Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

recent posts

about

I’m Amy. A born and raised New Yorker, currently living in Miami. Here to reflect on my experiences as an educator and learner, working things out as I write.

  • Giggle Incontinence

    At the start of every year, we hold interviews with our new students’ parents to find out their hopes, goals, and concerns about their child. It’s always informative, and my favorite part is watching their eyes light up as we say: “Tell us about your child.”

    “She’s just, the best kid,” I remember one mom said, her voice breaking and her eyes starting to water. “I don’t know why I’m crying!!” And we all laughed.

    At one of our interviews this year, a student’s mom told us in a thick French accent that her daughter has “giggle incontinence.” At first, we thought she meant that her daughter sometimes just laughed uncontrollably, but then she mentioned the change of clothes her daughter would be bringing to school in case it happened.

    “Wait, that has a name?” Kim blurted.

    “Oh my god, I have that, too!” I exclaimed.

    It hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s something that I’ve experienced since I was a little girl. It usually occurs amidst uncontrollable and nervous laughter — a sudden need to pee, the loss of the ability to hold it in as I continue laughing, and then a heat in my face and pure terror as it rushes out.

    I always just thought I was someone who “peed her pants” at the most inopportune moments. But I much prefer the term “giggle incontinence.”

    Yesterday (or I guess, two days ago, since I am writing my slices and scheduling them for the following morning), I almost had an episode of said giggle incontinence.

    We were on the school bus, getting ready to head off on a field trip with fourth grade, when screams erupted from the back: “Ms. Amy!! There’s a cockroach!”

    I’ll let you read the full story in Gianna’s slice, while I zoom into a small moment.

    After I returned to my seat, thinking said roach was done and dealt with, Gi sanitized my hands and we sat down.

    “Qué asco,” Gi said in that way she does that I love so much. Then she turned to the window, and we watched a small roach crawl up the wall and under the sill.

    She immediately squealed and stood up, her hand covering her face to try to hide her fear as the students around us shouted “What? What??”

    “Nononono,” she started repeating as she made to, what? Leave the bus??

    Because that was the problem. We were stuck on this bus, and our journey had barely even begun.

    I looked at her and I looked back at my students with their huge eyes filled with pure horror, and I lost it. I started cracking up.

    Gi started laughing too. Tears streamed from our eyes. The teachers at the front looked confused, screams were ricocheting from all sides, Gi was up against me as though I could save her from the roaches, and that’s when I felt it — the moment of the giggle incontinence threatening.

    Oh shit.

    I took a deep breath in, crossed my legs, and willed myself not to freaking piss my pants while on a school bus full of my preteen students, the fourth graders, and 5 other teachers!!! PLEASE, bladder, don’t do this to me. Haven’t you embarrassed me enough? Wasn’t Lara’s birthday torture enough? The Great Gatsby skit in 8th grade, Ms. Mansell’s knowing look? The bar in Madrid where my coworker bit into a too-hot croqueta and turned bright red as he went “Haa! Haa! Haa!”? PLEASE, BLADDER, NOT TODAY!!

    By some miracle, I was able to calm myself enough that my bladder backed off in retreat. The moment passed. My face cooled off and I could breathe again.

    I continued to laugh-cry for the rest of the wild ride, even shouted to the students at one point, “This is a small moment story!! You can write about this!”

    Mostly I was glad that I was sharing this crazy experience with one of my best friends, because I knew that even if I had experienced an episode of giggle incontinence, somehow, she would have helped make it okay.

  • This Body of Mine

    “Can you tell me all the things you like about my body?” I ask softly. After an afternoon of shopping and feeling like nothing I tried on looked good on me, my self-esteem has fallen and I am trapped in the upward comparison loop.

    “What do you like about your body?” He flips the question on its head, knowing the reclaimed confidence will have to come from me. I love this man.

    What do I like about my body?

    My body that has carried me on this Earth for 33 years and five months.

    My body that is a bit achey this morning (Do I need a new pillow? Do I just need to exercise? Are teachers destined to hold all their stress in their necks?).

    What do I like about this body of mine?

    I like my hands — their ability to type fast, write neatly, knit complicated patterns to create clothes and accessories my loved ones and I can wear.

    I like my legs — they’ve always been strong — their ability to run half marathons, walk 20,000 steps in a day of sightseeing, squat and sit and lunge with proper form.

    I like my feet and ankles — they’re a bit bony, and my sister has always hated my longer toes, but I like them, and my feet take me everywhere. How different life would be without my feet!

    I like my belly button — how, when I was a kid, it used to look more like an “innie-outie,” I called it, and now is a bit more of an “innie.”

    I like my smaller chest — I can run without it hurting, go bra-less whenever, and wear a lot of different types of tops.

    I like my hair — it’s thick and curly and it always air dries well. I have natural highlights, blonds and reds, and not many gray hairs yet.

    I like my eyes — the blue-gray-green of them, how they change based on what I’m wearing. I love how they take in so many details as they observe this world I live in.

    So why, when I look in the mirror at a shop, try on an article of clothing not made for this unique body of mine, do I blame my body instead of the store? The store who only designs for one type of female body? (Juxtapose this with Gi and I accompanying Jason to Suit Supply, where he explains how he’ll try on a suit, they’ll fit him, and then they’ll make it to his exact measurements.)

    I don’t have the answers, and the ending of this slice got interrupted in real time by my dog throwing up (I think she swallowed a hairball, ha!), so it will have to end here.

    And when that little voice inevitably makes herself heard, I’ll try to remember all the things I love about this body of mine.

  • The Sanderling

    The bird scurries so quickly, it looks like he’s ice skating across the sand. One leg moving as the other hover-floats, skiing between the seaweed slopes.

    He speeds back and forth, drawing loop-de-loops, but remains ever ahead of me at my easy pace. I walk along the shoreline, sun beaming on my face, wind strong. The bird guides me, flitting along in search of something to eat.

    As we walk, me behind him, I people watch.

    A young girl sits in the sand, her legs beside her like a mermaid. She lets the water rush across them, her head hanging back, her long braids waving.

    The bird scurries on.

    A toddler explores with his hands, stands up holding a shell, looking for Mommy.

    The bird speeds ahead.

    A boy and his dad have built an excellent shelter and moat. The boy cheers as a wave crashes against their strong wall. The dad smiles and says hello as I pass.

    The bird zips back and forth.

    What kind of bird is this? I wonder. Smaller than a child’s shoe. White with grey flecks on his back. A long black beak.

    A quick internet search yields sanderling, the name deriving from the Old English sand-yrðling, meaning “sand-ploughman.”

    He flits ahead, faster now, joins in with a friend, the two seesawing as they plow the sands. I stretch up and shield my eyes from the sun, look out at the sea, then turn around.

  • Surrender

    “Are you a religious person?” she asks me.

    “No, but I’m spiritual, I think,” I tell her.

    “Do you believe there is some sort of higher power?”

    “I guess so, yes,” I say, “though I don’t think there’s a God, per se.”

    “For me, the highest power is divine love,” she shares. “Your sensitivity is a super power. You have the power to feel others’ feelings. And you’re a healer. But you don’t heal by taking on others’ feelings. You heal by being a conduit, a tube, through which divine love can flow. Love passes through you to heal others.”

    I imagine myself as a macaroni or cavatappi noodle, divine love coming in through the top, and shooting out the other side.

    “What you need to remember is that you have no control — none of us do. Most of the time, you just have to surrender to the greater power of divine love.”

    I nod.

    “Prayer is powerful, you know. There have been studies on it.”

    I recreate this conversation with sentences I’ve logged in my Notes app, trying to capture her wisdom before I forget it.

    ***

    I think of all the people in my life I want to surrender to divine love today. My heart sends out love in color to their hearts. I pray, even though I’m not religious, that divine love will cradle them as they wade through grief, anger, fear, make the landing softer, allow them to find even a small moment of peace amidst the chaos.

    I visualize them in violet light, soft green light, pink light, white golden light. I let the light envelop them, protecting them like a flame, where anything that comes towards them burns up with a sizzle.

    I surrender, knowing I have no control but this: to have faith that they will be okay.

  • The Last Time

    There’s something bubbling beneath every day lately at work. A thread weaving between the seams, a whispered undercurrent.

    “This might be the last time you…” it says.

    I try to shake it off — it jars me.

    But it’s a persistent little f***er.

    “This might be your last chapter book read aloud,” it whispers to me as I put post-its to mark each day in Refugee.

    “This might be your last field trip,” it sings as I send the confirmation email to Bowlero.

    “This might be the last time you hear that,” it taunts me when I read a Valentine’s card from a student that ends with “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

    “F off,” I will it to leave in my mind.

    But I know it will linger. Because the truth is, many of these moments will be the last.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is, just because I made the choice to leave the classroom, doesn’t mean it’s easy.

    I’m reminded of Vicky’s slice as I think: Why does choosing myself sometimes feel like I’m breaking my heart?

  • My Water Bottle

    My Water Bottle

    My water bottle is covered in stickers. The students love to look at them, and so do I. Each one brings me joy.

    Side 1

    Side 1:

    • Iris Tattoo and Piercing flower from my third and fourth holes I got in 2023
    • A llama from the cultural carnival last year, representing my love of knitting
    • A hint of a pink tulips sticker, also from the carnival, for my family friends in Holland
    • “invisible string” and “Karma” stickers #Swiftie
    Side 2

    Side 2:

    • evermore album sticker #Swiftie
    • “Forgive Me!” sticker. My college friend/fellow writer, Bob, created a podcast and I got this sticker as a token for supporting their GoFundMe. I believe it was illustrated by his wife!
    Side 3

    Side 3:

    • Cobscook Institute sticker from where the Quoddy Writing Retreat took place; I also love its LGBTQIA+ flag in the background
    • London sticker, also from last year’s cultural carnival, for my London boy
    • Leslie Knope sticker — my absolute fave — from my student M.

    I was stumped for what to write this morning, and then I looked at my water bottle and saw the Leslie Knope sticker with the quote, “I am super chill all the time!”

    It made me laugh as I remembered my PMS-induced outburst on Monday when I was helping some tired and reluctant students (not my best moment). It’s a good reminder to not take myself too seriously.

  • A Lesson in Abandoning Books

    “Your hold at the Miami Public Library is ready to borrow,” my Libby notification popped up, with a small photo of Onyx Storm.

    Yesssss! I whisper screamed, then remembered I was only 35% through Family Lore by Elizabeth Acevedo. I love Acevedo’s YA, and I was very excited to start her first novel for adults. But I hadn’t been feeling too thrilled about reading it lately. It’s not that I didn’t like the book, but there are a lot of characters and jumping back and forth through time, so I was always a bit confused as I read. The worst part: I never wanted to go back to it, and I was always having to reorient.

    I’ll have to just dedicate more time to reading this week so I can finish it and be able to start Onyx Storm, I thought, and then I caught myself.

    Why?

    Why would I force myself to dedicate more time to a book that I’m not enjoying? Isn’t The Storygraph’s motto “Because life’s too short for a book you’re not in the mood for”? Didn’t I teach a lesson about abandoning books earlier in the year?

    What were the guidelines we came up with together?

    • Choose wisely (read the blurb; do you know the author?; do you think you’ll be interested?). — Okay, I did this.
    • Give the book a real try, at least 80 pages. — Check.
    • Read it every day for at least 3 days to see if you get in the flow. — I tried! I’ve been reading every day for over a week!
    • If you still aren’t into it, you can abandon it, but you have to journal a quick reason why. — You don’t need to tell me twice! That’s a slice!

    I’m no better or worse if I finish or don’t finish this book, I reminded myself. But I’ll be a whole lot happier if I just give myself permission to abandon it and crack open the third book in a fantasy series that I know I’ll enjoy.

    The next day, at school, we introduced the Engagement Continuum to our students during morning meeting. As we had them self-assess for math, investigations, and read aloud, I realized something.

    “Your temperature check has me thinking,” I said out loud. “Do we need to abandon our read aloud?”

    Their eyes widened in that did-she-really-just-say-that way that my students tend to do when I say something out of their scope of things-teachers-say.

    I shared with them my own personal debacle with Family Lore over the weekend.

    “Here’s what I’m noticing: Many of you are disengaging, some of you are interested, but the energy is low. We’ve already read about 100 pages. And honestly, it’s not very fun for Ms. Kim and I to read to you, because we can tell you’re checked out!” I looked around at the nodding heads. “So… what do you say?”

    It was an emphatic yes.

    “Wait,” M said. “Can we still read one of the ones from our list?”

    I laughed and initially responded with playful sarcasm. Then I told them we’d be starting Refugee. Cue the cheers.

    And that’s how I abandoned two books this week, replacing them with ones I know I’ll love.

  • Post-Traumatic Lice

    Disclaimer: I apologize for any psychosomatic itching that occurs upon reading this post.

    It’s Monday evening and I’m standing over the sink, a metal comb in my hand, iPad propped on the closed toilet seat as it plays mindless episodes of Love is Blind.

    I’ve been here before, many times.

    Combing my hair out to check for lice.

    You see, I’ve had lice now a confirmed 3 or 4 times, only one of which was during my youth, as a teenager; every other time, I’ve been a teacher.

    I don’t have lice now, or at least I don’t think I do, as I comb out the same small inch of hair from a third angle, scrutinizing the comb for any trace of nits or live louse.

    Because I know well what they look like.

    The first time I had lice I was 14 and had just come back from a youth travel and service bike trip with my camp. 12 of us, boys and girls, biking 30-40 miles a day in Vermont, Massachusetts, and upstate New York. Stopping every few days to settle in at a different campground, completing service projects in the area, then picking up and moving onto the next. Helmets, tents, and lots and lots of hugging and sharing of things, as 14-year-olds tend to do.

    I remember the last week or so of the trip, my scalp itched incessantly. I’d crave a scalding hot shower to burn away the itch on my scalp. I’d lower my head back into the stream of water in relief, only for the itch to come back when I’d get on with my day.

    At camp, they’d do lice checks at the beginning and end of summer. They found lice on Zoe, but the rest of us were free. Or so we thought.

    I came back to New York in late August, scratching, but telling my mom proudly, “I’m lice free, they checked me!” whenever she would question me with an eyebrow raised.

    Fast forward to the first week of sophomore year, and my mom had had enough. In my memory, she tackles me to the floor to check my head, and proclaims, “You have a city of lice living on your head!”

    So began one of the more traumatic experiences of my life: sitting through painstaking hours of lice and nit removal at the top of our stairs-that-led-to-nowhere (it had the best light, seeing as it was closest to the ceiling) while I tried to make sense of my AP European History textbook; my mom getting lice from me; my dad coming into my room one night, telling me, “If you can’t get rid of this, I’m shaving your head;” and the black licorice-scented treatment that our professional de-louser gave us when my mom finally caved and paid for us to both get treated.

    I got very familiar with lice during that experience. After all, I had a whole city living on my head! They migrated to my mom’s head! I remember I could see the nits in my sideburns, for goodness sake!

    The second time I got lice was in 2018 as a third-year teacher, around my birthday. I knew the itch, the familiar heat spreading behind my ears. I went to a professional this time to check me and they stated I simply had dandruff. A few nights later, scratching madly, I found my old comb after a night out, scraped it under the nape of my neck and said hello to 3 bugs that fell out into the sink.

    (By the way, I’m sorry if you’re itching as you read this; I sure am!)

    Mayhem. I cried, bagged everything up that couldn’t be washed, and hauled 4 loads of laundry down to the laundry room. I didn’t trust the professionals, nor anyone else, so I treated and de-loused myself. Luckily, I succeeded, thanks to my perfectionism. I would not have another city moving in.

    The third time was three years later, also on my birthday, this time most definitely from a student. It wasn’t as bad, and I treated it quickly.

    But every time after that, if I got a hint of an itch, or heard of a student with lice, I didn’t hesitate: I’d treat, comb, and get ahead of it regardless.

    I’ve probably done said “preventative treatment” three or four times since then. Which is what leads me to now, standing at the sink, rolling my eyes at this ridiculous reality TV show that still has us all wrapped around its finger (what season is it, anyway? I don’t even like reality TV, but this one I’ll come back to). Two of my students have lice, and I am not taking any chances. So I stand here, combing the same strands one way and another, watching my hair fill the sink, but luckily no bugs.

    “No lice. No nits,” I say proudly after an hour of combing. I texted the same to Kim.

    Needless to say, I’ll be keeping my hair up for the rest of the year.

  • “Let everything happen to you”

    Over the weekend, P and I watched Jojo Rabbit. We’d both seen it once before, and have been in somewhat of a historical film marathon, so it fit right in with the rest (although a much more — is “lighthearted” the word? — take). Taika Waititi’s film is funny and heartfelt and soul-filling, despite its serious content.

    At the end of the film, this quote from Rilke appears on the screen, and it was like a punch to the gut for me:

    In the midst of a lot going on in our personal lives right now, this quote was a reminder to me of the impermanence of every moment, bad and good. A reminder that storms pass, and to soak up good weather while you have it. P and I looked at each other and a whole conversation passed between our eyes without saying a word.

    A hunt for a screenshot of the quote led me to this wonderful blog post with some other gut-punching quotes from Rainer Maria Rilke. Nishtha’s reflections on Rilke’s life and words are beautifully written, and will surely give you some inspiration if you find yourself in need today.

    Until then, a reminder to dance, even (and maybe especially) in the ruins.

    Jojo and Elsa dancing in the street after he brings her outside for the first time.

  • A Proper Workstation

    When I moved into my studio apartment last year, I didn’t have enough space for a dining table nor a desk. Instead, the large kitchen counter served as my everything station: meal prep, dining table, workstation.

    When we moved into our new apartment this August, we bought a second-hand table from a lovely couple and set it up underneath the ceiling lamp fixture. It felt so nice to be able to sit across from one another as we ate, instead of only side-by-side at the bar or in front of the TV.

    The corner behind the table, though, has been in transition since our move: first, it was a place to hold the boxes we had yet to unpack; then, a place to set up the blow-up mattress when we had a little guest; next, we brought in the empty metal shelving unit from outside to hold my computer and some books and knitting things so they wouldn’t take up so much space on the dining table (even though they still often did).

    Last week, as I was hunched over, leaning and squinting to see my laptop screen, frustrated with the wobble and incessant tap-tap-tap of my old Apple keyboard whenever I typed anything, Patrick finally convinced me to just do it: get a desk, a monitor, the works.

    So that night I perused Amazon and found a cute new Bluetooth keyboard and mouse and a standing desk. On Saturday, the desk arrived, and within 30 minutes our space had transformed.

    From this…
    …to this!

    I still need to get a monitor and a desk chair, and maybe some more art to fill the blank wall above, but it feels SO GOOD to have a defined space to put everything.

    A proper workstation.