I had to do it. They asked for it. I had been warning them it was coming for quite some time and it got to the point where I had no other choice. I had to subject my class full of kids to the corporal punishment of the 2000s -- sitting still in meditation.

I teach a Saturday morning program which is a fun thing but not without its difficulties. Sometimes it seems an impossible task to nab and maintain a child’s attention at this wee hour when they would rather be home in their pajamas watching "Rug Rats" or whatever cartoon it is that kids watch nowadays.

This particular batch of youngsters promised to be a problem from the get-go. This was a danger of which I was aware from day one when one kid started dancing in the aisle in the middle of my "lecture" while another pair began playing Blackjack. I have been trying a tired and true method of disciplining them -- totally ignoring their antics -- and it often makes them stop. But last week it was just too much. Class had barely begun and they were already screaming at their seats and streaming through the rafters. I felt like I was transported through time into an episode of "Romper Room" or left hungry and abandoned in the middle of Sesame Street.

When it became apparent I had reached my snapping point, I had three options. I could a.) run out of the room shrieking; b.) hide under my desk; or c.) make good on my long-time threat of mediation. Since the first option could get me fired and the second would ruin my pants since the floor was speckled with homemade Playdough (the day’s activity), I chose the third.

As I said, I had fully warned them that if they ever continued to misbehave, I would subject them to meditation. I even suggested topics on which to meditate, such as tree leaves and the Atlantic Ocean as we are on the Kingsborough campus and those things are immediately visible out the second floor window. And now came the moment of truth.

Amidst the chaos and jamble, I bolted from my chair, strode over to switch off the lights and shut the door. I resumed my seat, looked the class straight in the eyes and said "That’s it -- we are meditating." After instructing them to sit forward with their feet firmly on the floor and hands on their laps, I told them to close their eyes, breathe slowly out of their nose and begin. I would be timing them for three minutes.

At 2.7 seconds, one kid informed me she had a cold and could not breathe out of her nose. About six seconds into it, another kid yelled "Yoga!" and we had to start the timing process over again.

When it got to about a minute and a half, which included 31 seconds of total silence (bliss!) 22 seconds of someone tapping a Snapple bottle and roughly a minute full of snickering, one kid blurted out "Three minutes is a loooong time!"

It sure is. I know the feeling. In fact, from 4:57 until I get out of work at 5 p.m. sometimes seems like several lifetimes. Three minutes easily feels like three hours when you’re in cold rain and waiting for the bus. A three-minute commercial during the Superbowl would cost more than the national debt.

But it’s all a matter of perception. Three minutes on stage reading poetry flashes by in a millisecond. And the last three minutes of any final exam goes so quickly that it may as well not even exist.

I used to consider my own morning meditation quite lengthy if it lasted the proverbial three minutes. As with anything, of course, through diligence and constant practice, I have managed to sit still for almost half an hour at times. And sometimes it gets so good, I don’t even want to stop. These kids have yet to get to that point.