight.