Why Your CI Lessons Feel Like Herding Cats (and How to Fix It)

A practical breakdown of what’s missing and how to regain control—with fewer scratches and more input.

Introduction: Welcome to the Feline Frenzy

If your CI classroom feels like a cross between a toddler birthday party and a documentary on feral cats, you are not alone. Maybe you’ve lovingly crafted a story about a llama with a YouTube channel, but before you can say “subjunctive mood,” one student is breakdancing under their desk, another is trying to build a pencil fortress, and someone in the back is meowing. Loudly. In sync with your every sentence.

You glance at the standards you’re supposed to meet. You glance at your class. You glance at the emergency chocolate in your drawer.

Deep breath.

Let’s get real. CI is powerful. Beautiful. Effective. And also... slightly feral without the right systems in place.

Because here's the truth: CI isn’t just about pouring beautiful input into the air like it's lavender-scented fairy dust. It's about creating an environment where that input can actually land—and not be swatted away by distraction, drama, or an airborne binder.

This article will help you turn that swirling chaos into a purring, input-rich environment—even if your classroom currently looks more like a deleted scene from Jumanji than a place of academic learning.

Chapter 1: Your Routines Are Leaking Like a Cat Door in a Hurricane

CI teachers love spontaneity. We’re storytellers, improvisers, and wildly under-caffeinated magicians. But when your class routines are looser than a Walmart shopping cart wheel, things go sideways faster than a cat who just heard the vacuum.

A lack of routines means that every. single. day. starts with a 15-minute Q&A session about what’s happening, what happened yesterday, and whether the vocab list from last semester will be on the test that doesn't exist.

Fix it with these gloriously mundane (but effective) routines:

1. CI Bellringers:
   Start with something so consistent students could do it in their sleep. Quick draws. Quick writes. Emoji weather forecasts. Bonus if it involves zero talking. Super bonus if it gives you 3 minutes to locate your sanity.
2. Daily Board Instructions:
   Put the day’s plan and goals on the board—preferably with emojis, doodles, or a llama in a superhero cape. That way, when they inevitably ask “What are we doing today?”, you can point at the board with all the flair of Vanna White and avoid collapsing into sarcasm.
3. Student Jobs:
   Let kids do the work. One runs the slides. One tracks repetitions. One passes out brain breaks. It turns your classroom into a low-budget Broadway production—and you’re the underpaid, over-tired stage manager who doesn’t have to micromanage.

CI routines don’t kill the vibe. They are the vibe. And when your students know what to expect, they stop treating your class like a surprise escape room.

Chapter 2: Transitions Are Not Interpretive Dance Breaks

Let’s paint a picture: You wrap up your class story. It was beautiful. A tear rolled down your cheek when the hamster found friendship. But then you say, “Okay, now let’s write about it.”

Suddenly, the room turns into a flash mob. Kids are spinning in circles. One’s under a table. A desk is somehow backwards. And the hamster story is a distant memory, lost in the post-transition chaos.

Why? Because you didn’t train the transition. And in the CI jungle, an untrained transition is like throwing a raw chicken into a room full of raccoons.

Here’s how to fix it before you lose your last brain cell:

1. Countdowns That Command the Gods:
   “3...2...1...¡YA!” isn’t just for TPR. Make it your sacred call to order. Practice it like a drill sergeant with a Ph.D. in patience. When students hear it, their bodies should know what to do before their brains even catch up.
2. Next Slide Previews:
   Think of it like a movie trailer: “Coming up next... The thrilling conclusion of... WRITING ABOUT THE LLAMA.” Students get mentally prepped, you reduce surprise tantrums, and transitions become smooth like butter on a croissant.
3. Frozen Statues Rule:
   At the end of a task, students freeze like statues. Sounds absurd. Is absurd. But the second you say “Freeze!” and the entire class stops mid-shuffle, you’ll feel like a wizard. It gives you a second to redirect attention before they eat each other like unsupervised gremlins.

Transitions aren’t pauses in instruction. They are instruction. Teach them like your sanity depends on it—because, spoiler alert, it does.

Chapter 3: You’re Giving Input, But They're Making a Netflix Series

You know the feeling. You’re speaking in Spanish about a cat named Nacho who wants to ride a scooter, and suddenly the back row is arguing about who invented glitter. One kid is pretending to be a sandwich. Another is quietly playing Uno with themselves. You’re not teaching; you’re giving a TED Talk to squirrels.

The input is gold—but they’re not receiving it. Why? Because focus has left the building like Elvis on rollerblades.

Here’s how to restore peace to the kingdom of Input:

1. Project or Draw Key Images:
   Use a picture. Always. If they can see the story, they’ll stop making up their own. Pro tip: Add your face to the image. It gets weird fast, and they’ll pay attention out of sheer confusion.
2. Repeat, Repeat, Repeat (With Style):
   They didn’t hear it the first time. Or the second. Or the twelfth. Repetition isn't boring—it’s CI’s love language. Vary your tone, whisper it, yell it, sing it like you’re starring in a budget opera. They’ll remember.
3. The “Magic Finger of Focus”:
   Hold up one finger. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Just... wait. Eventually, someone will notice. Then another. Then the room will go still. It’s like casting a classroom-wide “Mute” spell. Feels weird. Works like magic.

Chapter 4: They’re Not Trained—They’re Feral. And It’s Your Fault.

It’s not that your students want to destroy your dreams and classroom supplies. It’s that they genuinely don’t know what CI class is supposed to look like. You said “No English,” and they heard “You have 47 seconds to perform Hamlet.”

Training behavior isn’t optional. It’s the first week curriculum you never wrote.

Here’s how to train them like the semi-domesticated classroom cats they are:

1. Model the Bad Behavior First:
   Want them to understand the rules? Act them out—badly. Walk in late, shout answers, interrupt yourself, chew gum like a llama eating tape. Then stop and ask, “What was wrong with that?” Cue laughter and actual learning.
2. Post the CI Commandments:
   Make a class pact. Examples: “We follow with our eyes,” “We don’t narrate our thoughts,” “No llama left behind.” Keep it light but firm. Post it where everyone can see—including you when you forget and start explaining a verb chart at warp speed.
3. Celebrate the Micro-Wins:
   Johnny sat down on time? That’s a win. Celebrate like he won Olympic gold. If it takes a sticker, a cheer, or a whole-class llama dance, do it. Positive reinforcement is like catnip for teenagers.

Chapter 5: You’re Narrating Disruptions Like They’re Nature Documentaries

We get it. You’ve got a gift for language. But when little Timmy interrupts the story to talk about his Minecraft world and you respond with, “Interesting, Timmy—let’s redirect our attention,” you’ve just given that disruption a spotlight and a microphone.

You don’t need to narrate. You need to redirect. Silently. Swiftly. With the precision of a teacher who once taught through a fire drill.

Here’s how to ninja your way out of the madness:

1. Turn the Disruption Into the Story:
   Is a student blurting? Cool. Now that character is a dragon with social anxiety. Ask them to describe it. Congratulations—you just weaponized their chaos into input.
2. Use Silent Signals:
   Snap. Point. Raise an eyebrow. Use hand signs that say, “Not today, Satan.” Train your class like you’re teaching them ASL for classroom survival.
3. Pause. Sip. Stare.
   Silence is a glorious weapon. When chaos strikes, stop talking. Take a dramatic sip of coffee or water. Wait. Watch them slowly realize they’ve veered off the rails. One kid will whisper, “Uh-oh, she’s sipping again.” BOOM. Reset achieved.

Conclusion: You’re Not a Zoo Keeper—You’re a Language Sorcerer

Teaching with CI doesn’t mean surrendering to chaos and buying your weight in fidget toys. It means building a space where input flows like water... and doesn’t have to wade through a jungle of disorganization and preteen dance moves.

If your lessons feel like herding cats, it’s not because you’re doing it wrong—it’s because you’re doing it alone.

But now? You’ve got tools. You’ve got routines. You’ve got a metaphorical laser pointer of focus.

So grab your bellringer binder, prep your countdown chant, and practice your sassiest coffee-sip pause. You're not just surviving anymore—you’re thriving.

And if you're thinking, "Great. Now what?"—I've got two things for you:

1. ✅ Take the CI Proficiency Quiz to find out exactly what you need to level up. Spoiler: It’s not more duct tape.
2. 🚀 Want to master classroom control without killing the CI vibe? My Dynamic Discipline Course at https://imim.us/discipline is the golden catnip you've been waiting for.

🔑 Key Takeaways:

• CI classrooms need clear, practiced routines or chaos wins.
• Transitions aren’t time to relax—they’re time to command order like a benevolent dictator.
• Input isn’t input if no one’s paying attention. Use visuals, repetition, and awkward silence like a pro.
• Train behavior explicitly. Reinforce it with humor, consistency, and probably stickers.
• Don’t narrate chaos. Redirect it. Or turn it into a squirrel who only speaks French.