A little girl and her two brothers sat staring out the window. It was a grey and rainy day, but none of them cared. Their daddy was going to be home any minute.
“What time is it, Mommy?”
“3:15, 15 more minutes to go.”
“I wish they would hurry. I want to see Daddy,” the little girl said.
This scene plays out in millions of house-holds every day, but it was different at this house. The father in question, Joe August, was coming home for Christmas after having been in the hospital for a month. He was the young father of three small children and he was dying. His kids did not know it yet, but this would be the last Christmas with their father because the cancer that was ravaging his body would take him from his family three short months later.
The young mother was also living a familiar scene for far too many families in this country. Cindy was trying to figure out how to feed her kids. Her husband’s company had graciously continued his health care while he was fighting this disease, but disability payments covered very little be-yond necessities and sometimes, the payments did not cover all of those. They were out of money until the next payment came which was in one more week and there was one can of pears in the house. To make matters worse, it was Christmas Eve and she had not been able to buy any presents. Santa was not coming to the August home that year and it was breaking Cindy’s heart.
But she smiled as she watched her three kids stand staring out the window, waiting for the father they adored to appear. When the ambulance arrived (with the lights on for the kids to see), all the worry disappeared for a brief moment. Daddy was home.
The paramedics got Joe settled, and Kevin and Jeff, the two little boys, promptly climbed up into their dad’s wheelchair and sat on his lap. They began to regale him with stories of their new love, Star Wars. They were hoping Santa Claus would bring them the Death Star play set to go with their Luke and Han Solo figures. When the little girl finally got to talk, she told her daddy about what she was learning in school and read to him from her favorite book, Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.
Family started to arrive. Joe was the oldest of seven boys and his brothers all wanted to see their leader. Both sets of grandparents and Cindy’s brother and sister made it, too. Everyone was there, and knowing what was happening with the family’s finances, brought what they could to make Christmas Eve bright. Cindy could worry a little less for a while longer. Then there was another knock at the door. Cindy and Joe had no idea who it could be; everyone who was coming was already packed into their little cottage. Cindy opened the door and saw her friend Yvonne. She spoke six simple words and changed the family’s holiday, and lives, forever.
“Cindy, I have something for you.”
Yvonne stepped aside and people began to pour into the house carrying bags of food and wrapped packages. They were from the Lion’s Club, the Masons, and the Catholic Church to which the family belonged. These gentle souls filled the kitchen with food for Christmas and food for the months ahead. They had gotten the children’s Christmas lists and provided every desire plus more. And they did this all for a family that many only knew in passing and some had never met. The young family had a beautiful holiday and a memory to sustain them when Joe finally lost the fight with cancer in March of the next year. He was just 30 years old.
The little girl learned a lot in that time. She learned that life is short and you have to grasp every minute with your loved ones that you can. She learned that giving is a powerful thing when done freely, honestly, and with the best of intentions. And she learned that Christmas and the holiday season is a magical time when anything can happen. The little girl in the story is me, Kelly August Duncan.
Barnes and Noble, many malls, firefighters, food pantries, and the Marines all work to collect toys, books, and food for needy children and their families. Find it in your heart to help out. And if you need help, never be afraid to ask. We all deserve a little light in our lives. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to each and every one of you. I hope you bring joy to the life of another. Even the smallest kindness can do big things. In this season, and always, be a big thing for someone else.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Grammy
When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time in my grandma's jewelry box and closet. She had all these cool clip on earrings (she didn't get her ears pierced until her 60's!!!), fancy shoes and dresses, and the ultimate-a mink stole (which I wouldn't be caught outside in as an adult, as a kid, though: BEST. DRESS. UP. STASH. EVER.). I'd parade around Camelot (my grandparents house) in my finery and have tea parties in the back yard. My grandma made all these things happen for me.
In my teens, I didn't dress up anymore. But I still loved Grandma's house. There was always something peaceful about the place. I loved going to see the irises and daffodils bloom in spring or to sit on the lounge chairs and read a book. I still loved her jewelry, though. Turns out amid all of the gaudy costume stuff I had adorned myself with as a teenager were some truly priceless pieces.
One of those was a hand-knotted graduated pearl necklace. It's the kind that has one large pearl in the center that rests between your collar bones and then gets smaller on both sides as you go around to the clasp. I was allowed to wear it at the house sometimes and once even got to borrow it for a week. I loved that necklace. So imagine my surprise when on my 27th birthday, that necklace was inside my birthday present with the words "You're just so special." I still get all tingly thinking about it. And wearing them to my wedding as my something old (turns out my grandpa gave those pearls to my grandma as a wedding gift when they got married in 1948) was an absolute blessing. I find myself wearing them now when I am down or need to feel loved...works every time.
My grammy is one of the most wonderful women I know. She is kind, understated, and compassionate. She has a very strong sense of right and wrong and works hard to take care of all of us Augusts (and those who married in) in her own way. She won't say anything about someone if she can't think of something nice. She always looks beautiful. I just adore her.
I'm about to head over and see one of my heroes. I try to see her at least once a week (although it's been four since I saw her last) and I call her every few days. She's 87 and since my grandpa died almost two years ago, I am reminded that life is short and I won't have Grammy forever. However, I have her for now. And that makes my life better in too many ways to count.
In my teens, I didn't dress up anymore. But I still loved Grandma's house. There was always something peaceful about the place. I loved going to see the irises and daffodils bloom in spring or to sit on the lounge chairs and read a book. I still loved her jewelry, though. Turns out amid all of the gaudy costume stuff I had adorned myself with as a teenager were some truly priceless pieces.
One of those was a hand-knotted graduated pearl necklace. It's the kind that has one large pearl in the center that rests between your collar bones and then gets smaller on both sides as you go around to the clasp. I was allowed to wear it at the house sometimes and once even got to borrow it for a week. I loved that necklace. So imagine my surprise when on my 27th birthday, that necklace was inside my birthday present with the words "You're just so special." I still get all tingly thinking about it. And wearing them to my wedding as my something old (turns out my grandpa gave those pearls to my grandma as a wedding gift when they got married in 1948) was an absolute blessing. I find myself wearing them now when I am down or need to feel loved...works every time.
My grammy is one of the most wonderful women I know. She is kind, understated, and compassionate. She has a very strong sense of right and wrong and works hard to take care of all of us Augusts (and those who married in) in her own way. She won't say anything about someone if she can't think of something nice. She always looks beautiful. I just adore her.
I'm about to head over and see one of my heroes. I try to see her at least once a week (although it's been four since I saw her last) and I call her every few days. She's 87 and since my grandpa died almost two years ago, I am reminded that life is short and I won't have Grammy forever. However, I have her for now. And that makes my life better in too many ways to count.
Monday, May 24, 2010
My Brother's Marathon
I haven't posted in a long time (this blog isn't called the Overscheduled Mom for nothing!). I promise to have something of my own to say very soon, but for today, these are the words of my brother, Kevin August. I warn you...this will bring tears, but it's a good kind of cry. Thanks, Kevin, for sharing y(our) story.
Not many two year olds can pronounce the word “cancer.” Even fewer grasp the concept of rampant cell division that ravages its host’s body in a persistent campaign to kill it. And, yet, there I was: two years old, repeating every word I heard, exploring my newfound ability to create havoc, and visiting my dad in the hospital every few days.
I had two-year-old eyes and a two-year-old brain, so I only noticed two-year-old things. He was in bed all the time. He couldn’t walk. He had black blisters the size of sand dollars on his feet and needed a wheelchair to get around. He was skinny. His hair sat in unconnected clumps on his head. He didn’t laugh much.
My dad was a young man when he got the news nobody wants to hear. Barely 28, with three kids under five and a 23-year-old wife, he was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a particularly deadly brand of cancer that typically affects children (64% of Ewing’s diagnoses occur between the ages of 10 and 20). Of all the deflating stats his doctors threw his way, this was the bleakest: more than seven in ten stricken with Ewing’s were dead within five years.
Ewing’s tumors grow on bones and soft tissue; my father’s tumor was located in the bones of his back. Before his 29th birthday, he had already endured all the misery of cancer treatment: multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and fleeting hopes dashed amid endless weeks frittered away in a hospital bed.
The effect on our family life was dire. Our finances dwindled as doctor bills piled up and the sole breadwinner missed long periods of work. My older sister was in elementary school, but my brother and I were still too young for school, so my mom stayed home to take care of us. Meanwhile, my dad spent nearly two years in and out of remission, living the volatile life of a patient battling to beat the cancer odds.
Odds that, it turned out in the end, were simply too steep.
A cancer patient’s condition can change fast. My dad was outside with his brothers throwing a football on Thanksgiving in late 1979, but he was a paraplegic fighting for his life in a hospital bed three weeks later. The prognosis wasn’t good. Even after countless surgeries and treatments, his cancer was taking over. It became clear to everybody involved that his life expectancy was short (days? weeks?), and his doctors’ focus shifted from enacting life-saving measures to ensuring his final days were comfortable. Christmas was coming, but Santa wasn’t dominating our family’s thoughts. We’d be lucky to get the chance to visit him in the hospital, because that would mean he was still alive.
That was before we knew that little miracles sometimes happen. And while we’d all prefer the big ones, sometimes the small miracles have to be enough.
Most people can’t pinpoint their first memory. Maybe it was riding a donkey at the zoo, or seeing a baseball game for the first time, or helping mom wash the dishes, but it’s not likely they know the exact date. I’m not one of those people. Mine was December 24, 1979, six weeks before my third birthday.
My mom was near hysterics as she walked toward the front door of our small house. My sister and brother were next, creating enough commotion to bring me with them to the front yard. And that’s when I saw it: an ambulance was parked in front of our house. The back doors were open, and two men were lowering a hospital bed to the ground. Lying on that hospital bed, coming home to spend Christmas with us, was my dad. He was still beaten down and weak, but he'd improved a bit. His doctors thought he’d benefit by surprising his family with one last Christmas at home.
Thirty years later, still clinging to that first memory, I assure you they were right.
What came next was even more surprising. A bounty of gifts was dropped at our doorstep while we slept. Through the unrelenting altruism of people who spend their lives boosting others, three young kids awoke to a Christmas beyond their imagination. The local Masonic organization got word that our tree would be bare and spoiled us with the fruits of their toy and food drives. For a few glorious hours, our family’s impending doom slipped quietly into the background while we celebrated the magic of Christmas.
And that was the miracle. The doctors didn't have to send my dad home. The Masons didn't have to bring us gifts. People don't have to take care of each other, but something inside inspires us to.
It wasn’t long after that I learned that bad things happen in threes. Three months after that magical Christmas, three days after my mom’s birthday, and 42 days after I turned three, my father drew his last breath. He was 30 years old.
Now 33 and living my life to the fullest, cancer is never far from my thoughts. I’ve spent 30 years coming to grips with its implications, and my experience is far from unique: cancer is the second biggest killer in America, causing nearly a quarter of all deaths.
On November 7, I will be running the New York Marathon in my dad’s honor, and in celebration of that last Christmas together 30 years ago. Based on my own knowledge of how small miracles can create lifelong memories, I ask you to help me reach my goal of raising $3,000 in support of Team Continuum. That's $100 for every year of his life.
Team Continuum creates small miracles every day by assisting cancer patients and their families with basic needs, by paying bills (rent, electric, phone, water, gas, etc.), tutoring, giving toys, computer access, transportation, and other incidental needs that arise during treatment. So, until there’s a cure, and no two-year old has to learn the word “cancer” ever again, please join me in helping ease the financial and emotional burden for families like mine.
To donate toward my goal and learn more about Team Continuum's mission, go to www.teamcontinuum.net and type my name into the "Donate to an Athlete" box. If you'd prefer not to donate online, please see the attached flyer for additional details.
No amount is too small.
Thank you,
-Kevin
Not many two year olds can pronounce the word “cancer.” Even fewer grasp the concept of rampant cell division that ravages its host’s body in a persistent campaign to kill it. And, yet, there I was: two years old, repeating every word I heard, exploring my newfound ability to create havoc, and visiting my dad in the hospital every few days.
I had two-year-old eyes and a two-year-old brain, so I only noticed two-year-old things. He was in bed all the time. He couldn’t walk. He had black blisters the size of sand dollars on his feet and needed a wheelchair to get around. He was skinny. His hair sat in unconnected clumps on his head. He didn’t laugh much.
My dad was a young man when he got the news nobody wants to hear. Barely 28, with three kids under five and a 23-year-old wife, he was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a particularly deadly brand of cancer that typically affects children (64% of Ewing’s diagnoses occur between the ages of 10 and 20). Of all the deflating stats his doctors threw his way, this was the bleakest: more than seven in ten stricken with Ewing’s were dead within five years.
Ewing’s tumors grow on bones and soft tissue; my father’s tumor was located in the bones of his back. Before his 29th birthday, he had already endured all the misery of cancer treatment: multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and fleeting hopes dashed amid endless weeks frittered away in a hospital bed.
The effect on our family life was dire. Our finances dwindled as doctor bills piled up and the sole breadwinner missed long periods of work. My older sister was in elementary school, but my brother and I were still too young for school, so my mom stayed home to take care of us. Meanwhile, my dad spent nearly two years in and out of remission, living the volatile life of a patient battling to beat the cancer odds.
Odds that, it turned out in the end, were simply too steep.
A cancer patient’s condition can change fast. My dad was outside with his brothers throwing a football on Thanksgiving in late 1979, but he was a paraplegic fighting for his life in a hospital bed three weeks later. The prognosis wasn’t good. Even after countless surgeries and treatments, his cancer was taking over. It became clear to everybody involved that his life expectancy was short (days? weeks?), and his doctors’ focus shifted from enacting life-saving measures to ensuring his final days were comfortable. Christmas was coming, but Santa wasn’t dominating our family’s thoughts. We’d be lucky to get the chance to visit him in the hospital, because that would mean he was still alive.
That was before we knew that little miracles sometimes happen. And while we’d all prefer the big ones, sometimes the small miracles have to be enough.
Most people can’t pinpoint their first memory. Maybe it was riding a donkey at the zoo, or seeing a baseball game for the first time, or helping mom wash the dishes, but it’s not likely they know the exact date. I’m not one of those people. Mine was December 24, 1979, six weeks before my third birthday.
My mom was near hysterics as she walked toward the front door of our small house. My sister and brother were next, creating enough commotion to bring me with them to the front yard. And that’s when I saw it: an ambulance was parked in front of our house. The back doors were open, and two men were lowering a hospital bed to the ground. Lying on that hospital bed, coming home to spend Christmas with us, was my dad. He was still beaten down and weak, but he'd improved a bit. His doctors thought he’d benefit by surprising his family with one last Christmas at home.
Thirty years later, still clinging to that first memory, I assure you they were right.
What came next was even more surprising. A bounty of gifts was dropped at our doorstep while we slept. Through the unrelenting altruism of people who spend their lives boosting others, three young kids awoke to a Christmas beyond their imagination. The local Masonic organization got word that our tree would be bare and spoiled us with the fruits of their toy and food drives. For a few glorious hours, our family’s impending doom slipped quietly into the background while we celebrated the magic of Christmas.
And that was the miracle. The doctors didn't have to send my dad home. The Masons didn't have to bring us gifts. People don't have to take care of each other, but something inside inspires us to.
It wasn’t long after that I learned that bad things happen in threes. Three months after that magical Christmas, three days after my mom’s birthday, and 42 days after I turned three, my father drew his last breath. He was 30 years old.
Now 33 and living my life to the fullest, cancer is never far from my thoughts. I’ve spent 30 years coming to grips with its implications, and my experience is far from unique: cancer is the second biggest killer in America, causing nearly a quarter of all deaths.
On November 7, I will be running the New York Marathon in my dad’s honor, and in celebration of that last Christmas together 30 years ago. Based on my own knowledge of how small miracles can create lifelong memories, I ask you to help me reach my goal of raising $3,000 in support of Team Continuum. That's $100 for every year of his life.
Team Continuum creates small miracles every day by assisting cancer patients and their families with basic needs, by paying bills (rent, electric, phone, water, gas, etc.), tutoring, giving toys, computer access, transportation, and other incidental needs that arise during treatment. So, until there’s a cure, and no two-year old has to learn the word “cancer” ever again, please join me in helping ease the financial and emotional burden for families like mine.
To donate toward my goal and learn more about Team Continuum's mission, go to www.teamcontinuum.net and type my name into the "Donate to an Athlete" box. If you'd prefer not to donate online, please see the attached flyer for additional details.
No amount is too small.
Thank you,
-Kevin
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April
"Though there is no single known cause or cure, autism is treatable. Children do not “outgrow” autism, but studies show that early diagnosis and intervention can lead to significantly improved outcomes. With the right services and supports, people with autism can live full, healthy and meaningful lives." -Autism-society.org
April is Autism Awareness Month. Here are some things I would like you to be know. The CDC reports that autism is the most common of the five Pervasive Developmental Disorders, affecting an estimated 1 in 100 births (Centers for Disease Control Prevention, 2007). This means as many as 1.5 million Americans today are believed to have some form of autism. And this number is on the rise.
Autism is a spectrum disorder which means that persons who have the same diagnosis can present the disorder in different ways. And autism is four times more prevalent in boys than in girls. One of those boys is my son, Milo.
I do not believe there is any one cause or that there are actually more cases of ASD then there were in the past. I think that there are better diagnostic criteria and modern psychiatry just knows more about the brain. 10 years ago, Milo may have been diagnosed with ADHD or just labeled a bad kid. I wonder how many of the kids I grew up with- that I thought were bad boys or were weird or who had something that seemed so much more than ADHD- didn't get the diagnosis they needed or the help they deserved.
Something I don't spend a lot of time on is the why...why does my son have Asperger's Disorder. My husband likes to say that some people have the autism "switch" in their genetic code. For whatever reason, Milo's switch flipped on and he was diagnosed as on the spectrum in August of 2006. Milo's presentation is mild; you have to spend time with him in an academic or large group setting to even realize that something is amiss. What you would likely notice is that he can't sit still, that he has absolutely no internal filter...if he thinks it, he says it (that is improving, thank goodness), and that he is WAY too smart for your average 8 year old. He also has motor skills issues, some interpersonal problems (more about that below), and a distinct lack of ability to see anything from another's point of view.
Milo is a gem of a kid. He has this hilarious wit and way of seeing the world that is quirky, and eccentric, and, well, autistic. And he is learning to adapt to a neurotypical world. Milo can't process what people are saying if he looks them in the eye, but he knows that it is considered disresptful not to look at them. So he and I came up with a coping skill. Milo looks at people's foreheads. That way he appears to be looking them in the eyes, but can focus instead on a less animated part of their face so he can actually hear what is said. He also knows tricks for dealing with his sensory system. It's very easy for Milo to become completely overstimulated. He will ask to listen to classical music, take a walk, practice deep breathing, eat crunchy or chewy food, drink through a straw, and a variety of other things to help him calm his nervous system and refocus. This took practice and training, but it's working out better that I had hoped.
Milo is going to have a productive life. He has skills and intelligence and family that refuse to let him fail or be limited in anyway. We view his diagnosis not as an end, but as part of who he is. And it's a small part at that. Like all of us, Milo has things he is good at and things he has to work on. He doesn't always understand people and social situations, but he is aware enough of his own limitations that he will talk to my husband and I and we can explain why things are the way they are (i.e. why you can't talk to or look at the guy next to you at the urinals) or how to deal with societal expectations that are particularly hard for him (why it's not okay to talk in a normal voice in church during the sermon).
Like all parenting, autism requires flexibility and patience. I remember one excursion to a restaurant where Milo was playing with a ketchup bottle. He was banging it on the table and had been asked to stop. When he did not follow through, I very sternly said "Drop it". So he did. When I reprimanded him for dropping the bottle on the table, he got very tearful and said, "But you said to drop it and I did." I felt about 2 inches tall at that moment because Milo was right. I did tell him to drop it and he had complied. I've learned to be more precise with my language and Milo has learned a few forms of figurative language, too.
Here is something else I want you to be aware of . Autism, while not curable, is treatable. As I mentioned before, early intervention is the key. Milo has friends and a social life and does really well at school. I don't know what his life would be like if we hadn't developed a treatment plan and stuck to it over the years.
The last thing to be aware of is the most important. You are not alone. If you suspect something is developmentally different about your child, it is better to know and set up your own intervention plan. It will be hard at first, but your family will find a way and you will find support in places that you didn't know existed.
April is Autism Awareness Month. Here are some things I would like you to be know. The CDC reports that autism is the most common of the five Pervasive Developmental Disorders, affecting an estimated 1 in 100 births (Centers for Disease Control Prevention, 2007). This means as many as 1.5 million Americans today are believed to have some form of autism. And this number is on the rise.
Autism is a spectrum disorder which means that persons who have the same diagnosis can present the disorder in different ways. And autism is four times more prevalent in boys than in girls. One of those boys is my son, Milo.
I do not believe there is any one cause or that there are actually more cases of ASD then there were in the past. I think that there are better diagnostic criteria and modern psychiatry just knows more about the brain. 10 years ago, Milo may have been diagnosed with ADHD or just labeled a bad kid. I wonder how many of the kids I grew up with- that I thought were bad boys or were weird or who had something that seemed so much more than ADHD- didn't get the diagnosis they needed or the help they deserved.
Something I don't spend a lot of time on is the why...why does my son have Asperger's Disorder. My husband likes to say that some people have the autism "switch" in their genetic code. For whatever reason, Milo's switch flipped on and he was diagnosed as on the spectrum in August of 2006. Milo's presentation is mild; you have to spend time with him in an academic or large group setting to even realize that something is amiss. What you would likely notice is that he can't sit still, that he has absolutely no internal filter...if he thinks it, he says it (that is improving, thank goodness), and that he is WAY too smart for your average 8 year old. He also has motor skills issues, some interpersonal problems (more about that below), and a distinct lack of ability to see anything from another's point of view.
Milo is a gem of a kid. He has this hilarious wit and way of seeing the world that is quirky, and eccentric, and, well, autistic. And he is learning to adapt to a neurotypical world. Milo can't process what people are saying if he looks them in the eye, but he knows that it is considered disresptful not to look at them. So he and I came up with a coping skill. Milo looks at people's foreheads. That way he appears to be looking them in the eyes, but can focus instead on a less animated part of their face so he can actually hear what is said. He also knows tricks for dealing with his sensory system. It's very easy for Milo to become completely overstimulated. He will ask to listen to classical music, take a walk, practice deep breathing, eat crunchy or chewy food, drink through a straw, and a variety of other things to help him calm his nervous system and refocus. This took practice and training, but it's working out better that I had hoped.
Milo is going to have a productive life. He has skills and intelligence and family that refuse to let him fail or be limited in anyway. We view his diagnosis not as an end, but as part of who he is. And it's a small part at that. Like all of us, Milo has things he is good at and things he has to work on. He doesn't always understand people and social situations, but he is aware enough of his own limitations that he will talk to my husband and I and we can explain why things are the way they are (i.e. why you can't talk to or look at the guy next to you at the urinals) or how to deal with societal expectations that are particularly hard for him (why it's not okay to talk in a normal voice in church during the sermon).
Like all parenting, autism requires flexibility and patience. I remember one excursion to a restaurant where Milo was playing with a ketchup bottle. He was banging it on the table and had been asked to stop. When he did not follow through, I very sternly said "Drop it". So he did. When I reprimanded him for dropping the bottle on the table, he got very tearful and said, "But you said to drop it and I did." I felt about 2 inches tall at that moment because Milo was right. I did tell him to drop it and he had complied. I've learned to be more precise with my language and Milo has learned a few forms of figurative language, too.
Here is something else I want you to be aware of . Autism, while not curable, is treatable. As I mentioned before, early intervention is the key. Milo has friends and a social life and does really well at school. I don't know what his life would be like if we hadn't developed a treatment plan and stuck to it over the years.
The last thing to be aware of is the most important. You are not alone. If you suspect something is developmentally different about your child, it is better to know and set up your own intervention plan. It will be hard at first, but your family will find a way and you will find support in places that you didn't know existed.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Battle of the Bulge
For years, I had no trouble with my weight. I could eat what I wanted, work out or not, and I stayed in the same weight range...150-160 pounds. I had some behaviors that were less than honorable. Sometimes, I would not eat for a day or two. Other times, I would take large amounts of laxatives to clear out my system. After a particularly painful break-up, I went off the deep end. It took heart palpatations for me to realize I had an eating disorder and needed help. I got the help and learned to eat normally again. That was a good thing.
Later, I had to take a medication to control a minor health problem. The medication was temporary and did its job, but an unfortunate side affect was weight gain to the tune of 40 pounds. After failing to lose that weight, I did something that put even more weight on my frame...I got pregnant. And due to mandated bed rest and preeclampsia gained another 100 pounds.
I don't carry all of that extra weight on my body anymore, but I still carry too much of it. I have been told by my doctor that I need to lose about 70 pounds. It pains me to type that, but it's true. I get scared by my inability to lose the weight especially since my eating habits are not bad. My exercise habits are a problem. (I believe the words are inconsistent and sporadic.) Although, when I was working out regularly, my weight did not go down much either. I've had my thyroid checked; no medical cause for my lack of results.
Whatever it is, I have to lose this weight. First, my grandmother and my mother both had bypass surgery in their 50's. I don't want to be the third generation. Second, I hate the way I look. Every time I look in a mirror, I am shocked by what I see. That fat chick staring back cannot be me. Don't get me started on pictures of me...I used to love pictures. Now, I don't want to be on "that" side of the camera.
I'm hoping by blogging about it, I will hold myself more accountable. Maybe I'll exercise more-that's the lynch pin in my struggle-if I share say it outloud. It also really helps my arthritis to be physically active. Something has to change that's for sure. I love myself, but I really hate the way I look.
Later, I had to take a medication to control a minor health problem. The medication was temporary and did its job, but an unfortunate side affect was weight gain to the tune of 40 pounds. After failing to lose that weight, I did something that put even more weight on my frame...I got pregnant. And due to mandated bed rest and preeclampsia gained another 100 pounds.
I don't carry all of that extra weight on my body anymore, but I still carry too much of it. I have been told by my doctor that I need to lose about 70 pounds. It pains me to type that, but it's true. I get scared by my inability to lose the weight especially since my eating habits are not bad. My exercise habits are a problem. (I believe the words are inconsistent and sporadic.) Although, when I was working out regularly, my weight did not go down much either. I've had my thyroid checked; no medical cause for my lack of results.
Whatever it is, I have to lose this weight. First, my grandmother and my mother both had bypass surgery in their 50's. I don't want to be the third generation. Second, I hate the way I look. Every time I look in a mirror, I am shocked by what I see. That fat chick staring back cannot be me. Don't get me started on pictures of me...I used to love pictures. Now, I don't want to be on "that" side of the camera.
I'm hoping by blogging about it, I will hold myself more accountable. Maybe I'll exercise more-that's the lynch pin in my struggle-if I share say it outloud. It also really helps my arthritis to be physically active. Something has to change that's for sure. I love myself, but I really hate the way I look.
Monday, March 29, 2010
SPRINGBREAK!!!
Oh man, did I need spring break this year. This cold I've been fighting since October might actually go away now. My darling husband let me sleep in and rest on Saturday, Sunday, and today. I almost feel human again.
Time to get a lot of things done that haven't been done in the last few weeks (or months). Lap-a-thon needs my attention. I have some papers to grade. The bedrooms and office are a bit disorganized and I am embarassed to discuss the condition of our shower. I have a few doctor's appointments-I always schedule those on breaks or weekends, because writing sub plans is my LEAST favorite thing to do.
This doesn't sound like much of a break, but I will take it! The best part of this week is that I will be able to attend every single swim practice. Look for an updated video of Milo, the fish. I may even film a baseball game, too! Hooray for gettting to do my favorite job of all this week: being Milo's mom!
Time to get a lot of things done that haven't been done in the last few weeks (or months). Lap-a-thon needs my attention. I have some papers to grade. The bedrooms and office are a bit disorganized and I am embarassed to discuss the condition of our shower. I have a few doctor's appointments-I always schedule those on breaks or weekends, because writing sub plans is my LEAST favorite thing to do.
This doesn't sound like much of a break, but I will take it! The best part of this week is that I will be able to attend every single swim practice. Look for an updated video of Milo, the fish. I may even film a baseball game, too! Hooray for gettting to do my favorite job of all this week: being Milo's mom!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Update
Milo has been on Straterra now for 2 weeks and the changes are profound. He has an easier time staying in his seat, dealing with set backs, and focusing on work. He isn't as bouncy or fidgety. In fact, his swim coach said she has noticed how much calmer Milo is. And his teacher has been very positive about the changes in him as well.
The first school day after Milo started his medication was day I realized we had made the right decision. Gavin was out of town and those days are always stressful- they make me wonder how single moms make their lives work day in and day out. Normally, when Gavin is out of town, I get everything ready the night before so that I can mitigate the inevitable issues I will face in the morning. Namely, it will take Milo twice as long to get ready as it does when his dad is home in the morning. The disruption to his schedule is just too much for him. I usually have to ask him two and three times to do minor tasks and keep his focus on getting out the door. This particular day (and several of the days after when Gavin has been gone), Milo was ready on time. I gave him an instruction once and he did them as told. It was a noticeable change and a pleasant one.
Of course, all is not perfect. There are still little behavioral quirks of Milo's that no medication could change. But it's nice to hear my kiddo say "Mom, the medicine is really helping. I think it's making me smarter. Think I can start college at 15?"
Sure, dude, right after you remember to put the toilet seat down.
The first school day after Milo started his medication was day I realized we had made the right decision. Gavin was out of town and those days are always stressful- they make me wonder how single moms make their lives work day in and day out. Normally, when Gavin is out of town, I get everything ready the night before so that I can mitigate the inevitable issues I will face in the morning. Namely, it will take Milo twice as long to get ready as it does when his dad is home in the morning. The disruption to his schedule is just too much for him. I usually have to ask him two and three times to do minor tasks and keep his focus on getting out the door. This particular day (and several of the days after when Gavin has been gone), Milo was ready on time. I gave him an instruction once and he did them as told. It was a noticeable change and a pleasant one.
Of course, all is not perfect. There are still little behavioral quirks of Milo's that no medication could change. But it's nice to hear my kiddo say "Mom, the medicine is really helping. I think it's making me smarter. Think I can start college at 15?"
Sure, dude, right after you remember to put the toilet seat down.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
He Sleeps
I am a firm believer in children being active, not over-scheduled, but active. Today, however, was ridiculous for my kid.
Baseball season just started and Milo had practice for an hour and a half. That was after a 45 minute swim practice and before a 30 minute private swim lesson. The upside: he fell asleep at 8:35. The downside: he had McDonald's for dinner (which I am certain he burned off...can't say the same for me!).
Milo loves sports and they are good for him. He feels successful and he gets to be with kids his own age. Tonight, he earned his freestyle ribbon. That means he has two ribbons left: butterfly and breaststroke. After that, he will only swim with his team four days a week. Baseball practice moves to Wednesday with games on Saturdays. Did I mention he plays basketball on Fridays? Somewhere amongst all of these sports we do homework, read together, and eat dinner. We're also trying to figure out how to fit in music lessons. Maybe adding something to his schedule is just not in the cards, but Milo really wants to learn how to play the electric guitar. Time will tell. For now, my little Rennaisance man sleeps.
Baseball season just started and Milo had practice for an hour and a half. That was after a 45 minute swim practice and before a 30 minute private swim lesson. The upside: he fell asleep at 8:35. The downside: he had McDonald's for dinner (which I am certain he burned off...can't say the same for me!).
Milo loves sports and they are good for him. He feels successful and he gets to be with kids his own age. Tonight, he earned his freestyle ribbon. That means he has two ribbons left: butterfly and breaststroke. After that, he will only swim with his team four days a week. Baseball practice moves to Wednesday with games on Saturdays. Did I mention he plays basketball on Fridays? Somewhere amongst all of these sports we do homework, read together, and eat dinner. We're also trying to figure out how to fit in music lessons. Maybe adding something to his schedule is just not in the cards, but Milo really wants to learn how to play the electric guitar. Time will tell. For now, my little Rennaisance man sleeps.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
This Sucks
I have psoriatic arthritis. I do many things to deal with my "condition" (God, that sounds so...I don't know...serious). Acupuncture, diet, disease modifying drugs, and exercise all work together to make my arthritis a non-issue. I get to go on with my life, do what I want to do, and give myself an injection once every two weeks. No sweat. Except tonight, I am supposed to be at baseball practice and pizza with the new team. And I am not.
The last couple of months have been rougher than normal. I've been sleeping a lot on the weekends to deal with the exhaustion that accumulates throughout the week. Of course, I could try to slow down my life so I didn't get so tired. But then I'd have to rename my blog. I'd also be bored; I actually like all the stuff I do. Sometimes, I claim I am overwhelmed and every so often I am legitimately so. To be honest, I wouldn't know what to do with myself if my life wasn't go-go-go. I've been operating with a million irons in the fire for as long as I can remember.
Generally, I don't stop for being tired. I do have to stop when I have pain. That's what is going on today. I can't stand up straight, my left foot feels like it's breaking every time I step on it, and my hips just hurt. Luckily, my hands are just swollen and don't hurt (yet?!?) so I can vent a little here.
I haven't been as good about diet and exercise as I should lately. Time to kick it back up a notch. And time to stop bitchin'. Thanks for listening.
The last couple of months have been rougher than normal. I've been sleeping a lot on the weekends to deal with the exhaustion that accumulates throughout the week. Of course, I could try to slow down my life so I didn't get so tired. But then I'd have to rename my blog. I'd also be bored; I actually like all the stuff I do. Sometimes, I claim I am overwhelmed and every so often I am legitimately so. To be honest, I wouldn't know what to do with myself if my life wasn't go-go-go. I've been operating with a million irons in the fire for as long as I can remember.
Generally, I don't stop for being tired. I do have to stop when I have pain. That's what is going on today. I can't stand up straight, my left foot feels like it's breaking every time I step on it, and my hips just hurt. Luckily, my hands are just swollen and don't hurt (yet?!?) so I can vent a little here.
I haven't been as good about diet and exercise as I should lately. Time to kick it back up a notch. And time to stop bitchin'. Thanks for listening.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I Wore Green Today.
Public school is the bedrock of any civil society. It is in public school that millions of children learn to be productive members of the electorate. They learn to read and write, to add and subtract, about the society in which they live and the Constitution that governs it. Public schools help children learn to socialize with many different kinds of people. And, if we are lucky, children learn to love literature or art or sports or music.
Public schools have been hit hard in the last few years, especially here in California. They are chronically underfunded. Teachers are asked to do more and more with less and less. The disparity between have and have not districts grows ever larger, but even the haves are suffering.
In the face of all of this, it would be easy to give up on public schools altogether (and I have no doubt there are those who would love to see just that). I could say that I am going to put my kid in private school or homeschool him (I do not have any quarrel with those who make those choices; everyone should have the option to choose what is best for their child) or decide that I will teach at a private school (which I have done before and did not like for many reasons) or leave teaching all together. My particular district is in program improvement; you could call us a tweener...not really a have district, but not entirely a have not. We have challenges that need to be addressed and there is little money to do it.
Down the road a bit, there is the school my son attends. He's in a definite have district largely because concerned parents formed an educational foundation in the 80's to fund programs the state had just cut: music, libraries, and PE. At present, the foundation raises $800,000 to $1,000,000 a year for those programs and this year added funding class-size reduction in grades 3 to 5 to the list. Yet, his district will be increasing class sizes in K-2 and laying off teachers as well. My community also just passed a parcel tax for the schools in our town.
Down the road a bit, there is the school my son attends. He's in a definite have district largely because concerned parents formed an educational foundation in the 80's to fund programs the state had just cut: music, libraries, and PE. At present, the foundation raises $800,000 to $1,000,000 a year for those programs and this year added funding class-size reduction in grades 3 to 5 to the list. Yet, his district will be increasing class sizes in K-2 and laying off teachers as well. My community also just passed a parcel tax for the schools in our town.
The school board of my district voted last week to pink slip 50 teachers and not ask back 15 teachers who were on year to year contracts. They may be able to rescind many of those lay-offs, but the fact remains that teachers are going to lose their jobs at a time when teachers are needed more than ever.
Research shows that lower class sizes improve student achievement, especially in the lower grades. Teachers can do their jobs more effectively when there are fewer children in the room because we can get to each child, teach them their grade-level standards, and differentiate where needed. That is what I want to do; it's what all of my colleagues want to do. We want to do the best job possible for our students. But it seems dollars trump research in education (although that doesn't seem to be an issue in education alone)
The fact of the matter is we will do the best we can no matter what happens with the budget. I will teach my butt off day in and day out even though there are 36 kids in some of my language arts class. Yes, you read that right. I'm lucky, though, some of my colleagues who teach math, social studies, and science have 40 kids in their classes. 6th grade core classes can be that large as well.
Nothing-not insane class sizes, nor budget cuts-can take away the power of an effective teacher. And I know MANY effective teachers. I would be remiss if I didn't sing the praises of the group of teachers I work with. They are truly some of the most talented and dedicated people I know. The 7th and 8th grade language arts team of which I am a member is solid, hard-working, innovative and caring (and they even let me be a part of their group!). Each of us has strengths and we make each other better even though most of the time we spend collaborating is time for which we get no compensation. Wait, that's not entirely true. We get to see our classes succeed.
You should see the curriculum developed by the art teacher at my school. She was given nothing to start with and has developed an art program that teaches children principles of art in multiple modalities, art history, and ties many of her art lessons in to what is going on in other classes. She also does this with almost no budget with which to speak. One of my 6th grade language arts colleagues is a single mother and quite possibly one of the best teachers of English language learners I have ever seen. She teaches the kids grade level curriculum in English and is able to move students to English proficiency. She gives up her lunch hour three days a week to work with the kids that are falling behind in their classes. And she does it all between 8:30 and 4:30 because she has to go get her own child. Another colleague is one of the smartest, most accomplished people I know. Her intellect and fundamental belief that every student can and will learn in her class makes her a great teacher. I have been able to tell which students had her in 6th grade since I came to my school three years ago, because they are the most amazing writers when they arrive in my class. A third of my language arts colleagues is a creative and bold in his approach to teaching students who need extra support. He moves kids along toward grade-level standard and makes it seem so easy. Yet another of my colleagues, who also happens to be a single mother, teaches literature and social studies together in a truly creative way that acknowledges children's learning styles. And that acknowledges just seven of my colleagues. The rest of the language arts department, indeed the rest of the staff- whom I do not have the pleasure of collaborating with so closely- are just as bright and committed to their profession as those I mentioned above.
You should see the curriculum developed by the art teacher at my school. She was given nothing to start with and has developed an art program that teaches children principles of art in multiple modalities, art history, and ties many of her art lessons in to what is going on in other classes. She also does this with almost no budget with which to speak. One of my 6th grade language arts colleagues is a single mother and quite possibly one of the best teachers of English language learners I have ever seen. She teaches the kids grade level curriculum in English and is able to move students to English proficiency. She gives up her lunch hour three days a week to work with the kids that are falling behind in their classes. And she does it all between 8:30 and 4:30 because she has to go get her own child. Another colleague is one of the smartest, most accomplished people I know. Her intellect and fundamental belief that every student can and will learn in her class makes her a great teacher. I have been able to tell which students had her in 6th grade since I came to my school three years ago, because they are the most amazing writers when they arrive in my class. A third of my language arts colleagues is a creative and bold in his approach to teaching students who need extra support. He moves kids along toward grade-level standard and makes it seem so easy. Yet another of my colleagues, who also happens to be a single mother, teaches literature and social studies together in a truly creative way that acknowledges children's learning styles. And that acknowledges just seven of my colleagues. The rest of the language arts department, indeed the rest of the staff- whom I do not have the pleasure of collaborating with so closely- are just as bright and committed to their profession as those I mentioned above.
I said that my district is in program improvement, but my school is not. We have consistently met and exceeded our targets for API (California's academic rating) and AYP (the federal standard). It is due, in large part, to the quality of the teachers at my site. We do all of this in a toxic environment. The budget is forever being cut, the district office makes stupid decisions, and the federal targets for AYP are climbing unrealistically higher and higher. I can tell you with great confidence that the staff to which I belong and the teachers to whom I entrust my own child are world-class, highly-qualified individuals who care about children, their minds, and their futures.
So I wore green today. I wore green for the kids who walk into my classroom so that the funding for their learning is maintained. I wore green for my son who is being educated in the free and public school that my tax dollars support. I wore green for Cait and Laurie, Rachel and Jeff, Marilyn and Madeline, colleagues and friends who deserve better than our state gives them. And I wore green for me. I hope some of you did, too.
So I wore green today. I wore green for the kids who walk into my classroom so that the funding for their learning is maintained. I wore green for my son who is being educated in the free and public school that my tax dollars support. I wore green for Cait and Laurie, Rachel and Jeff, Marilyn and Madeline, colleagues and friends who deserve better than our state gives them. And I wore green for me. I hope some of you did, too.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Milo Joseph August Duncan
Last year, on his birthday, Milo woke up and said, "I'm odd!". He was referring to the fact that he was now seven. But it was an interesting way to say good morning.
He likes swimming, baseball, soccer, world history, Legos, video games, heavy metal (thanks to my husband) and has an interesting sense of humor. Case in point, in kindergarten, all the kids had to make gingerbread people decorated any way they chose. Some kids made Christmasy creations; a lot of the little girls over-dosed on glitter. My son? He made Darth Ginger. Which I, OF COURSE, put on our Christmas card.
I took Milo to his first day of preschool when he was 3. By the time I had parked the car, he had unbuckled his car seat and was trying to open the door (thank goodness for child rear door locks). Anyway, I opened the door and he shot out like a rocket, ran up the steps, and was astonished to see me behind him. He looked at me and said, "I got this, Mom. You can leave now." I made him give me a hug and kiss. And then I went and sat in my car and cried.
Happy Birthday, Bunky Space Beaver. You make my world a better place.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Rest in Peace, Chuck
Last night, our hamster, Chuck, was having a major freak out. He was running around his home, bouncing into walls, not eating or drinking, and completely ignoring his wheel. So it was no surprise when my husband found this morning that the Chuckster had gone on to the big hamster wheel in the sky. We'd had Chuck for 2 1/2 years (and his brother Boris for slightly less time). He had reached the end of his life expectancy and he was sick, too. Chuck had been a well-taken care of pet and we're happy he doesn't have to be sick anymore.
Now comes the inevitable question of what to do with Chuck's little rodent remains. When Boris died, Gavin was going to bury him in a ziploc bag (Gavin may have even suggested just throwing him away). I calmly persuaded him that the little dude deserved some sort of coffin and a decent burial. So Boris is buried in our yard in the box our last order of checks came in. For Chuck, there were no nice little boxes ready to serve as a hamster crypt. But necessity being the mother of invention, Gavin created a burial box for Chuck. He shortened the sides of a box of fruit snack bars and then taped the created lid shut with packing tape. Once it stops raining, we will bury him, too. My husband is a genius.
Now comes the inevitable question of what to do with Chuck's little rodent remains. When Boris died, Gavin was going to bury him in a ziploc bag (Gavin may have even suggested just throwing him away). I calmly persuaded him that the little dude deserved some sort of coffin and a decent burial. So Boris is buried in our yard in the box our last order of checks came in. For Chuck, there were no nice little boxes ready to serve as a hamster crypt. But necessity being the mother of invention, Gavin created a burial box for Chuck. He shortened the sides of a box of fruit snack bars and then taped the created lid shut with packing tape. Once it stops raining, we will bury him, too. My husband is a genius.
Friday, February 26, 2010
8:30
It's 8:30 on a Friday night. Gavin and I are having some tea. Milo is already asleep. And I think I am going to bed soon myself. I suppose I should feel old or something, but I don't. I could have gone to Taste of the Town. A lot of my friends are there. Or Gavin and I could have gotten a sitter and had a nice little dinner at one of Burlingame's great restaurants. But we stayed home and I'm glad we did. It's quiet here. The dishwasher is running. There is quiet music playing somewhere. It's peaceful at home.
I end the week with a little poetry, a few lines from one of my favorites by Rudyard Kipling that sums up how things went for me.
"...If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on'..."
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on'..."
Night, everyone. I hope your weekend treats you well.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Speedskating
I've been searching for speed skating schools in the Bay Area. No such animal as it turns out, but I tried. Why you may ask? Olympic fever has struck our house and Milo is a huge fan of the speed skating. He "skates" around the hardwood floors in his socks, asking me if he has the starting form right. Trying to get his dad to skate with him. It's fun to watch. Of course, I saw the video of J.R. Celski cutting his leg open at the Olympic trials and almost bleeding out on the ice. I am not really interested in my son becoming a real speed skater and I'm kind of glad there aren't any schools around.
But I love watching kids discover the possibilities of sport whenever the Olympics come around. Two years ago, Milo was the biggest Michael Phelps fan I knew (except he called him Michael Phillips...technicalities). Milo is actually on a swim team now because of the Beijing Olympics. Right now he wants to give that up, move to Canada, and be a speed skater. I like his ambition, but I'm guessing this will pass. I remember the '84 Olympics. My sister Tamara was a precocious toddler, 17 months old and a climber. We found her on the fence in the backyard doing her best balance beam walk saying "Ibee Mahwylou" (I be Mary Lou). Students at school right now are talking about how cool the Nordic Combined is or how the biathlon looks fun. The journalists on the paper I advise write this column called "He Said, She Said", basically a battle of the sexes idea. Anyway, tomorrow's edition is all about men's sports vs. women's Winter Olympic sports.They even wade into the ski jumping argument (For the record, the Olympics should have women's ski jumping. Seriously!). A particular favorite of my husband and his college friends is ski cross (that hare-brained, four skiers on course at the same time, ridiculously dangerous thrill ride that gets to be called a "sport").
The Olympics are great for so many reasons. Mostly for the possibilities. And because I know that somewhere in the stands sits someones mom. She probably ferried her kid to practices and competitions, reveled in triumphs and endured heartaches, dusted a million trophies and polished medals, washed uniforms and costumes, packed bags, and found the missing ____________ (fill in the blank). Those moms (and dads) are my heroes.
But I love watching kids discover the possibilities of sport whenever the Olympics come around. Two years ago, Milo was the biggest Michael Phelps fan I knew (except he called him Michael Phillips...technicalities). Milo is actually on a swim team now because of the Beijing Olympics. Right now he wants to give that up, move to Canada, and be a speed skater. I like his ambition, but I'm guessing this will pass. I remember the '84 Olympics. My sister Tamara was a precocious toddler, 17 months old and a climber. We found her on the fence in the backyard doing her best balance beam walk saying "Ibee Mahwylou" (I be Mary Lou). Students at school right now are talking about how cool the Nordic Combined is or how the biathlon looks fun. The journalists on the paper I advise write this column called "He Said, She Said", basically a battle of the sexes idea. Anyway, tomorrow's edition is all about men's sports vs. women's Winter Olympic sports.They even wade into the ski jumping argument (For the record, the Olympics should have women's ski jumping. Seriously!). A particular favorite of my husband and his college friends is ski cross (that hare-brained, four skiers on course at the same time, ridiculously dangerous thrill ride that gets to be called a "sport").
The Olympics are great for so many reasons. Mostly for the possibilities. And because I know that somewhere in the stands sits someones mom. She probably ferried her kid to practices and competitions, reveled in triumphs and endured heartaches, dusted a million trophies and polished medals, washed uniforms and costumes, packed bags, and found the missing ____________ (fill in the blank). Those moms (and dads) are my heroes.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
God Bless My Girlfriends
Lately, I've been just overwhelmed with it all. I volunteer for the PTA at my son's school which recently has included meetings and a parcel tax get-out-the-vote campaign-rather quiet considering how hectic September and October were. I'm running the lap-a-thon for my son's swim team. Yep, that goes live on Monday. Oh, and let's not forget the walk-a-thon for the 8th grade at my middle school. I'm a public school teacher in a district badly in need of reform (and reforms are happening), but as you may have noticed, there isn't a lot of money for public education right now. Which is why I am going to a board meeting to hear about possible lay-offs in my district tomorrow night. Unrelated to the budget issues, but just as exhausting, I am teaching without a prep this year (6 periods a day, everyday, no planning period). And Milo is playing basketball on Fridays along with swimming four days a week. Did I forget anything? Yes! Baseball starts this weekend and Gavin and I are the assistant coaches. I left out the part where I tutor a neighbor kid two days a week. I feel a little guilty mentioning it, but I also have a really big family and try to make time for as many people as often as I can. Okay, my point here is that I am a busy girl!
Yesterday was typical of my schedule. I got to school around 8:30, started teaching my classes which include two seventh grade language arts sections, one 8th grade language arts, a two-period reading remediation clinic, journalism, and homeroom at 8:45 (thank goodness for late start times), went to a staff meeting that didn't end until 5:15, made my acupuncture appointment (love acupuncture as a pain management therapy since I have psoriatic arthritis), and got home around 6:40. Then I left again 10 minutes later. But this time it wasn't for a meeting, practice, or any other obligation. It also was not to hang out with Gavin and Milo (which I LOVE to do). It was a girl's night.
We went to Shabu House, a Japanese fondue place. There were 5 of us, cooking our meat and veggies-or just veggies for one of us-drinking Japanese beer and saki, and talking about everything under the sun. We each have a son in second grade, yet our boys weren't the focus of the evening. The day was really more about hanging out. We were at the restaurant for close to three hours and then hit a local pub for one more drink before heading home. I got to bed way too late, but it was worth it. Just hanging out with my friends, laughing, was what I needed. I don't think I've been laughing much lately and it's important. I felt rejuvenated (even though I had a rough time dragging my butt out of bed this morning). Honestly, I felt like me again.
So thanks. Helen, Lisa, Maggie, and Susan...you may not have known it, but you helped a friend in need.
Yesterday was typical of my schedule. I got to school around 8:30, started teaching my classes which include two seventh grade language arts sections, one 8th grade language arts, a two-period reading remediation clinic, journalism, and homeroom at 8:45 (thank goodness for late start times), went to a staff meeting that didn't end until 5:15, made my acupuncture appointment (love acupuncture as a pain management therapy since I have psoriatic arthritis), and got home around 6:40. Then I left again 10 minutes later. But this time it wasn't for a meeting, practice, or any other obligation. It also was not to hang out with Gavin and Milo (which I LOVE to do). It was a girl's night.
We went to Shabu House, a Japanese fondue place. There were 5 of us, cooking our meat and veggies-or just veggies for one of us-drinking Japanese beer and saki, and talking about everything under the sun. We each have a son in second grade, yet our boys weren't the focus of the evening. The day was really more about hanging out. We were at the restaurant for close to three hours and then hit a local pub for one more drink before heading home. I got to bed way too late, but it was worth it. Just hanging out with my friends, laughing, was what I needed. I don't think I've been laughing much lately and it's important. I felt rejuvenated (even though I had a rough time dragging my butt out of bed this morning). Honestly, I felt like me again.
So thanks. Helen, Lisa, Maggie, and Susan...you may not have known it, but you helped a friend in need.
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Choice
I took today off from work. At 12:30, Gavin and I are going to sit down with a psychiatrist and decide if medication is the right treatment option for our son. This has been a possibility ever since Milo was 3 1/2 and we figured out that he had some developmental challenges. The psychiatric evaluations took a few months, but after a lot of searching, a lot of prayer, and a lot of support we had a diagnosis.
It was not what I wanted to hear. My son, my precious baby boy that I worked so hard to carry as close to term as my body would allow (and still only got to 34 weeks), the light of my world had Asperger's Disorder. He doesn't present like many kids with an autism spectrum disorder, but it is there. Typical of many kids with Asperger's, Milo is brilliant (scary smart, and I am not just saying that because I am his mom). Also typical are his struggles with impulsivity and anxiety. Thus the trip to the psychiatrist today.
Gavin and I talked about medication for months-years really-when our first suspicion was that Milo had severe ADHD. Truly, that is how Asperger's presents in our son most of the time, as ADHD. Because of this and because he is more self-aware than most kids on the spectrum are, we've had family members and friends doubt his diagnosis, well-meaning, but nonetheless unhelpful opinions. There are some who tell us, without knowing what we have been through, what therapies and treatment options we have tried, "please don't medicate your child" or "there is nothing wrong with Milo. Why are you making such a big deal about this." None of this helps.
I have spent some time researching drug options. This is not a decision that my husband and I came to lightly, nor did we really want to say "lets do this." But we have a choice to make. Our child has done incredibly well with all of the interventions afforded to him both at school (speech for pragmatics and articulation and occupational therapy) and at home (a sensory diet, swimming four to five times a week, modified eating habits, a strong schedule, individual therapy and social skills groups). His current teacher modified her classroom management system to give Milo a few more steps to help him correct his behavior. We have done everything right. Yet one day, about a month ago, Milo asked us to get him an appointment with his doctor (psychologist). He wanted to know what else he could do to make his brain work better. He wanted help being a "better boy so people won't get mad at me."
How do I say no to that? How do I say to my son "Sorry, buddy, there is nothing else I can do." I came to the conculsion that I can't. I need to help him just like I always have (and that is not meant to exclude Gavin. My husband is an amazing father to our son). This time it involves giving him a drug. In typing this, I am starting to feel a little better about this decision. But it is one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made in my life.
The most important part of this is that my son is getting help. It's not about me...but it feels like it is. I feel like I have somehow failed because I couldn't find the right diet, or the right therapy, or the right magic spell that was going to make things all better for my boy. That's the hardest part of today...even though I have told countless parents that this is not their fault, they didn't cause their child to have a neurological challenge, there is nothing wrong with seeking pharmaceutical intervention if that is what is best for their child...well, I know what they were thinking every time I tried to reassure them.
This is my fault.
Pray for me. Send good thoughts. Today, even though I am doing the right thing, I feel like the worst mother on the planet. I feel like I have failed my child.
It was not what I wanted to hear. My son, my precious baby boy that I worked so hard to carry as close to term as my body would allow (and still only got to 34 weeks), the light of my world had Asperger's Disorder. He doesn't present like many kids with an autism spectrum disorder, but it is there. Typical of many kids with Asperger's, Milo is brilliant (scary smart, and I am not just saying that because I am his mom). Also typical are his struggles with impulsivity and anxiety. Thus the trip to the psychiatrist today.
Gavin and I talked about medication for months-years really-when our first suspicion was that Milo had severe ADHD. Truly, that is how Asperger's presents in our son most of the time, as ADHD. Because of this and because he is more self-aware than most kids on the spectrum are, we've had family members and friends doubt his diagnosis, well-meaning, but nonetheless unhelpful opinions. There are some who tell us, without knowing what we have been through, what therapies and treatment options we have tried, "please don't medicate your child" or "there is nothing wrong with Milo. Why are you making such a big deal about this." None of this helps.
I have spent some time researching drug options. This is not a decision that my husband and I came to lightly, nor did we really want to say "lets do this." But we have a choice to make. Our child has done incredibly well with all of the interventions afforded to him both at school (speech for pragmatics and articulation and occupational therapy) and at home (a sensory diet, swimming four to five times a week, modified eating habits, a strong schedule, individual therapy and social skills groups). His current teacher modified her classroom management system to give Milo a few more steps to help him correct his behavior. We have done everything right. Yet one day, about a month ago, Milo asked us to get him an appointment with his doctor (psychologist). He wanted to know what else he could do to make his brain work better. He wanted help being a "better boy so people won't get mad at me."
How do I say no to that? How do I say to my son "Sorry, buddy, there is nothing else I can do." I came to the conculsion that I can't. I need to help him just like I always have (and that is not meant to exclude Gavin. My husband is an amazing father to our son). This time it involves giving him a drug. In typing this, I am starting to feel a little better about this decision. But it is one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made in my life.
The most important part of this is that my son is getting help. It's not about me...but it feels like it is. I feel like I have somehow failed because I couldn't find the right diet, or the right therapy, or the right magic spell that was going to make things all better for my boy. That's the hardest part of today...even though I have told countless parents that this is not their fault, they didn't cause their child to have a neurological challenge, there is nothing wrong with seeking pharmaceutical intervention if that is what is best for their child...well, I know what they were thinking every time I tried to reassure them.
This is my fault.
Pray for me. Send good thoughts. Today, even though I am doing the right thing, I feel like the worst mother on the planet. I feel like I have failed my child.
Friday, February 19, 2010
My Man
Last November, I went with Gavin and Milo to New Orleans. My husband's uncle and aunt live there, and we were visiting them for Thanksgiving. It was the first time they were to meet Milo, and as it turns out the last time for any of us to see Uncle Steve. He had cancer and died last week. It was a blessing for the suffering to end for Steve. For many reasons, Milo and I did not travel with Gavin to the funeral. Instead, he went alone and met up with his mother and aunt to say good-bye to their brother. I'm glad he had the chance to go.
The last time we went to New Orleans, we spent much of our time with Steve and his wife Charlotte, so we didn't really do "Nawlins" things. I was forever lamenting (jokingly so) to Gavin that I did not get to try beignets or have a Hurricane (even though we had gone to the French Quarter and the Garden District) on my first ever trip to the Big Easy.
Gavin came home today. He had just buried his uncle and flown all the way across country, changing his flights so that he could get home earlier...with a bag of beignets. And now he is playing bean ball soccer in the hallway with Milo, even though he's exhausted. I married a great man. And the beignets were delicious.
The last time we went to New Orleans, we spent much of our time with Steve and his wife Charlotte, so we didn't really do "Nawlins" things. I was forever lamenting (jokingly so) to Gavin that I did not get to try beignets or have a Hurricane (even though we had gone to the French Quarter and the Garden District) on my first ever trip to the Big Easy.
Gavin came home today. He had just buried his uncle and flown all the way across country, changing his flights so that he could get home earlier...with a bag of beignets. And now he is playing bean ball soccer in the hallway with Milo, even though he's exhausted. I married a great man. And the beignets were delicious.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
It wasn't so bad
Today started out on a bad note. Nothing horrible happened; I just woke up and could only think about when my bed time would be. Yesterday I taught, had two meetings after school, and then a PTA meeting. Gavin had to be in New Orleans, so I was flying solo. Thanks to my sister, Milo made swim practice and then the poor guy had to sit through the PTA meeting (I'm secretary, so I couldn't bail). I finally got home and Milo into bed at 9:30-criminally late for a 7 year old who had school the next day. I got to sleep somewhere around 11. And was back up at 6:00 this morning. Argh.
So, of course, all I could think about was how long the day was going to be. Turns out, it wasn't so bad. My classes all went well. My 7th graders are reading The Outsiders and lovin' it. 8th grade just finished up of Mice and Men and a few kids want to know "if that Steinbeck guy wrote any more books." A couple of the students in my reading clinic have reached benchmark. And my journalism class continues to blow me away with their maturity and skill.
Then I got home...I was able to actually make swim practice today. Milo has been working since November to have 8 practices in a row without getting in trouble for messing around. That means two straight weeks of good behavior which is no small feat for him. Anyway, Milo has gotten close so many times, but could never quite make it. So I don't know who was more excited today: Milo, my sister, his coach, or me. Why were we so excited? Milo finally earned his swim parka. That makes him an official swimmer in his book.
I got a wild hair and decided to make curry this evening. Turned out okay, not great, but it was a decent first effort. What does Milo say? "Mom, you make great curry. I'm only eating yours from now on." Then we go to help some neighbor kids with their science project and my son walks them through a density experiment, explaining each step to them scientifically and patiently. My little Einstein. And for his final trick of the night, I was going through his backpack and found his first ever perfect 10 spelling test (with one correct bonus word to boot). He told me that he had looked at each word very carefully all week and did his best on the test. It's on the fridge for all the world to see.
Sometimes, Milo is frustrating beyond words. Tonight, he reminded me why I am so lucky to be his mother.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
When My Mom Let's Me Drink Coffee
I have a Starbuck's addiction. Earl Grey lattes are heavenly nectar and red velvet cupcakes my chosen ambrosia. If I wasn't going to have a butt the size of Texas, I'd probably indulge every day. As it is, I stop by just a little too much. So much, in fact, that a few of our local Starbucks know my order without me saying it. This is normal right? If you need more evidence of my addiction, there are two of my local Bucks of the Star (as we call it at my house sometimes) that know Milo's order.
Which got me thinking? What the heck have I done to my kid? He used to get a boxed chocolate or vanilla milk and madelines every time we went. More recently, it's been a vanilla steamer and -like mother, like son- a red velvet cupcake. Sometimes, we go to Starbucks because Milo says "Mom, don't you want a London Fog (original name for the Earl Grey latte)" which is code for "Mom, I need a vanilla steamer, STAT." The barista even asked Milo when he was going to switch to vanilla lattes. Vanilla lattes, really? He's seven.
Milo told him he's switching when his mom will let him drink coffee. Nice.
Which got me thinking? What the heck have I done to my kid? He used to get a boxed chocolate or vanilla milk and madelines every time we went. More recently, it's been a vanilla steamer and -like mother, like son- a red velvet cupcake. Sometimes, we go to Starbucks because Milo says "Mom, don't you want a London Fog (original name for the Earl Grey latte)" which is code for "Mom, I need a vanilla steamer, STAT." The barista even asked Milo when he was going to switch to vanilla lattes. Vanilla lattes, really? He's seven.
Milo told him he's switching when his mom will let him drink coffee. Nice.
Friday, February 12, 2010
We All Live in A Yellow Submarine
Today is my dad's 60th birthday (it's also his brother's 59th birthday and my brother turns 33...weird little family trivia). This is bittersweet, because my dad died of cancer six weeks after his 30th birthday. I find myself pondering all that has changed in those 30 years and wondering what Daddy- forgive me that name, I was 6 when he died- would think of it all.
There have been major world events that I think he would have cared about: the Berlin Wall came down and Communism lost its grip on Eastern Europe. I don't know his politics so I can't say what he would have seen as the better times: the Reagan Revolution or the Clintonian 90's. Being a huge Beatles fan, my dad would have grieved John Lennon's senseless death and George Harrison's tragic one. He was a sports fan, so he no doubt would have enjoyed the A's three World Series trips in the late 80's and 1990, the dominance of the 49ers in the 80's, and watching his sons progress through Little League. There have been space shuttles, stock market crashes, national scandals and triumphs. I imagine discussing all of this with him would have been interesting. Part of me thinks we would have argued the way I did with his father over just about everything; maybe we would have agreed. Either way, I wish we could have the chance.
He missed other things, too, and they are what my dad really cared about. All three of his children graduated from college and have professional careers. Two of us are married to amazing people who fit right in to the August fold. My dad has 4 grandchildren, three beautiful, bright, blonde girls and one vivacious, independent, handsome boy. His kids are more than just siblings, but friends who actually like hanging out together. When he died, his parents and brothers did everything they could to stay a part of his children's lives and keep our dad alive for us (without making him god-like...he may not have liked that as much!). And our mom took care of us and let us know in many ways that she loved us and our dad did, too.
Of course, there were little moments that he would have relished as well. My dad would have laughed and teased me mercilessly about the time I tripped and fell on the basketball court after a time out cheer (it really was funny). He would have thought Jeff's blue hair experiment was fantastic, especially when the coloring started to run down his face. The time Kevin got thrown out at second after tripping at first would have been a pretty great story. So was watching Kevin hit two home runs in one game, listening to Jeff's album, Expansion to Venus, or walking me down the aisle at my wedding.
My dad used to play the guitar and some of the first songs I knew all of the words to were Beatles songs. We three kids would sing as our dad strummed the tune. One song in particular stands out: "Yellow Submarine" (We also watched the slightly freaky, at times scary, but cool-because-it-was-the-Beatles animated film).
"As we live a life of ease
Everyone of us has all we need
Sky of blue, sea of green
In our Yellow Submarine"
They're not the lines one would think of in a post like this, I'm sure. But they are true. There has been a great deal of blue sky and green sea. Heart ache has been a part of my experience, too, as it is in everyone's life. Some days, I am more acutely aware of what I did not have because I lost my dad so young. But I have memories, living memories, of a wonderful human being who in six short years taught me much and holds a huge place in my heart. And I have my brothers, knock-offs of the original, both just as amazing in their own rights. My son, whose middle name is for my dad, reminds me every day that as some in our lives must move on, others come to fill our hearts in ways we did not know possible.
Happy birthday, Dad. Want to go watch Yellow Submarine?
There have been major world events that I think he would have cared about: the Berlin Wall came down and Communism lost its grip on Eastern Europe. I don't know his politics so I can't say what he would have seen as the better times: the Reagan Revolution or the Clintonian 90's. Being a huge Beatles fan, my dad would have grieved John Lennon's senseless death and George Harrison's tragic one. He was a sports fan, so he no doubt would have enjoyed the A's three World Series trips in the late 80's and 1990, the dominance of the 49ers in the 80's, and watching his sons progress through Little League. There have been space shuttles, stock market crashes, national scandals and triumphs. I imagine discussing all of this with him would have been interesting. Part of me thinks we would have argued the way I did with his father over just about everything; maybe we would have agreed. Either way, I wish we could have the chance.
He missed other things, too, and they are what my dad really cared about. All three of his children graduated from college and have professional careers. Two of us are married to amazing people who fit right in to the August fold. My dad has 4 grandchildren, three beautiful, bright, blonde girls and one vivacious, independent, handsome boy. His kids are more than just siblings, but friends who actually like hanging out together. When he died, his parents and brothers did everything they could to stay a part of his children's lives and keep our dad alive for us (without making him god-like...he may not have liked that as much!). And our mom took care of us and let us know in many ways that she loved us and our dad did, too.
Of course, there were little moments that he would have relished as well. My dad would have laughed and teased me mercilessly about the time I tripped and fell on the basketball court after a time out cheer (it really was funny). He would have thought Jeff's blue hair experiment was fantastic, especially when the coloring started to run down his face. The time Kevin got thrown out at second after tripping at first would have been a pretty great story. So was watching Kevin hit two home runs in one game, listening to Jeff's album, Expansion to Venus, or walking me down the aisle at my wedding.
My dad used to play the guitar and some of the first songs I knew all of the words to were Beatles songs. We three kids would sing as our dad strummed the tune. One song in particular stands out: "Yellow Submarine" (We also watched the slightly freaky, at times scary, but cool-because-it-was-the-Beatles animated film).
"As we live a life of ease
Everyone of us has all we need
Sky of blue, sea of green
In our Yellow Submarine"
They're not the lines one would think of in a post like this, I'm sure. But they are true. There has been a great deal of blue sky and green sea. Heart ache has been a part of my experience, too, as it is in everyone's life. Some days, I am more acutely aware of what I did not have because I lost my dad so young. But I have memories, living memories, of a wonderful human being who in six short years taught me much and holds a huge place in my heart. And I have my brothers, knock-offs of the original, both just as amazing in their own rights. My son, whose middle name is for my dad, reminds me every day that as some in our lives must move on, others come to fill our hearts in ways we did not know possible.
Happy birthday, Dad. Want to go watch Yellow Submarine?
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