It takes all kinds

Every morning my older son, T, leaves the house at about 7:40 and walks half a block to pick up his friend R. Together, they walk another half block to pick up their friend F, and then the three of them walk together to school. These three have grown up together: they were born within 10 weeks of each other; they attended the same daycares, the same preschools, and now the same elementary school; they have sleepovers together, go to camps together and read books together. They are each the oldest in their family, and when they were babies their mothers (me, my friends) spent hours and hours together trying to make sense of our new world. They could not have more in common.

So this morning, when my guy had trouble getting out the door, I texted my friends to let them know he was running late. You see, the elementary school has this thing where the 4th graders have to give a short speech to the whole school – in French. The project was announced last week, and my son is really struggling with it. There have been a lot of tears (but he swears he is NOT afraid), and since they don’t give the speeches until April 17, I expect there will be more tears. As a parent, I don’t know quite how to help except to love him, offer what support I can, and remind him that he has done hard things before and he can do this one, too. And then I send him to school.

I’ve been assuming that his buddies are equally nervous about this BIG SPEECH. So today, I sent a text as he ran out the door, late. The responses from my friends – immediate, of course – made me laugh out loud with their clarity. Please meet our three children, friends since birth, practically the same age, who live within 100 metres of each other:

It takes all kinds, my friends. It takes all kinds.

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Slice of Life, Day 27, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

Parkour Pedagogy

Today was parents’ day at the gym where my boys are taking a parkour class. This is hands-down their favourite hour of the week, and today I saw why: their instructor could teach a master class in pedagogy if he weren’t so busy running up walls. Here are some of his teaching moves:

Establish a clear routine – the kids knew exactly where to go and what to do as class started. The coach pointed out what was different about today (“there are a lot of parents in the space”) and made suggestions about how to handle this (“so make sure you don’t accidentally kick anyone”).

Demonstrate – right away, he demonstrated something cool and new. The new vault was related to one they had already practiced, but it was a bit harder. And he gave an advance organizer (more on this later this week, probably) by telling them the plan for the session: “We’re going to practice all the vaults we’ve already learned and add some new ones. Then we’ll learn a new way to get up a wall.” He also set a purpose: “if you’re being attacked by, like, three bad guys and you need to get away, these moves will come in handy.” I scoffed, but the kids didn’t.

Connect new skills to prior knowledge – the instructor really shone here. First, he related the new skill to a previously mastered skill (a new vault was the next version of an easier vault). Next, he visually demonstrated the whole vault. Then he broke it down, showing the motion step by step and pointing out what was different from the previous skill. Finally, he used a metaphor that the kids related to – a fantastic way to connect new knowledge to old – pausing at important points in the vault demonstration and saying, “so, you don’t want to look like some girl on a piano in an old time movie (pause, pose – giggles); you want to look like Spiderman in a movie poster (pause, pose – oohs and aahs).” I heard one or two kids breathe the word “Spiderman” as they tried to remember where their foot was supposed to go.

Interleaving (Practicing an old skill and a new skill in connection – I could be accused of being a bit liberal with this definition her, but I’m ok with that.) The kids learned several new moves today (some of them nearly gave me a heart attack). In every case, they practiced the new move in combination with one at which they already had some competence. This meant that every attempt offered them a decent chance of some success and some failure.

Lots of practice – they ran around and around the circuit, practicing over and over. They actually ran until they were panting, something that is rare for my kids. There was time to jump and then time to watch others. And the coach had planned so that while he supported a new skill one-on-one (shimmying up between two walls), the kids independently practiced a skill they had already started but not mastered (running up a wall and heaving themselves to the top – Heaven help us all).

Which leads me to the next two things…

Failure is part of the practice – the coach openly talked about failure. He didn’t expect anyone to be immediately successful or succesful every time. He didn’t harp on this, it was just part of what was going to happen. He anticipated it (this will probably happen to you), planned for it (when it does, you should keep moving forward in the circuit; you’ll try it again the next time), and made it clear that any failure was not the last step of the activity. The learning would come. The kids fell over and over. They made mistake after mistake. In the whole hour, only one child got upset, and both the coach and the other kids reminded him that it was no big deal if he didn’t get the move this week.

Peer support – the coach moved around unhurriedly. After all, there was going to be enough practice time that he could observe each child. And the kids were busy helping each other. They gave plenty of high fives and compliments and showed a willingness to demonstrate or help a peer when asked. This meant that the coach wasn’t pressured to be everywhere at once and learning was happening all the time.

Consequences – At first I thought maybe parkour is just so dang cool that the coach doesn’t have to fight for their attention, but that wasn’t true. After all, he has a bunch of 7-10 year olds out there, and they have busy minds and bodies. And he really needs them to pay attention. (His motto is “Don’t Die”; parkour is not for the faint of heart.) So the consequence of not listening or not following the rules (four pushups) is non-judgmental and non-negotiable – AND it builds strength to do the desired activity.

Consolidation – after the skill-building portion, the coach set up a new circuit and allowed the kids to decide how to approach it. They independently chose which skills to practice – some kids ran the circuit trying to perfect the same moves over and over; others tried different versions every time.

Inspire – Finally, the coach showed them what the next step looks like, and sent them off convinced that practice would get them there. (My 7-year-old now wants to jump off of our roof, but that’s a different story altogether…)

Obviously the kids are signed up for this class again. And me? I’ll be at parents’ day, taking notes!

This kid has been seriously inspired to practice – in every doorway he can find. Also, he wants you to see his cool parkour moves.

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Slice of Life, Day 26, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

Morning Tea

This slice of life is modeled on Philippe Delerm’s miniatures in La Premiere gorgee de biere et autres plaisirs miniscules. (English title: Small Pleasures; actual translation: The first swallow of beer and other miniscule pleasures)

6:45 Sunday morning. In the pantry, I press the cool black button on the sleek silver water kettle, check that it’s set to 100, press the button again. I walk into the warming kitchen and find the blue teapot, the ceramic one I bought a few years ago at the local pottery sale because the blue was perfect and the body was perfectly round. I carry it to the tea station in the pantry, cradling it with two hands, absorbing its cool weight. I find the tea infuser with the turquoise lip and nestle it into the teapot. (This is a lie. I call it a”tea strainer.” I had to look up the name “tea infuser.” I prefer “tea strainer” possibly because that’s the word I actually use, but perhaps you won’t know my own personal vocabulary, perhaps it won’t be obvious. I consider which word to use. I decide on “tea infuser.” It makes me sound a little pretentious, but it is the official word. I like knowing what things are called. I privately decide that I will go on calling it a tea strainer. I wonder if I will or if knowing the “right” word will change my little world. Is this what comes of writing?) I ponder until the water is hot.

I grasp the large silver cylinder of chai tea and pull off the lid, feeling the slight resistance in the millisecond before the lid comes off in my hand. Inside, twisty black tea leaves are liberally mixed with brown pieces of cinnamon stick and yellow-beige pieces of dried ginger. Three pale green cardamom pods nestle near the round edge of the container. The aroma of ginger and cinnamon greets my nose as I measure three silver spoonfuls into the infuser. I steady the cool blue pot with my left hand as I lift the warm silver kettle with my right and pour the almost boiling water over the tea. I lift the kettle almost to my shoulder to let the water cascade down from a greater height. I secretly believe this makes it just the right temperature. I watch the tea darken and swell ever so slightly as the water rises in the pot to submerge it.

I carry the teapot, heavy with water, to the kitchen table, and I wait. I find my favourite sand-colored tea mug, a gift from my mother-in-law, with the swell that nestles neatly into my cupped palms. I take the milk from the refrigerator and place it on the table near the teapot. I tidy the area around the sink and put away a few dishes. The tea should steep for 4-7 minutes; from years of habit, my body knows when the tidying time is equivalent to the flavour I desire. It is time. I hover over the teapot and pour the cold white milk into the deep brown water. I do this with the tea infuser in the pot so I can watch the tea leaves dance under the stream of the milk as the water rises, becoming cloudy then creamy. I remove the tea strainer and leave it in the sink.

I sit at the table, check that I have what I need: computer, mug, tea. In an almost exact imitation of my earlier motion with the kettle and the pot, I lift the hot heavy teapot in my right hand and steady the cool earthy mug with my left. The heat radiates towards my left hand as the caramel liquid pours into the bowl of the mug. I set them both down. My elbows rest on the pine table and I hesitate briefly before I enfold the mug in both hands, my palms surrounding the bowl, my thumbs and index fingers rising to rest on the edge of the rim.

Warmth seeps into my hands as I lift the mug. I inhale the earthy, spicy steam of the caramel, creamy liquid. The still-cool rim of the mug grazes my lower lip as I blow lightly across the surface of the tea. More aromatic steam rises. I tilt the mug upwards and the warm smooth spicy liquid slides into my mouth at last.

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Slice of Life, Day 25, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

Oops, I did it again – an accidental slice

This is what writing and publishing every day leads to: I wrote a complaint letter last week (something I’ve only done a handful of times in my life), and when I stepped back to look at it, I realized it was really a slice. Turns out that slicing a complaint letter yields results. (I removed the name of the place because I’m not trying to slag them – though I was annoyed.)

Dear X,

Two days ago, my family and I visited your attraction for the second time. We visited last year for the first time and our children loved it so much that they begged to return to Toronto and go again this year. Since we had also been mesmerized by your attraction, it was easy to say yes.

This year, my 7-year-old saved his allowance because he remembered a shark stuffed animal that he really wanted to purchase. He was wiggly with excitement about this and talked about it endlessly. After another delightful visit, he raced into the gift shop and headed straight for the sharks. He spent quite a long time choosing, finally emerging triumphant with a shark that is at least 30 inches long. He proudly paid for it with his own money.

He has slept with it for two nights. He has not thrown it or dragged it or stepped on it, but this morning we noticed a 4 inch hole in one of the seams. You can imagine his disappointment. We do not live in Toronto and this is our last day here. We cannot get back to your attraction to replace his toy. We can only write to you to express our disappointment.

This shark has a tag saying your company name. I know that your company does not actually make them, but I did want to tell you about the poor quality of the product bearing your name. I can sew up the hole when we get home. I’ll probably do a better job than the factory in China, but I am nevertheless so disappointed that I wanted to write to you to let you know.

Sincerely,

And guess what happens when I complain and slice simultaneously? They wrote back and offered to replace his toy! His response, which I sent to them, made me laugh: “Thank you for offering me a new shark but my mom already fixed it for me. She is a very good sew-er. Maybe you can send me an octopus or a snake or a narwhal, but that one’s like $50.” I’m betting he gets a new toy pretty soon.

UPDATE: Here’s what he received in the mail. He is delighted!

slice-of-life_individual Slice of Life, Day 24, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

For D’Arcy: a list

If you are reading my blog regularly or semi-regularly this month (thank you!), you may have noticed that I’ve had a tough week. I know this makes several heavy posts in a row, but I suppose some weeks are like that, and these are the moments that are resonating with me. Thanks for hanging in there with me. I’ve been noticing plenty of sunshine even through this gray; I promise to share it soon.

For D’Arcy – a list

I remember

You walked onto the frozen canal wearing only a thin – but very fashionable – shirt and a light jacket. Your mother muttered to me, “He runs hot. He has always run hot. I worry about him.” I thought it was sweet that she worried about a nearly-grown man. Surely you knew if you were cold?
The nurse called from the hospital, “He said to tell you he is fine. He told us that you are pregnant. He’s worried that you’ll be upset.” I was at work. You were not fine. I was upset. I still don’t know why you asked them to call me and not your brother. I was worried, you hot-headed boy.
We stood just outside the movie theatre near those stairs, the hot sun shining through the big windows, illuminating us. You said, “It must be so incredible to be growing a life inside you.” I was heavy and hot. “Not so incredible, just exhausting,” I grumbled, but you still had a look of wonder on your face. Or maybe I’ve added that.
Andre hung up the phone and momentarily filled the doorway, saying, “My brother is dead.” And then he crumpled. It was March. It was cold.

I can no longer remember

The last time I saw you.
What you cooked that night we came over for dinner.
What happened after that first phone call from the hospital. You stayed with us, right? Surely you stayed with us.
If you ever came inside our new house.
If you ever touched my pregnant belly.
If you ever felt your nephew kick.

It’s been 10 years. Even the most solid things are melting away. Is it a memory or a photograph? A story someone told? A detail I added to comfort myself? I can’t remember anymore.

I can’t remember.

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Slice of Life, Day 23, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

A blessing for my students

Several of my students are in crisis. I feel almost false as I write about everything but them but, though my head is a-swirl with their situations, I cannot write about what is happening. Their stories are theirs; I cannot share them here. Even if I could, I wouldn’t know how to share because the pain, the hardness, it’s too much for me to process right now. I can support, act, think, but I can’t feel this all yet. It’s too much. I am spent, and I don’t know what to write. How do you slice someone else’s pain?

I keep thinking about the Irish blessings people wrote about on St. Patrick’s Day. If I cannot write their stories, perhaps I can write of my hopes instead. Maybe that will lift some of this weight. What can I offer these young people?

A teacher’s blessing

I wish for you…
the strength to continue to speak the truth and to believe that your truth matters;
the understanding that adults are neither always good, right or kind nor always mean, wrong or vindictive;
the ability to continue to believe that the world is generally good, even when that is not your current experience.

On your journey, may you find…
ideas that nourish you;
friends who support you;
dreams that propel you forward into the world.

May you see, as I see…
your friends, who hold you close and support you, even when you are unsure;
your family, who love you, even when you cannot believe this;
your self, who shines brightly, even when you feel unseen.

May the path that lies before you be smoothed by the choices you made today.
May the love that awaits you be deepened by the emotion you experience now.
May the adult you become be shaped by the child you are in this moment.

For all that you think you are broken, you carry within you our dream of the undiminished future.

Oh, my students! Tonight, I wish you peace.

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Slice of Life, Day 22, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

The first kisses

I had some ideas for today’s slice, then I drove the swim team carpool. Nothing like a bunch of 9-year-olds to throw off your plans.

Tonight as we left swim practice, one of the little girls kissed the other on the nose. They giggled. Then she came towards my son, the only boy in the group of three.

He said, “Don’t you dare kiss me” but she was on her way over before he even started to talk. She kissed his cheek. He wiped it off. “GROSS.”

She giggled. She kissed his arm. He wiped it off. “GROSS.”

The three of them tumbled through the hallways of the sportsplex, chasing and catching, twisting and turning, giggling and gasping.

She caught him and said, “Your choice: I can kiss you or I can lick you.”
He furrowed his brow, “Gross. I think I’d rather if you bit me.”

I tried not to laugh.

She kissed his shoulder. He twisted away but didn’t go far.

I wanted to be reasonable, to be appropriate, to talk of consent or, well, something. I said, “You know that it’s not ok to kiss someone who doesn’t want to be kissed.” Three sets of eyes looked at me pityingly. “WE KNOW.”

We got in the car. He sat in the middle. They whispered and giggled. As the door opened for her to get out, she kissed his cheek. “I’d rather you bit me!” he yelled after her.

She just might, at that.

This is the first time I’ve seen him act like this. This is the first time he let himself be caught. Later, I reminded him that no one should be touched or kissed if they don’t want to be. He told me he knew. He said he “didn’t really mind.” Oh, my heart!

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Slice of Life, Day 21, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

Secure the school

The text message said “Kids’ school on lockdown shooter on the loose” and all the blood immediately drained out of my lips, my hands, my feet. I read it again. The blood pounded in my ears which was odd because I could feel it leaving my face.

I was in my office at school and some instinct told me I was not well, I needed help. I stood up and walked into the hallway. No one was there. Everyone was in class. I weaved towards the stairwell. Andrew found me. Sweet crazy Andrew who last year in Grade 9 English had discovered graphic novels and figured out allegory all on his own. Andrew who brought me that novel and said, “Miss, I really think that this bear and these lions mean something else.” Andrew who could see beyond the page to discover the unexpected. Andrew saw me. He saw beyond the teacher. His eyes widened in alarm and he ran to my side. “Miss, are you ok?”

No. There’s a shooter.

No, I’m not ok. There’s a shooter in my children’s school.

No.

Finally, “No,” I said out loud.

Poor Andrew, gawky Andrew who had grown inches over the summer, put his hand on my arm. “What should I do?”

“I think I need a grown up” was all I could manage.

Andrew said, “I think you need to stay with me. Come on, Ms Potts.” He grasped my upper arm and led me gently not to the nearest classroom but, he later told me, to the nearest teacher he trusted. He knocked respectfully and when the teacher came to the door he said, “Ms Potts is not ok.”

I was not ok. My colleague came forward and my legs gave out.

I don’t remember much after that.

I was in my office. My colleague was there. She was giving me water.

I was in one of the good chairs. The principal was there. I was telling him about the shooter. No, he said, no, no shooter in a school. My phone. I showed them my phone. They saw the message.

They checked the computer. Yes, there had been a shooting. Someone was dead. I couldn’t breathe. Near the school, it was near the school.

It was not in the school. I could breathe a little. I took little breaths, I was gasping. “Breathe!” said my colleague. “Breathe.”

I breathed. I could breathe. I could hear. Shooting. Monument. Went towards Parliament Hill. How many shooters? Where were they? Not in the school not in the school not in the school. The voices told me not in the school not in the school not in the school. I could breathe a little. I could hear again.

I started to cry. I am crying as I write this, years later. I cried and then I breathed. My hands were trembling, no, shaking. My fingers were white. My chest ached for breath.

I sat there for a long time as we made sense of what was going on. The reports were unclear, hurried, breathless. But none of them mentioned a school. No shooter was in the school.

Our office was crowded, crowded. I needed to walk. I walked. The Vice Principal, the curmudgeon not the kind one, saw me. “Come in, come in,” he hustled me into his office.

“Why are you so upset?” he barked. He does not like upset; he does not like tears.

“My children,” I said. “Their school is on lockdown,” I said. “A shooting,” I said, “only one kilometer away.”

“Nonsense,” he growled. “None of our schools are on lockdown.”

“But this one is, this one…”

He was impatient. He does not approve of overreaction. He believes in data, in facts. “What makes you think that?”

The text. I told him about the text, the news.

He bristled, “News media.” Harumph, grumble, growl. “Let’s review the facts here, Amanda. There are facts.” He turned his computer screen toward me. “This is the Board’s current status of schools. You can see as well as I can that no schools are on lockdown.”

I was getting a little angry at him. His stupid growling voice. His insistence that he was right and I was wrong.

“I see that, but I actually don’t believe it,” I snarled back.

“Ridiculous.” His pronouncement seemed final. Then he looked at me, almost unable to understand that I would not believe the screen in front of me, “Hold on.” He picked up the phone and called someone. “Are any of our schools on lockdown?” he barked. “No?” He looked directly at me. “Ok, thank you.” He hung up.

“There. Now, use your head. The public, the media, they don’t know what ‘lockdown’ means. They think everything is a lockdown. ‘Lockdown! Lockdown!’ It makes a good story. It scares everyone. Look at you!” He was on a roll. “You know better. We have levels! We have plans! Here, for example, at our school we’re on ‘shelter in place.’ Does a reporter know what that means? No! No, and they don’t care. They write “lockdown” and everyone goes to pieces. Your children’s school is on “secure the school.” They are safe. You need to calm down.”

He paused for a breath. I was getting angry. I needed to calm down? *I* needed to calm down? To calm down! I felt my jaw set. Energy coursed through my veins. I was just about to say something rash when he interrupted again. AGAIN. He is always interrupting. Oooh… that man.

“Now. Have you eaten lunch? Can you teach next period? Because if you’re not going to teach, I need to get someone to cover for you.” He was no longer looking directly at me. He slid his eyes over and sneaked a peek at me. He waited.

I was mad and then I started to laugh. I was still a little freaked out, but I was no longer in shock. I’d seen the school status, I’d heard the phone conversation, I knew he was right – and he’d managed to get my blood pumping again. I thought about my Grade 9 class. I thought about how scared they might be right now – the news had shooters running all over Ottawa, though later we would learn that there was only one. I knew my room would be safe for them, and I knew we could talk about it. I took a deep breath and said, “Yes. Yes, I can teach.”

I stood up to leave, started to walk out, turned and said, “Thank you.”

He nodded, already distracted by the computer screen, “They’re fine, Amanda. They are completely safe and fine.” And he went back to work – and, carefully, so did I.

My children were fine. They were more than fine. Their amazing teachers, a mere one kilometer from a shooting that rocked Canada, carried on without telling the kids what was happening. The kids came home from school saying things like, “Guess what? We got to watch a movie today!” They didn’t have a care in the world. I hope that I can have their teachers’ strength in the midst of a crisis. I wrote their teachers and support staff a thank you note. It wasn’t nearly enough.

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Slice of Life, Day 20, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

Lockdown

We knew it was coming that day. Fire drills and practice lockdowns are covertly scheduled on the teacher calendar as “Admin days” so that we know not to plan guest speakers or tests on those particular days. And since we’re in a cold climate, we do the fire drills one-two-three in the fall before the weather changes. That means that the remaining Admin Day is for a lockdown. So lockdown practice is no shock: the only question is which period will be disrupted. Since we’d made it to last period, we knew the answer to that, too.

My colleague Margie and I shared a prep period, so we had to decide where to spend the lockdown. The English office is in what used to be a photography suite. The front room where we have our desks looks ordinary enough, but there’s a regular rabbit’s warren of rooms attached to it: near the back, a little coat closet where we also store our DVD collection; off to one side, a large-ish half-empty room where we keep the printer, extra supplies and the shared Chromebooks; next to that, crowded with books, a refrigerator, a tiny desk and a phone, a mini room, and through the mini-room the former dark room, which now serves as a kitchen. We glanced around as the class bell sounded – the coat closet was too small, the printer room too bare, but the kitchen was just right: far from the door, dark, hard for anyone to access.

We set up quickly, dragging in two chairs, our laptops, and some grading. We made ourselves a cup of tea. After all, lockdowns can take a long time. The admin team goes door to door releasing everyone on all three floors of the school. Classrooms get released first, usually from the basement upwards; teachers’ offices on the second floor aren’t a high priority. Sure enough, a few minutes into our preparations, the PA blared about the lockdown and we went into the kitchen, closing the office door, the mini-room door, and the kitchen door behind us.

We settled in. First, we discussed when we should “get small.” Obviously we were supposed to turn off the lights and be silent for the whole time, but this seemed like overkill; we were three doors away from the hallway, snug in our cozy kitchen. We decided to turn the lights off but chatted amiably in the darkness – her family, my family, our classes, plans for the upcoming break. After a nice long conversation, we realized that we would probably be released soon, so we stopped talking in case an administrator came in. We knew that we shouldn’t have our laptops out but, we chuckled, “better to ask forgiveness than permission,” and opened them up. For a while we worked away in companionable silence. Finally, one of us suggested that since we were already breaking one rule, and since we really were very well hidden, we could probably get away with turning on the light so we could grade. We would keep our ears open and snap the light off before an administrator came in. So we started to grade.

Image result for teacher marking cup of tea — https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/MagnificentMugShop

We are English teachers. We had a lot to grade.

I finished up my tea and thought about making another. It was nearly silent all around us. This has been an incredibly productive lockdown, I thought, just as I registered my previous thought. “Nearly silent.” NEARLY? Wait a second. I looked at Margie.

“Did you hear a toilet flush?”

“Yes. We’re right next to the girls’ bathroom,” she replied nonchalantly, focused on a creative writing piece.

Wait…Wait… She looked up. “Wait a second. Who’s flushing the toilet during a lockdown?”

My eyes darted around the room. “How long have we been in here? Does it seem like a long time?” I checked my watch. I nearly shrieked, “Margie! We’ve been in here for nearly an hour!”

“But no one has come! There was no-end-of-lockdown announcement. We would have heard.”

“But I heard the toilet flush.”

We looked at each other in complete confusion. “What should we do?”

We slowly turned the handle on the kitchen door. The mini room was still dark, the door still closed, but light seeped through the crack at the bottom. Surely we had turned off the office light? I crept out of the kitchen and reached for the phone. Quick as I could, I dialed the secretary: “Cindy? It’s Amanda,” I whispered, “Is the lockdown over? Margie and I are hiding in the English kitchen.”

At first there was dumbfounded silence. Then hysterical laughter. When Cindy caught her breath, we learned that the lockdown had ended about 40 minutes earlier. Our new vice principal didn’t know about the crazy English office layout. She checked the main room then moved on. And there’s no PA in the back rooms, so we missed the announcement, too. We just hung out in the kitchen and graded right through it all, uninterrupted by the normal hurly burly of the high school. The VP apologized over and over; the principal stopped by to apologize, too. Our colleagues were vaguely horrified: “You were stuck in there for an hour? Oh, how awful!” Margie and I tried to be graceful, to look appropriately put out, to pretend that we had been bored or worried, but really, that was the best – and only – productive lockdown I’ve ever experienced.

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Slice of Life, Day 19, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.

You’ve got mail

Dear Amanda,

I love you, but girl, never make the mistake of thinking you are unique. After all, a name is just a name. And an email address? That’s only barely yours at all. Let me tell you, I got another of those emails tonight: “Confirm your Twitter account, Amanda Potts. It’s easy — just click the button below.”

Don’t worry: I get this message about once a month and I never click the button…but I’ll tell you what, I think Amanda’s trying to get pregnant. I know she lives in Arizona and I live in Ottawa, but there are some obvious signs. I mean, first of all, let’s talk about the BabyCenter emails. They’re all about when to have sex and how to prepare your body for pregnancy. By the time I got on BabyCenter, I jumped straight to the “your baby is now the size of a insert small fruit or vegetable here” emails, so I’m guessing she’s still trying – but she could absolutely be pregnant even as I type. Shh – if I find out, I won’t tell anyone.

I *will* share a secret with you, though: I can’t tell anyone who knows her because I’ve never met her. You see, there are these other Amanda Pottses out there and they keep accidentally using my email address.

Which means that I know that Amanda Potts is probably on her way to Portugal by now. Her “Ocean and Yoga Leadership Retreat” sounded great when I found out about it last month. I bet that the hosts, Fernando and Eva, are lovely, and I kind of want to meet Max, the surfing instructor. It’s really too bad that I have to, you know, work and watch my children in Ottawa during that scheduled retreat – I would love to go. And I missed out on those Sandals retreat points last year, too. Such a shame.

Still, I can’t say I’m sorry I missed the “Bare-assed Silverado Stay” a few years ago, back when she was trying to make a go of things as an actress. I kind of admired her daring, but I’m just too old for that kind of thing anymore. Apparently Amanda lost her underwear? Possibly in at a ranch somewhere? Though she was definitely living in California at the time and, really, it’s not like her to vacation where she lives. Anyway, according to her therapist, who believes all things happen for a reason and suggested that perhaps I should be part of her on-line therapy group… but wait, that’s private. Well, sort of. I mean, she accidentally emailed me instead of, well, Amanda.

Now, I’m pretty sure that Midwest Amanda Potts, who has registered for several conferences that sound so incredibly dull that I can only assume that she is going for work, would be horrified if she knew everything I know about her. Because, I think we can all say it’s obvious that she’s a somewhat private person. And possibly she’s a workaholic? Odds are increasing with every passing email. Perhaps when I finally figure out her actual email address I should put her in touch with Arizona Amanda? Because I’m pretty sure that Surf and Yoga Amanda is just a *little* too wild for midwestern Amanda. Not that I would know. But those emails give me more than an inkling.

I do worry a little. I mean, maybe it’s the name? Maybe there’s a secret truth about Amanda Potts that means that I, too, give oodles of people the wrong email address on a regular basis. Maybe there are emails meant for me that are actually somewhere in cyberspace randomly arriving in another Amanda Potts’s inbox.

I assure myself: this is not possible. I’m the one with the good email address. Too bad for those other Amanda Pottses that I am older and was the first to jump on the email thing all those years ago. Age has its privileges. They’ll just have to deal with my email superiority – or, well, I guess I just have to deal with all of their email.

For now, I’ll just keep forwarding the messages to the Amandas I’ve found and looking for the ones I haven’t – and I’ll consider the trove of absolutely crazy messages I’ve received as fair payment. Oh, and I’ve got to go find the Amanda Potts who’s publishing on Academia.com. I would love to share my email with her.

Yours,

Amanda

slice-of-life_individual Slice of Life, Day 18, March 2018

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for this wonderful month of inspiration.