Well, they didn't eat me alive.

Of course, they needed explanations and repeated instructions and more time to retrieve their favorite pencil. They took every split second of silence as a command to ask One More Question. They like to talk the way you and I like to breathe.

I had them do a five-minute writing exercise where they described their summer holidays. It seems half of them went to their villas in Paraguay, and the other half "just drove to France for a few weeks," which was evidently "quite nice," but that taking their new pony to pony camp was better.

So in some ways, they live on another planet, and in other ways they are each the quintessential early adolescent. Oh, the insecurity is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

And after Lesson 1, I floated out of that classroom.

I know it's premature to say (ask me again in two weeks), but I think I may love teaching.

I had a lesson plan, but I got plenty of chances to improvise. I got to make dry remarks that went over their heads, I got to tell them to be quiet and see them obey (we'll see if that ever happens again), and most novel of all, I got to tell them things they didn't know before. (usually I'm talking to adults who have more life experience in their little finger than I have in my whole body). Oh, it was such a rush.

But it wasn't just teaching them. As soon as I started grading that stack of nigh-illegible paragraphs, I fell in love with the kids who wrote them. At my most selfish, I probably loved the prospect of seeing them improve because of my guidance. On the other hand, I don't think that's the whole story. I think I just want to see each of them, as a person, flourish, period.

So when I walked into that classroom, I'd set my mouth in a thin line and was prepared to draw a hard one with these rambunctious hellions. One lesson, 35 minutes later, I was all in. Signed, sealed, delivered.

Batten down the hatches, kids; here comes Miss Neall.