Before church this morning

Calamity can test a family's resolve

From today's Briefing:

We are surviving the Great Flood of 2012.

“Great” is relative. It really only affects my little family, but to the three of us, it is a very big deal.

One morning last week, at exactly 6:45 a.m., Katie hollered, “There’s water all over the bathroom!”

I needed no coffee to get moving.

I pulled towels from cabinets to begin soaking up water in the bathroom, the hallway and Katie’s adjoining bedroom. I called (and woke up) our plumber and followed his instructions on turning off the water that was steadily flowing from the toilet. I shepherded Cooper and Katie through the motions of getting ready for school, helping them avoid puddles and telling them that everything would be OK.

When I turned my attention to preparing breakfast and lunches to go, I almost started to cry. Because water had been flooding part of the house for who-knows-how-many hours, because I am the only adult in the house, and because I had no idea what it would take to repair the damage.

I am not afraid to cry in front of my children, but in this case, it seemed selfish. So I took some deep breaths and carried on.

After the children were at school and I was back home to survey the damage and to begin greeting the bevy of workers who would parade in and out of my home (and are still doing so), I gave in to the building tears. Then I returned to survival mode.

In the midst of muddling through, I’ve been reminded of some life lessons.

There’s never an ideal time for an emergency. If I had known that water was going to spread across a quarter of the house, I would have pulled linens off the hall closet floor and moved Katie’s bookshelf from the path of destruction. I would have insisted that Cooper and Katie clean their playroom better.

That’s not how accidents work, of course. There’s no step-by-step script for life. There are many opportunities for improv.

We have too much stuff. I’ve washed and dried all the linens and towels, but they don’t yet have a cabinet or closet to return to. When they’re stacked on chairs in the family room, it’s painfully obvious how much stuff we have and how little we really need.

Two giant bags have already been donated to a nonprofit resale shop. More are on the way.

Children can contort their bodies to take up whatever bed space is available. Katie’s room is uninhabitable until reconstruction is complete. In the meantime, she’s my roommate.

She sleeps on the right side of my queen-size bed. When I kiss her goodnight, her body is straight, limbs tucked in, head on the pillow. By the time I finally get to bed, she’s violently kicked off the covers by arms and legs all akimbo. There’s barely room for me to crawl in.

I’ve learned how to return her to the other side with enough force to be effective but gently enough to keep her asleep.

By morning, I’m barely holding on to the bed, forced to the edge by wild 6-year-old appendages.

It could be worse. Everyone’s got a flooding story. I’ve heard horror stories about families returning from a weeklong weeklong vacation to find the icemaker has been flooding for days. Or a second-floor accident that seeps downstairs. Or sewage water that destroys an entire ground floor, requiring three weeks of forced evacuation.

It’s just stuff. Living through much more difficult times offers perspective.

When I stood in the kitchen, fighting back tears, I reminded myself that the reason I’m the only adult in the house is because my Steve lived with and ultimately died from cancer.

All the pain and uncertainty he lived with — that’s worth crying over. Life that continues without him — that’s sometimes worth crying about. Walls and cabinets and carpets ruined by water — it’s all stuff. It’s not life and death.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

Kids learn big lessons from small groups

From today's Briefing:

My generation of parents has earned its share of derision.

We are overprotective. We think our children have no faults. We lavish too much praise. We often grant freedom without corresponding responsibility. Or we don’t grant enough freedom, creating young people afraid to take risks and solve problems.

All true to some degree. All with short-term and long-term troubles.

One thing I’m convinced we’re doing right: encouraging our children to become part of a structured group.

Organized sports, Scout troops, clubs, performance groups. Yes, there can be too many piled on, but I think every child needs at least one.

They need to learn how to work toward a common goal, to compromise, to lead, to follow when appropriate, to recognize when to set aside selfishness for the greater good. They need to learn how to create and maintain community.

Last weekend, Cooper left such a group and joined another. He and some of his fifth-grade buddies bridged from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts.

It’s an achievement worth celebrating. These boys have worked together for years, following a regimented program based on character, physical fitness, practical skills and community service.

Which translates into camping when it’s 100 degrees and again when it’s 28. Collecting canned food for families in need. Learning how to play marbles. Racing pinewood cars and balsa wood sailboats. Identifying poisonous plants and snakes. Learning how to create a sling from a neckerchief and how to safely diffuse a bee sting.

Cooper and his buddies have learned to care for one another with skills they’ll need as they grow into adults.

With middle school just months away, Cooper and his peers will have even more groups to choose from.

Tuesday night, the middle school principal stood before a crowd of future students and parents to talk about the transition from elementary school. We learned about leveled courses and cafeteria choices and extracurricular activities.

The kids who adjust best to middle school, he said, are those who get plugged in right away. They become part of a small group and remain engaged.

Small groups were what made my own middle school years bearable. When I found like-minded kids to latch onto, I was less terrified of the masses.

My security was choir (though I’m a terrible singer) and my language arts class, filled with other kids who loved to read and write. Those two groups made the rest of the angst-ridden experience bearable.

It was the same in high school and college. I was happiest and did my best work overall when active in a close-knit group. (And friends from those groups are still some of my dearest.)

It’s the same now, long past the days of lockers and mean teens and exams.

I’ve chosen to be part of small groups of friends with common interests. One circle gathers once a month to study the Bible. Another volunteers at our neighborhood school.

This is Katie’s second year in her own small group — a Daisy Girl Scout troop of eight. Early in the experience is an emphasis on sisterhood. It’s right there in promise: “Be a sister to every Girl Scout.”

Katie and her friends are learning how to treat one another with respect, how to be courteous and helpful. They are discovering how their decisions and actions affect others. They are building a small community of accountability and problem-solving partners.

Maybe in two or three decades they’ll have figured out how to be better parents, too.

Kids in cubbies

Katie before Sunday school last week, squeezed into a preschool cubby (the same set of cubbies she used when she was in the 4-year-old class)

Katie and some of the Sunday school boys

Before church this morning

Do your kids a favor: Let them lose once in a while

From today's Briefing:

Katie has a first-grade friend who is interested in playing soccer, but she’s afraid to try because she’ll be too far behind.

Seriously. A 7-year-old is concerned that she’s already missed the boat on an entire sport because most of the other girls have been playing for three or four years.

I don’t blame the child. She’s instinctively protecting herself in the environment we’ve all created. A world in which 18-month-olds can begin taking soccer lessons.

There are classes for tiny humans who’ve been on Earth just a year and a half. Little people who are wearing diapers and who have an average vocabulary of 30 to 50 words and who can barely manage to scale a small staircase.

I encouraged my friend, the mom of the 7-year-old, to enroll her for a season. Just let her try. Maybe she’ll love it, score a few goals, make new friends. Maybe not. But let her discover on her own if she can compete with the tiny Alex Morgans out there.

These low-consequence risks are difficult for us parents. But if we don’t encourage small risks, the long-term consequences will be monumental.

When Cooper started kindergarten, his teacher shared that she often has students who have never lost a game of Candy Land.

These children play with parents who always rig the outcome, guaranteeing no loss and no tears at home. And guaranteeing plenty of tears when a loss naturally happens outside the home.

Most children aren’t born graceful losers or winners. I know mine weren’t. We still struggle. If Katie calculates in the middle of a game that her chances of winning are slim, she’d prefer to forfeit. (I don’t let her.) If Cooper is winning, he’s prone to trash talk. (I try to curb it.)

We’ve all been the champion of Cinderella’s Glass Slipper Game and Spot It and Sorry Sliders. We’ve all come in last place in Qwirkle and Monopoly and Chutes and Ladders.

Disappointment at home prepares us for disappointment on the field and in the classroom, among friends and in the workplace.

Over lunch last week, a few mom friends were discussing one daughter’s desire to be a cheerleader.

This sixth-grader isn’t particularly talented at tumbling. (The cartwheel still eludes her, even after plenty of lessons.) She isn’t among the girls who have cheered since age 3 or performed at Cowboys Stadium or competed at the national level.

But she does want to try to be part of the cheerleading squad and all it represents in middle school.

Mom has struggled with her daughter’s choice. Chances are slim that she’ll make the squad. Mom instinctively prefers to shield her from the potential disappointment of not making the team. She could argue that the most supportive act, the safest act, would be to discourage her daughter from tryouts altogether.

She also knows that it’s healthy for her daughter to take risks. To try, then maybe make it, maybe not.

She has decided that the most supportive act is to encourage her daughter to pursue her dream of pompons and football games. And to praise her for trying, regardless of the outcome.

Because the bigger risk is telegraphing to your child that you don’t believe in her. That we only attempt tasks if we’re certain of success. That there is no value in coming in second or third or last place. That failure is unacceptable.

I know that’s not what we really intend when we instinctively shield our children from struggles. But it’s the message they receive.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

'Humble'

Cooper is bridging tomorrow from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. This is a very big deal in the world of Scouting.

The preparations for each parent include wrapping an arrow to represent the past four years of achievements, creating a banner/shield to represent the past four years of activities and having a portrait taken to be framed and displayed at the banquet.

I have finished the arrow. I'm almost done with the shield. And the portrait right now is framed by simple, inexpensive wood. One option is to decorate the frame with his name and Scout symbols. I'm willing to decorate it, but I wanted to check with Cooper first.

"Oh, no, Momma," he said. "I'm not a glitz and glam person. I am more humble."

Oh, gracious. Sometimes it's as if Steve Damm speaks right through that child.

Before church this morning

Life goes by pretty fast, so stop and watch the zombies

From today's Briefing:

It’s easy to determine my age based on the list of movies I loved during high school: Dirty Dancing, Back to the Future, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Top Gun and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Yes, I am a child of the ’70s, a decidedly ’80s girl on the verge of turning 40. All those hours of watching silly movies on cable and VHS weren’t fruitless. There were lessons — some more hidden than others — in all the flicks.

Stand up for what you believe in. Take risks. Don’t judge a book by its cover or a teen by his label. Don’t take too many (or any) muscle relaxers the day of your wedding. Navy pilots are dreamy. And, every now and then, you need a break from routine.

Or, as Ferris Bueller would say, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris is enjoying a resurgence these days, thanks to nostalgic types like me and a car commercial that imagines an adult version of playing hooky, with Matthew Broderick feigning illness like his famous character.

I’m home this week after my own version of playing hooky — an annual long weekend away with friends, away from children and work and laundry. This year’s slice of responsibility-free heaven: Savannah, Ga.

We three moms had a list of places we wanted to see, things we wanted to do, food we wanted to eat. But we were relaxed enough to allow some items to drop off the list, open to making room for unexpected discoveries.

Like the puppet show we stumbled into after touring an art museum. A group of sixth-grade drama students presented the story of Juliette Gordon Low and the founding of the Girl Scouts 100 years ago in Savannah.

We learned fascinating facts about an honorable American woman. We laughed at corny jokes. And I left with stories to share with my own Daisy Girl Scout troop.

“Random free puppet show” is nowhere on any travel guide’s list of things to do in Savannah, but I’m glad we didn’t miss it.

Travel guides do recommend Fort Pulaski, on the road from Savannah to Tybee Island. The fort was designed to protect the young United States from foreign attack, but it wasn’t battle-tested until the Civil War.

I’m certain the architects of Fort Pulaski never imagined what shenanigans would actually take place there more than 150 years later.

On a whim, we pulled into the fort for a look-see — with serendipitous timing. A cannon firing was scheduled to begin in 10 minutes. We parked and hustled across a couple of bridges to be sure we didn’t miss the event. That’s when we spied some unusual activity. We were surrounded by a dozen zombies. And not just any zombies. These undead hailed from the 1860s.

We quickly learned that Fort Pulaski was serving as a backdrop to a low-budget, direct-to-DVD movie with the working title Abe Lincoln vs. Zombies.

After covering our ears during two cannon demonstrations, the three of us walked the pentagonal fort, taking in architectural details and imaging the life of an average soldier. Then we spied on the movie set.

The director, we discovered, takes his craft seriously. He spoke with arrogant authority, as if directing a remake of Citizen Kane.

While perched atop a brick wall, peering into a stairwell, he discovered a camera angle he preferred to the original plan.

“From overhead this is very compelling,” he spoke down to a colleague.

Hesitation sets in.

“Before we marry this, do we have enough zombies?”

Perhaps not.

“Let’s get every zombie in here!”

The creepily dressed extras move in.

“Just surround him with zombies!”

Desperation sets in.

“Is this every single zombie in the joint?”

At this moment, between giggles, my traveling companions and I consider scoring some 1860s garb and volunteering for the job. But the director yells, “Action!” and the zombies stretch out their zombie arms and make zombie noises, and the scene is wrapped.

The lesson from this movie? There are never enough zombies. And there are unexpected rewards when you stop and look around.

I’m glad we didn’t miss it.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Two zombies and me

Every single zombie in the joint

Little Dribblers never cease to entertain

From today's Briefing:


Seats to the most entertaining show in town aren’t comfortable. If you arrive late, it’s standing room only. There’s no concession stand.


But the hour is free. And rewarding, especially if you’re related to one of the players.

For a couple of months I’ve been enjoying first-grade girls basketball, a spectacle of traveling and fouls and jump balls and missed opportunities. When I’m not cheering for Katie and her six teammates, I’m giggling. And giving thanks for patient coaches and referees.

Patience is required with 6- and 7-year-olds who are new to a sport that requires so much coordination and willingness to follow so many rules.

Katie lacks a little of both.

Despite her slight deficiency of natural ability, she has become expert at dribbling, partly because she practices on the front sidewalk as often as the weather allows and partly because she spends a lot of time dribbling during games.

After the opposing team scores, she always angles to be the player to receive the inbound ball. If successful in her quest, she moseys as she dribbles, slowing with each step as she nears the half-court line.

And then she dribbles some more, surveying the five opponents who have lined up, as menacing as beribboned, 4-foot-tall girls can be. Seeing no obvious hole through the defense, she backs up, still dribbling, as if she has all afternoon to cross that line. (There’s no shot clock in recreational first-grade basketball.)

Meanwhile, her mercifully kind coaches urge her to move up or pass the ball. If I can’t take it any longer, I cheer (or holler), “Katie!” and dramatically wave my arms in the direction of the basket. And I stifle laughter.

Finally she crosses the line or passes the ball, which is then often stripped away by one of the five hovering, vulture-like girls.

Katie shakes off disappointment as she turns, searches for the girl she is supposed to be defending and skips toward the basket, sometimes with arms tucked inside her jersey.

At every game, there’s a jump ball or two. The girls have been taught to grab the ball and not let go. In other words, they’ve been given permission to do what they’ve been trained not to do their whole lives. And they don’t let this opportunity to blatantly steal go to waste.

If a defensive player gets her hands wrapped around that ball and the offensive player is able to hold on, we’re treated to a few seconds of intense tussling and a pair of determined, scrunched up faces. It never fails to make spectators laugh.

Our ever-serene ref (who looks too young to have his own kids and may delay parenting plans for a long while) eventually blows his whistle and calls the team that wins the jump ball. We always cheer.

Of course, we cheer loudest when someone scores.

One of the most beautiful things about first-grade girls basketball is that we all cheer, no matter which team scores. Now, we might clap and holler a little louder for our own girls, but we don’t let a single basket go unnoticed. Maybe because it seems like a tiny miracle each time the ball actually makes it past the half-court line, gets into the hands of someone who is able to hold on and shoot, reaches the rim or backboard and then falls through the net.

Those few baskets are more exciting, more entertaining to witness, than any live college or professional game.

Best of all, after the final whistle I get to hug my favorite player, praise her for working hard and laugh with her as we relive moments from the game.

Even if her team lost (unofficially, as scores aren’t kept), it’s truly one of the best hours of the week.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before Sunday school this morning

Elementary school's end will just be the beginning

From today's Briefing:

The school year is half over — or, as I prefer to think about it, half full. I’m relying on an optimistic attitude to get through my son’s final weeks of fifth grade without too much weeping.

Cooper’s last day of elementary school may be in June, but getting there is an emotional journey.

I’ve already met with his future middle school counselor to discuss classroom accommodations related to dyslexia. (Despite fears fueled by young adult novels, comic strips and years of television programming, she was not cold or detached or clueless.)

Next week we’ll spend an hour in the middle school cafeteria so Cooper can try out band and orchestra instruments in an effort to determine his musical future.

Soon after, he’ll stand before a couple hundred people to accept his Arrow of Light, which symbolizes completion of achievements in the Cub Scout program. Then he’ll walk across a small bridge to be accepted into the Boy Scout troop of his choice.

A month later, the entire fifth-grade class will hear facts about puberty. The highly anticipated gender-specific talk is scheduled for the hour before the bell rings for spring break, giving the kids no time to compare notes in class and guaranteeing all kinds of fodder for family discussion while we’re allegedly relaxing.

A few weeks after that, he’ll play his final soccer game with the team that’s been together since 2005, when the boys were baby-faced, wiggly, completely adorable preschoolers.

All this builds to what promises to be the most tear-filled event of the whole process: the last day of school, when fifth-graders attend their own special assembly and then parade throughout school, giving high-fives to younger children lining the halls, all while music plays over the intercom, possibly designed to drown the sobs of sentimental moms like me.

(Some of my mom friends refuse to step foot on campus that last day of school, shielding themselves from the emotional experience until their own children are graduating fifth-graders. I show up every year, sort of hoping for some kind of inoculation.)

If all I focused on were these goodbyes and rites of passage, I would be a big ol’ blubbery mess until June. No matter how often I told myself to stop and enjoy the moment, to not wish for the next phase but to enjoy the current phase, Cooper’s elementary school career has zipped by entirely too fast.

So, while I’m misty-eyed about everything that’s ending, I’m working on embracing all that’s about to begin.

In August, Cooper will launch a new school career, with a different classroom and teacher every hour and a locker with a combination lock and the freedom to sit at any table in the cafeteria. He’ll study our world and read novels and solve problems with greater intensity.

He’ll report to the band hall to learn how to play a new instrument. Maybe it’s the first step that leads to marching band in high school and college, like his dad. Or maybe he’ll try it for a year and decide to try a different brand of art.

Like every other sixth-grader, he’ll struggle with and eventually conquer pre-adolescence, part of a necessary journey that will lead to the young man he’s designed to be.

He can choose to try a new soccer team or a new sport altogether. He could spend more time on long-distance running and triathlons or take a few tennis lessons or find a basketball team. Or maybe he’ll take a break from sports, spending more time camping and completing achievements as part of Boy Scouts.

For every milestone we know about and can ink on the calendar, there are many more that aren’t scripted, that we can’t anticipate. Some of those moments will make me cry, too, but I expect the majority will make me smile.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

Learning about diversity, one sake bomb at a time

From today's Briefing:

You just never know when and where you’re going to learn a lesson.

I recently took Cooper and Katie to dinner to celebrate their awards in our school’s PTA Reflections contest. Cooper wrote a poem, and Katie wrote a poem and created a pastel drawing, all on the topic of diversity.

We ate at one of those Japanese restaurants where chefs slice and dice and cook and serve right there at the communal table. I started to feel a little uneasy about the choice as we walked to our table with randomly assigned companions.

They were three couples. The men wore shiny shirts that matched their shiny hair.

The women had tall, teased hair, balanced by impossibly tall shoes. Their outfits, in defiance of the cold wind outside, revealed a lot of skin. One of the women wore more eye shadow that night than I have worn cumulatively in my entire life.

They were obviously celebrating in a more adult fashion than my children and I, and I was unsure that we were a good fit for a two-hour, interactive dinner.

But, as Katie wrote in her diversity poem: “No one looks the same, and that is good.”

After the nine of us were seated, a waitress took drink orders. Two soft drinks, one tea, six refills from the bar.

We quickly learned that one of the men was turning 30. One of the women shared with the group her favorite gift from turning 30.

It is the kind of gift that can’t be described in a newspaper intended for a general audience.

At this point, I feared that years of deliberate, careful parenting would totally unravel around a teppanyaki table. And it was the point at which I employed the tried-and-true parenting technique of distraction.

Cooper and I discussed the merits of steak and shrimp vs. chicken and shrimp. Katie colored her paper menu/hat and placed it on her head. While we practiced our own brand of silliness, I stole longing glances at a nearby table filled with mild-mannered folks who didn’t seem to be discussing R-rated activities.

The 30-year-old birthday boy borrowed Katie’s hat. His girlfriend took pictures. We all laughed.

While the chef prepared fried rice, our tablemates told a couple of racist jokes, and I worked on more distraction.

And I thought of more of Katie’s words: “You shouldn’t make fun of people or laugh at them by the way they look. You could hurt their feelings and make them so sad.”

The waitress delivered six sake bombs. My children were enthralled by the process: Place chopsticks parallel across the top of a glass of beer, balance a shot glass atop the chopsticks, pound the table, then watch the shot of sake fall into the beer, making a fizzy concoction intended for immediate consumption.

One of the men slammed his, pointed at Cooper and hollered, “This is the life!”

Wide-eyed Cooper took another sip of Sprite.

Ambient noise mostly camouflaged the colorful adult language from their end of the table. The kids and I had plenty to discuss without homing in on their conversation.

When dinner was over, we all sang “Happy Birthday,” and Katie’s hat was employed for another photo.

Bills were settled, we said goodbye and walked into the cold, dark night.

As we neared the car, Cooper remarked in trademark deadpan, “Those were some interesting people.”

In that moment, I realized that years of parenting can’t be destroyed by one night with a few slightly wild tablemates. In fact, it offered an opportunity to discuss our family’s values — like tolerance and moderation.

And in that moment, I was reminded of the opening lines of Cooper’s poem: “Diversity makes this world richer.”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Prodigal Son

There are a few Bible stories I struggle with. One of the most difficult for me: the Prodigal Son, from Luke 15:11-32 (below from NRSV).

Then Jesus said, ‘There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he divided his property between them. 

A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. 

He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ ” 

So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But the father said to his slaves, “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.

 Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” Then he became angry and refused to go in. 

His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” 

Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.” ’

Let's be honest: I struggle with this parable because I've always identified with the elder son. Why bother doing the right thing all the time if someone else can make bad choices for years then repent and be rewarded?

In reality, every single one of us is the younger son. None of us is the elder son. None of us make the right choice every single time. We all stray, we all make bad decisions, we all find ways to separate ourselves from God.

I'm going to try to let go of my disagreement with the New Testament in this case. And I'm going to work on being thankful for the Father who welcomes all his sons and daughters home, who lavishes his children with promised riches -- simply because they came home.

After piano lessons this afternoon

(It was super sunny and windy today!)

Cooper's last pack meeting

Wade and Cooper at Cooper's final Pack 946 meeting, before bridging to Boy Scouts

Parents must set strict rules for pellet guns

From today's Briefing:

Last week an eighth-grader in Brownsville was shot and killed when he refused to stand down and lower his weapon.

Turns out that his weapon was a pellet gun that looked very much like a real gun. Officers say they couldn’t distinguish the difference, and force was necessary for fear that the child would shoot and kill others.

Last week in my own neighborhood, battles were brewing over pellet guns.

The guns are popular after-school playthings for many neighbor boys, even though it’s against Frisco law to discharge them in the city limits.

A middle school boy was threatening younger kids by pointing the gun at close range. An elementary school boy was hit and bruised by one of the pellets.

This is all in open green space, near homes and backyards dotted with jungle gyms, space where parents are usually comfortable allowing their children to run around unsupervised.

I grew up with no exposure to guns, no interest in weapons. I don’t understand the fascination that people have with shooting virtual people on video games or shooting real people with pellets or paintballs. But I recognize it exists and that it’s the culture I’m raising my own children in.

In an effort to better understand gun play, this week I called on Dr. Sarah Feuerbacher, a licensed clinical social worker supervisor and the clinic director of the Family Counseling Center at Southern Methodist University.

Feuerbacher, mom of a toddler son, specializes in family violence and healthy relationships. Here are excerpts from our conversation.

Why do children, especially boys, like to play with guns?

Just like girls are socialized to typically play with Barbies and pink things, it’s going to be the same thing for little boys at a very early age. It’s very much a socialization thing. It’s very much environmental.

Even if a child lives in a home without guns, they aren’t so isolated to live only in that home. At some point that child is going to be exposed to it.

The pellet guns sold today are remarkably realistic interpretations of automatic weapons. Why is the market eager for such realistic weapons?

There’s a video that I show in family violence class, Tough Guise by Jason Katz. It goes through and depicts pictures of G.I. Joe from World War II up to today. It’s incredible to see how the action figure’s body has changed, depicting a much stronger, bulkier individual. The guns are also true to form.

The guns have changed since the cowboy days. The real guns are getting bigger.

If a family chooses to allow their children to play with pellet guns, what kind of rules do you suggest? What should those families talk about with their children?

Never aim it at something living, especially a person, but even a squirrel. Teach them the difference between something with life and aiming at the ground.

Talk about what it represents and where you might see a gun for real. Ask, “How do guns make other people feel?”

Talk to them at a young age — what are the rules around real guns in the house?

They should make sure the family is protected, that there is appropriate security.

If a parent has a gun in the home and a child happens upon it, that child is going to be at a disadvantage if they haven’t talked about it.

Shooting pellet guns in a safe environment at targets on a tree is very different than running around, chasing each other in the street unsupervised.

How can families that do allow access to these kinds of guns live peacefully with families that don’t?

I highly recommend that pellet guns be kept in a gun case or safe, locked.

When a pellet gun is used, it’s with appropriate supervision, like a father taking his son to a deer lease. Go to an appropriate location. Put a target up together. Shoot it in that capacity.

The entire system should model what a parent would do in a real gun environment.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.