25 Things You Don’t Know About...

25 Things You Don’t Know About…Kelly Duncan

 

This is an assignment I am giving my 6th graders as a "getting to know you." It's modeled after the column in Us Weekly. Or so I've heard. There is no way I am a celebrity-obsessed person. No, not me. Okay, it's true. I read the magazine. And I love it. So there.

 

1.      I’m a complete night owl which means I am not a morning person—weird for a teacher, I know.

2.      I am obsessed with Flair Pens. And highlighters. Really, I’m just a fan of color-coding.

3.      I’m a workaholic.

4.      I legally changed my name from Kelly Lynn August to Kelly August Duncan when I got married.

5.      My dad wanted to name me June July (reread number 4 if you don’t see why that is funny…or so not funny). All of his brothers suggested the same for their daughters. Luckily, none of them won that fight.

6.      I love to keep score at baseball games.

7.      My son is named after the main character in The Phantom Tollbooth.

8.      Reading is as important as breathing to me. More important that eating.

9.      I’m the oldest of five children.

10.  I eat salmon and run for exercise because it’s good for me. I hate both.

11.  My three cats—Liam, Sasha, and Olive—don’t like each other.

12.  I have visited all twenty-one California Missions. San Juan Capistrano is my favorite.

13.  I am planning a party for the 50^th Anniversary episode of Dr. Who; the tenth Doctor, David Tennant, is my favorite.

14.  The last book I read was Wonder. I’m currently reading 13 Reasons Why and The Fault in our Stars.

15.  I saw the last three Twilight movies at their midnight premieres with a group of like-minded moms. TEAM EDWARD!

16.  My son and I share a love of Steampunk. Victorian sensibility and fashion with steam powered sci-fi, alternate histories, and a dash of dystopia? What’s not to love?!?

17.  Great White sharks are my favorite animal. I have never missed a Shark Week because of this.

18.  My family follows the Paleo diet because I am allergic to wheat, gluten, and dairy. My husband and son are troopers.

19.  I watched Grease 2 EVERY DAY during the summer between fourth and fifth grade.

20.  My husband and I spent our first Valentine’s Day at a live WWE taping. I love that man!

21.  I have six nieces and three nephews.

22.  I used to know every word to every song on The Beastie Boys License to Ill.

23.  I love to sing karaoke.

24.   My birthday is in August on the same date as Michael Jackson’s. That was WAY cooler when I was a kid.

25. Take Me Out to the Ballgame and any Beatles song were lullabies in my house when my son was baby.

I Choose Strong

Lately, I have been feeling very unfocused. I've got a gazillion things going in my head (Ayurvedic thinking-one of my new passions-would say my mental vata dosha is out of whack). Arthritis and psoriasis have been the bane of my existence this summer (blame an excess of pitta there...perhaps some kapha, too). I have a ton I want to accomplish, but don't feel like much is getting going. Blah blah blah...yakkity schmakity...wah. Enough! I hate whining. Abhor it really. And I feel like I whine a lot lately.

With the impending arrival of my fortieth birthday, this girl is making some changes and taking on some challenges. The list includes in no particular order:

1. Improving my health with the assistance of yoga, Crossfit, the Paleo Diet, Ayurvedic medicine and acupuncture along with my allopathic medicine treatment, and prayer and meditation. Lame as it sounds, I have psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis. They do not have me.
2. Gaining certification as an Ayurveda professional so I fully understand the principals of this health practice.
3. Becoming a National Board Certified Teacher.
4. Implementing the Common Core standards in my classroom and at my school while becoming an effective advocate for the standards to the community at large
5. Increasing the use of technology as a tool for me and my students in the classroom by writing a grant to get a mobile lab to facilitate digital portfolios
6. Helping my son survive, no thrive, in middle school. After all, I know a thing or two about this age group. Maybe it will help us all get through the next three years?!? Please?
7. Getting rid of the clutter in my house...we have more than we need and it's junking up the joint. Once that is done, I can start inviting people over again!
8. Writing more on my blog and in other places. I actually enjoy writing, and as an English teacher, I better practice what I preach! Everyone writes no matter their avocation ($0.50 word alert). To be honest, I have missed this. Publishing a piece can be cathartic; it can be a problem solver. Heck, it can be an ego boost.

Today, my writing is an accountability mechanism. I NEED to accomplish all of the above list. I figure giving myself a public accountability team will get me there. *fingers crossed*

I recently read a quote from a Yaqui Indian spiritual leader named Don Juan Matos.

"We either make ourselves miserable or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same."

I choose strong. Here goes nothing.

Merry Christmas to ALL

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.

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.

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

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.

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.