KQED Perspectives

(August 14, 2006) Hear the audio version

I could feel every beat of my racing heart as my 16-year-old daughter pulled the little red Jetta back into the DMV parking lot. The girl right before Molly had failed her behind-the-wheel test. Her father was in the middle of a long and obviously spirited discussion with the DMV examiner. How about Molly? I knew, in spite of my thumping heart, that she was a good driver – I’d spent dozens of hours in the car with her over the last six months. She’s careful by nature. She’d even practiced driving around downtown Redwood City – not our normal stomping grounds, but now the neighborhood of our nearest DMV office. Yet anything can happen on those tests. We’d heard about one particularly tricky curb on the Redwood City route.

I stared at the back of the car, and waited. Finally Molly opened the driver’s door, got out, turned around, and gave me a thumb’s up with a smile. Whew! My youngest would be a licensed California driver. Today. Cross that milestone off for our family.

Now I could switch gears (so to speak) and start worrying about her being out on the road by herself. And by herself she will be, thanks to California’s graduated license program. For a year Molly can’t have passengers under 20 in the car with her, unless they have a note from a parent – a rather odd stipulation, but one we employ for driving the neighborhood carpool to the high school. Molly also can’t drive after 11 at night for a year. I approve. More crashes happen late at night. Experience behind the wheel helps avoid those accidents.

Driving is dangerous, and some California roads and freeways scarier every year. If Highway 17 were a roller coaster ride, the amusement park would be ordered to shut it down in a week. I never stop reminding my kids that automobiles are lethal weapons and crashes happen in an instant.

But I can’t, and I don’t want to put Molly in bubblewrap. California is a car culture whether I like it or not. And I trust that the Department of Motor Vehicles knew what it was doing when it granted her a California drivers license.

“Drive carefully, Molly.”

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(April 26, 2006) Hear the audio version

Back in ’94, when gas prices were low(er) and I had three children under the age of 10, my husband had what he thought was a good idea – to buy one of those SUV behemoths, a Suburban. His was only the second in our part of town, but soon there were more – many more – and they were EVERYWHERE, with their tall, tinted windows blocking my view in parking lots and on the freeway, as well as in my own driveway.

I quickly became an SUV basher. True, ours took the five of us and our gear to Yosemite and Tahoe in one vehicle many times, and came in handy when family or friends moved and needed help hauling their stuff. But more days than not Bill drove it all by himself to the office or on local errands. And then he started working at home. He knew we needed to dispose of the darn thing, but . . . how does one get rid of an SUV responsibly?

It was too big to stuff in the recycling bin. Bomb shelters aren’t in vogue – at least at the moment. Nor could it be genetically reengineered into two normal cars. This winter, a dealer offered to buy it for $4000 and sell it for ten. But then it might end up in the hands of someone who’d drive it solo, barreling down the highway, cell phone in hand. That could also very well happen if we donated it to a nonprofit that would have it auctioned. Ideally, we wanted it used by someone who actually needed an eight-passenger truck.

As luck would have it, a speaker at a fundraising breakfast had the perfect answer. “We need a replacement for our van.” Eureka! So last month the old Suburban found its new lease on life, as a workhorse for an organization in San Jose that helps teens in trouble to make healthy decisions. It’s already putting in full days ferrying young people to their community service projects, job interviews, and retreats out of the city. The director, staff and peer leaders are thrilled with their new set of wheels, which they’ve christened Chuck the Truck. We’re kinda happy about it, too.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(March 15, 2006) Hear the audio version

My 13-year-old daughter looked horrified when she came into the kitchen one morning. “I emptied my dresser drawers again last night,” she said. “All my clothes are in the middle of the floor.” And she didn’t remember doing it.

That night after Molly went to sleep, she ripped a stack of old photographs to shreds. Then she tore the posters off her bedroom walls. She didn’t remember that either. I was as terrified as she. I didn’t know if we needed a doctor – or an exorcist.

I started with medicine. An overnight sleep study at Stanford Sleep Disorders Clinic showed that Molly stopped breathing about 23 times an hour. Diagnosis? Severe obstructive sleep apnea. Tearing her room apart made perfect sense to the pediatric sleep specialist. He told us it was a behavior that has been misinterpreted throughout the ages.

Sleep apnea is more common in children than parents realize, and is easily missed by pediatricians. Sleepwalking can be a symptom, as is snoring. Delayed development is another. Some children are thought to have ADHD, when really they’re suffering from chronic sleep deprivation. My daughter was getting an average of six bad hours of sleep for the 10 hours she was in bed. Many kids are cured with what the docs call “T and A” – tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. Yet Molly still had apnea after they yanked her tonsils. We stopped her sleepwalking by waking her up 30 minutes after she went to sleep, but that didn’t cure the apnea. For that she needed to go to bed hooked up to a CPAP machine. A full night’s sleep meant she wasn’t sick all the time. Or tired. She also grew half a foot in the first few months. Finally, early last summer she was able to have surgery to move her jaws forward and out from blocking her airway. Now a high school sophomore, she sleeps well.

Parents often think their child’s sleeping problems end when the baby sleeps through the night. Not always! Thankfully, we no longer live in the Middle Ages, and there are wonderful resources available from the American Academy of Sleep Medicine. As we learned, all sleep apnea sufferers aren’t middle aged and overweight. Some are 85 pounds and struggling to stay awake in algebra class.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(Note: please send me an email if you have questions about kids and sleep apnea. I’m happy to help.)

(November 21, 2005) Hear the audio version

Last Sunday I did something unusual for me, the mother of the house. I took care of myself. This is how it happened: the night before I’d been suddenly stricken with a nasty ailment. When I crawled into bed I felt like a cartoon character at the North Pole: my teeth would not stop chattering. Every bone and muscle ached. I lay awake most of the night, shivering and listening to the transistor radio under my pillow.

So on Sunday I dozed on the couch while meals were prepared and eaten. I missed my volunteer stint at the bookstore. My husband took our teenage daughter to her soccer game. She had an assist on the winning goal without my cheering her on. The dog didn’t go nuts without his daily walk. In short, my family and the community carried on quite nicely without me.

I’m not used to putting myself first. I’m the mom, after all, who knows best how to toast the bread, who keeps track of orthodontist appointments and the whereabouts of P.E. clothes and wake-up times and how to put on the dog’s new collar. Like so many mothers, I consider myself indispensable, even though: a) I am not; and b) my husband is perfectly able – and willing – to take on the tasks I always assume for myself. Some feminist! I’m acting like it’s 1955, not 2005. And as an active member of the sandwich generation, I also help take care of my parents. So when I was in charge of their move to a retirement home in August, I thought I didn’t have time to be sick and delayed going to the doctor until I required massive doses of antibiotics, two days in the hospital, and weeks of recovery before I felt like myself again.

Too bad it took a hospital stay to make me change my ways. It was only then that I realized I’d been setting a pretty poor example for my daughters by always putting everyone else’s needs far ahead of mine. But it’s hard to overcome the instincts I swear are imbedded on that second X chromosome. I’m still learning. That day on the couch, though, was precisely what I needed. By Monday I was able to get up and make my daughter’s chai tea just as she likes it. My husband fixed her breakfast and lunch.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(August 22, 2005) Hear the audio version

If you see a school bus tooling around town today, it’s probably not a test run. That’s because school starts this week for thousands of Bay Area children. And I must say that my 15-year-old and her friends are having trouble mustering the enthusiasm for going back to five straight days of seven periods of academic classes while there’s still a month left of summer.

I realize that the real crises in American education are more along the lines of crumbling school buildings filled with too many kids with multiple academic, behavioral, and language challenges. We should be ashamed that the U.S. has one of the highest high school dropout rates in the industrialized world. But in my household, the early start date has been the thundercloud over my daughter’s head since the summer finally began in mid-June. She never even had a chance to get bored! Unstructured time – daydreaming, exploring – has no place in the day planners of contemporary children, especially middle and high school students bound for college. With the school year now extended over ten full months, my child and her classmates will have precisely one weekend, after finals in January, without homework. Our district only pretends to pay attention to the alarm bells sounded by Stanford lecturer Denise Clark Pope’s Stressed-Out Students Project. A school calendar that begins two weeks before Labor Day is guaranteed to compound the stress.

All public schools in this No Child Left Untested era have become so obsessed with standardized testing in the spring that many feel the need to begin preparing their students early. In August. The school start date has been creeping up for the last several years, but finally, it’s reached the tipping point of annoyance among families who want their summers back. Tourism-friendly California legislators may want to take a look at laws already passed in four states that curb early back-to-school dates.

In the meantime, rather than enjoying the dog days of summer and going back on the more reasonable and traditional day after Labor Day, kids and teachers will be sweating it out in the classroom these weeks, trying not to dwell on opportunities missed and pleasures foregone in the incredible shrinking summer.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(May 3, 2005) Hear the audio version

When the Salinas City Council voted to close its three public libraries after tax measures failed in November, a firestorm of protest ignited. Shut down the libraries in John Steinbeck’s hometown? Why, that’d be like moving the Golden Gate Bridge to Lake Havasu! Libraries are the heart and soul of a community. And if Salinas, a city of 150,000, can close its libraries, then it could happen anywhere.

Libraries are as basic as tap water. They shouldn’t have to beg for funding, city by city, county by county, year to year, as they do now. Poor communities need libraries even more than wealthy ones – their residents depend on public libraries for books, computers, tutoring and other programs. The Cesar Chavez Public Library in Salinas has a popular after-school homework center. Board up the library, and you know where those kids will be left – the street. How dare we let that happen?

Well, thanks to an outpouring of public support and private donations to the Salinas libraries, it won’t – at least not this year. Cesar Chavez will remain open for a grand total of 10 hours a week. The library named after native son Steinbeck only eight. Eight hours??? I bet the Governor’s children don’t line up hoping for their library doors to open. So why should the child of a farmworker or a teacher? Is civic responsibility totally a thing of the past?

I sure hope not. I hope the situation in Salinas has sounded alarm bells heard by all. Programs necessary for a civil society demand adequate funding. California should make library funding a state priority along with schools and fire and police, and, I guess, prisons. These basic services should not have to rely on initiatives or special taxes or lobbying or bake sales for their very survival. The people of this state – citizens and immigrants – need our libraries to be open and thriving. Not just my library, but yours and hers and those 100 miles down 101.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(February 2, 2005) Hear the audio version

Today is Groundhog Day. You may have heard already whether Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow when he emerged from his burrow. If he did, legend has it there will be six more weeks of winter weather. If the little critter does not cast a shadow, spring will come early. The notion that weather conditions at the outset of February predict what will follow dates back centuries, to Northern Europe. German immigrants who settled in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania brought the shadow/no shadow custom with them. In 1886 they designated a groundhog named Phil the official prognosticator. A group called the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club vigorously promotes this dubious holiday and contends that Phil, who sees his shadow about 90 percent of the time, has never been wrong.

Out here in California, I don’t need a groundhog to tell me we’re only halfway through winter. My body relies on the sun to set my mood and energy, and alas, el sol is still too low in the sky for my liking. I begin every February wishing I could skip it altogether – the rain, fog, cold. I long to escape to Australia. I diagnosed myself with SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, even before it had a name. It’s a depression that creeps up on me around the end of September and keeps me down until March. I can’t stop it, even when I know it’s coming. What I can do is stand in front of my “full-spectrum light box,” a two-feet long, one foot high bank of bright lights I have perched on my kitchen counter every morning. People come into my house and ask, “What the heck is that?” and I tell them it’s drug-free therapy for my winter blues. It’s probably also cheaper than Prozac.

When the sun does come out, I make myself take long walks to soak in as much of it as I can. As winter drags on I also rely on snippets of hope that spring is on its way. My favorite expression of the month is “Pitchers and catchers report to spring training.” I watch for the first wildflowers in the foothills. And I’m grateful that unlike other forms of depression, mine will end with the season. But long after Groundhog Day.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(December 13, 2004) Hear the audio version

What a stressful time of year! Not the holidays – college applications. We boomers who had babies in 1987 are now parents of 17-year-olds who all seem to be applying to the same 200 selective colleges and universities. In Palo Alto, where a 4.04 weighted GPA is only in the top 30% of the class, it’s the same 20 schools. And to be successful, word has it that an applicant must have good – make that great – grades in difficult classes, including several Advanced Placement courses; solid scores on SAT’s; passionate, deep involvement in more than one activity; a talent or special skill that will stand out from the pack; plenty of community service “hours”; and, preferably, work experience. This, not in a lifetime but before the age of 18. And before tackling the actual college applications, including those critical essays.

The stress my daughter is feeling now comes from her cutthroat environment, not from her dad and me. And that’s where our family separates from the pack. We don’t care where she goes. Almost any college in the country has more to teach than any student can learn in four years. She has friends whose parents insist they apply to the Ivy League, or Stanford or Cal. Many families in the Bay Area “outsource” the college application process to high-priced independent counselors, hoping that will give their children an edge. But I don’t want someone telling my daughter where to find her passions or what to write about in her essays. I’d like her to figure that out for herself. And I have good news for parents whose instinct is to resist packaging: my oldest followed her own path in high school, and is now a sophomore at the only university she applied to. Her sister, who still has 19 schools on her list, spent more than a month crafting a fresh, original personal statement she has every reason to be proud of. I’m content to sit on the sidelines and offer help when asked. And ask she does, for this crazy process has actually brought us closer. After she filed her UC application from the kitchen computer, she invited me to lunch.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(August 18, 2004) Hear the audio version

My friend Molly was the first to use the new ATM at the bank next door to our office in 1979. “It’s so cool,” she said. “You almost feel like you don’t have to record it in your checkbook!” For 25 years I’ve appreciated the convenience of being able to get cash on Saturday mornings for the farmers market, and deposit checks without standing in a teller line. The ATM worked wonderfully ­ until the bank installed new, touchscreen models. Last week the machine took my deposit envelope and then wrote on the screen: “Your request cannot be processed at this time.” No receipt, no money, no nothin’. Fortunately the bank was open. Unfortunately, it is against federal law for the teller to retrieve the envelope and return it to me, or deposit it in my account. Two days, two visits to the branch, and four hours on the phone to customer service later, I was granted “provisional credit.” The head teller’s advice? “Don’t use the ATM. This happens randomly, at least once a week.”

Oh, dear. Touchscreen ATM’s are related to touchscreen voting machines, which, in an over-reaction to the hanging chad fiasco in Florida, will be inaugurated en masse across the nation in arguably the most important election of our time. Will random voters this November 2 see “Your vote cannot be processed” on their touchscreen voting machines? Or “This ballot is provisional pending an investigation?” Bravo to Secretary of State Kevin Shelley for insisting on corrections to the security of electronic voting machines in California, and for requiring polling places to offer a paper ballot alternative. Florida’s Governor Jeb Bush apparently has no qualms about the technology, despite computer crashes and lost – then found – discs from the 2002 gubernatorial primary, and his own party’s recommendation that Republicans vote absentee.

My bank sent a letter informing me that “a hardware failure occurred during (my) transaction.” No kidding. So I’m going back to banking the old-fashioned way: with a teller. And I’ll be casting my ballot the old-fashioned way, too: on paper. Isn’t progress wonderful?

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(July 6, 2004) 

I must confess I wasn’t thrilled when my 17-year-old daughter recently announced she was going vegan—that is, eat only plant-based foods. This is a child who decided in kindergarten that she wouldn’t eat meat, but she’s never especially cared for vegetables. For years it seemed she lived on cheddar cheese, sourdough bread, applesauce and plain chow mein. I asked her how she planned to get protein. “Nuts, tofu and soy milk,” she said. She promised to take her vitamins. Then she cheerfully went off to the grocery store, and I decided our family of five is themost difficult to feed. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Because I had known young women with eating disorders who had grown up with mothers obsessed with food and body weight, I had decided that food wouldn’t be an issue in our house. That worked, until my youngest was diagnosed 12 years ago at age 20 months with a gluten intolerance. Food suddenly became a huge deal, as wheat, barley and rye (mostly wheat) had given her a severe case of malnutrition.

I learned to cook gluten-free. And vegetarian, as one by one my three daughters gave up meat. I stopped eating it too. But when my husband was recovering from a bleeding ulcer, he had to load up on beef. So he started making most of his own meals. Then his doctor wanted him to go light on the carbs. And now our oldest has gone gluten-free, even though her symptoms aren’t as nasty as her sister’s.

We don’t get invited out anymore.

Our refrigerator doesn’t have room for seven different kinds of milk.

And yet . . . bumping into each other in the kitchen as we prepare three, or perhaps four or five dinner entrees has its advantages over the old query, “What’s for dinner, Mom?” I’m glad my kids know how to feed themselves. And while we’re clearly pretty far out there on the fussy-eater spectrum, I bet it’s unusual, especially in this season of Atkins and South Beach diets, for a family of five not to have any dietary restrictions. Those who do are welcome at our dinner table any time.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.