Sunday, May 14, 2017

We miss out on new memories with our kids if we dwell in the past

From yesterday's Briefing:

Moms, I have a gift suggestion for us all. For Mother’s Day, let’s give ourselves permission to live in the moment.
Too many of us live in the past, reminiscing about babyhood or toddlerhood or any day but today. We stare misty-eyed at Timehop photos that reveal innocent eyes, chubby cheeks and seemingly simpler times.
We also live in the future, looking forward to milestones and independence and any event but today. We envy parents who no longer change diapers, then those who no longer pay for daycare, then those who no longer need to ferry their children from place to place.
Our children deserve our attention and adoration today.
On a recent Saturday in Dallas, I woke up to the glory of my children right now.
Katie, Tyra & Cooper at Klyde Warren Park
Together we walked the row of food trucks at Klyde Warren Park, each of us gravitating toward a different cuisine. In the old days, we would have all stood in one line, then another, then another. We’d finally sit, 30 minutes later, crabby and hungry, two-thirds of us eating cold food.
These days, though, I can hand cash to each child. They are old enough and responsible enough to stand in line alone, to order their own food, to pay, to pick up and meet back at a designated table.
We meandered to the playground after our Tex-Mex/Vietnamese/barbecue feast. I was inching toward wistfulness, thinking of days gone by, when Cooper and Katie would have raced to the giant climbing structure, would have begged to jump in the water, would have waited in line for the giant swing.
Instead, Cooper settled in on the bench next to me. (He chatted with me in between Snapchat posts.) Katie wandered to the merry-go-round, not to hop on but spin the little kids as fast as possible.
As I soaked up the sunshine, I worked on soaking up that very moment. A teenager who (most of the time) enjoys my company. A preteen who finds happiness in helping others.
After Katie was worn out from one too many turns of the merry-go-round, we walked a few blocks to the Perot Museum.
We were always on the same floor at the museum, but we weren’t always together. While Cooper was battling with robots, Katie was designing her own light show. While Katie was composing music, Cooper was building towers. 
We enjoyed some shared experiences, but I didn’t feel the need to corral and hover nonstop. When we eventually hit the gift shop, I didn’t have to pry tiny fingers out of the bins of shiny rocks or explain 27 times why we didn’t need another stuffed animal.
Do I miss those days? Absolutely. I don’t have to stare at a photo to remember exactly what it was like to push tiny Cooper on the bucket swing at our neighborhood park or to remember tiny Katie falling asleep among a nest of 27 stuffed animals.
The fact that those days are long gone makes my heart ache a tiny bit, yet longing too much for yesterday steals joy from today.

This Mother’s Day I’m choosing to celebrate how those bygone days have accumulated to reveal the quirky, thoughtful, slightly mischievous children who call me, “Momma.”  I won’t spend a moment wishing away the day, though I trust more celebrations are in store.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. You can reach her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

'13 Reasons Why' is a show parents can't afford to ignore

For this Saturday's Briefing, published online early:

If you are a parent, if you work with children, if you care about the teens in your life, you need to watch 13 Reasons Why, the new Netflix series based on a popular young adult novel by Jay Asher.
If watching it is too difficult — as it almost was for me — at least become knowledgeable of the content. Though the work is fiction, there are uncomfortable truths that we can't afford to ignore.

Here are 13 reasons why we need to talk about 13 Reasons Why.

1. Preteens and teens are watching it without you. If you have a Netflix account or if your kids' friends have a Netflix account, they may have already binge-watched all 13 episodes.
Yet the content in this show is too intense and disturbing for children to watch without guidance and the opportunity to discuss and process. My 11-year-old daughter will not be watching the series anytime soon. She and I can discuss themes and situations, but she does not need to carry the burden of the show's violence. My 15-year-old son and I will watch together. (He's read the book already.)
2. Suicide is the second-most common cause of death among American teens ages 15-19. Ignoring the problem doesn't make it go away. The narrator of the series is Hannah, a teen who kills herself but first records audiotapes that describe her reasons. Her spirit is absolutely broken, and she craves the emptiness of death more than hopefulness of life.
3. There is nothing glamorous about killing yourself. There's warranted controversy about the bathtub scene in which Hannah slits her wrists. To be honest, I didn't watch the whole scene. I hid behind my hands. It was too real -- and yet isn't that what we need? Don't we need people to understand the horror of taking your own life?
4. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we think we'll never recover from our mistakes. We can't see beyond the mistake and the consequences. We can't forgive ourselves. We need to practice grace — for ourselves and the people who love us and the people who watch us and model our behavior.
5. We need to understand the power of technology and social media.One ill-timed photo can lead to an avalanche of unfair rumors. Our ability to send and receive information — and disinformation — instantly can have devastating consequences. How often do you talk with your child about appropriate social media use? Do you know which accounts your child uses? Do you know what content they see daily? Ignorance is dangerous.
6. We need to talk about sexual assault. It is never acceptable for one human to force his or her body on another human. Our children need to hear us say this often.
7. We can't afford to allow underage drinking and drug use. I live in a community that rationalizes substance use and abuse. "It's OK as long as they're not driving." "They're going to drink anyway. They might as well do it at home." Yet teens under the influence make really stupid decisions. Their brains aren't fully developed. They seek unnecessary risks. They hurt themselves and others.
8. Teens need to feel comfortable talking to adults and advocating for themselves. If your child were sexually assaulted, would he or she feel comfortable telling you? If your child made a terrible mistake, one that might even be illegal, do you trust that he or she would confide in you?
9. Teens need to root their identity in something stronger than their reflection or their peers. I was struck by the complete lack of religion in the series. There is one teen who off-handedly mentions he is Catholic. Another reads tarot cards. That's it. No one talks about God or a faith-based value system. No one wrestles with decisions in the context of a greater good or spiritual purpose.
10. Authentic relationships can save lives. When we know one another intimately, we notice struggles and out-of-character behaviors. When we are vulnerable, others feel comfortable being vulnerable.
11. Trust your instinct. If you're worried about someone, say so. If something doesn't feel right or sound right, investigate with compassion.
12. We can't underestimate the impact our interactions have on others. Our tone, our words, our body language, our availability — it all matters. We don't always know who is struggling, but we know everyone struggles at some time. Let's model a culture that values positive interactions.
13. Kindness is never wrong. When in doubt, opt for kindness. Every time. As the character Clay says in the final episode, "It has to get better, the way we treat each other and look out for each other. It has to get better somehow."
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Blessings shadowed by world's imbalance

From today's Briefing:

I’m in the middle of a happiness challenge, one of those 21-day initiatives that encourages healthy habits. We’re called to exercise, give thanks, reflect on something positive, perform an act of kindness and spend at least 10 minutes praying or meditating.
I love a good checklist, and nothing motivates me like a challenge, so I’ve been dutifully participating. My biggest hurdle so far: counting my blessings.
There’s no shortage to list. The challenge requires that we list three a day, but I could fill a page in my journal every night.
The trouble is the imbalance.
The day after the deadly sarin gas attack in Syria, when it was time to write my thanksgiving list, I froze. Everything I thought of – safe and cozy home, comfortable bed, healthy children, job I love – seemed so luxurious.
Tears reached the page before I could write a single word. I thought of those children and their short, tumultuous lives. I thought of the families they leave behind. I couldn’t shake the inequity between my privileges and their calamity.
Eventually I jotted:
·      A/C that works again in the minivan
·      Students who work hard (and those who don’t always but aspire to)
·      Books
That night I devoted my prayer time to those Syrian families, aid workers and world leaders.
I’m also thankful for easy access to food. I can drive north, east or west and reach a giant, clean grocery store within four minutes.
I don’t even have to walk into the store. I can order my groceries online, pull into a special parking space at the store and listen to the radio or check my email while a clerk loads everything I want in the trunk.
Better yet, I can order from a different vendor online, and someone will deliver the groceries to my doorstep at whatever time I choose. Frozen and refrigerated items are protected by regular ice and dry ice.
If I don’t feel like rinsing, chopping, stirring and heating, I can grab my phone and order from dozens of nearby restaurants. I don’t even have to talk to a human. I can just click, click, click and wait for the doorbell to ring.
Yes, I’m thankful for all of those options.
At the same time, I am horrified by the news this week that almost 20 million people in African and the Middle East are at risk of dying from hunger. Famine, drought and conflict are decimating Nigeria, Somalia, South Sudan and Yemen.
I struggle to celebrate my good fortune while millions of other humans subsist in crisis. They have almost nothing, and we have more than we can enjoy.
One of my acts of kindness this week was to send a tiny loan to a merchant in Yemen, a man who struggles to buy enough stock to sale. (My family has participated in microloans through Kiva since 2013.)
I’m not na├»ve. I don’t expect my prayers or my loan will change the world.
I hold hope, though, that enough prayers and acts of kindness might.
I am truly grateful for the time and place in which I was born. I am thankful for the few luxuries I’ve earned – and the many more I didn’t. 
I give thanks for the people of privilege who devote their lives to helping souls who were born in a time and a place less hospitable than our own.

In the middle of all that gratitude, I keep hoping for a balance in the world, a day when conflicts and famines don’t threaten our neighbors, a day when our brothers and sisters don’t struggle to find happiness.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. You can reach her at tyradamm@gmail.com

Saturday, April 01, 2017

Our memories don't need our mementos

From today's Briefing:

Katie cleaned out her closet last week, creating a giant stack of clothes to pass along to younger friends.
This isn’t unusual. Children outgrow their clothes quicker than they outwear them, and we’re surrounded by families who appreciate a pile of hand-me-downs.
What was unusual was the little dress I placed on top of Katie’s discards: a charmingly mismatched floral number that I’ve held on to for seven years, a dress that Katie outgrew before she entered kindergarten.
She loved this particular dress for its twirling qualities. She wore it to church and preschool parties. And she wore it for our final family photo with her daddy.
 I’ve struggled to let it go for too long, allowing my sentimental tendencies to overpower my practical side. I was finally able to pass on the tiny dress, perfect for a spunky 4-year-old we know, because of music.
Way back in the summer of 2000, in our time before children, Steve and I attended a performance of Parade, an award-winning yet commercially dismal musical. We fell in love with the story and songs, despite the tragic themes and ending.
Parade is obscure, as far as musicals go. It tells the true story of Leo Frank, a Jewish man living in Atlanta who was accused of murdering a girl in the pencil factory he managed. Though the murder and subsequent trial take place almost 50 years after the end of the Civil War, the South is still struggling with anger toward the North and changes in the economy and social structure.
It’s heavy stuff, for sure, providing plenty of material to debate and process.
In the decade that followed, we would discuss the story and sing the songs together. Our favorite was “The Picture Show,” a playful duet between Frankie and Mary, but we’d perform them all, sometimes in the car or in the kitchen while washing up after dinner.
When Steve died in 2009, I didn’t stop listening, and I didn’t stop singing, but I lost a little gusto. Those songs, plus a whole library of others that matter, bridged a connection between life with Steve and life without.
Cooper and Katie have grown up with Parade in the background – along with U2, Jack Johnson, ZZ Top, Wicked, Aaron Copland, Rent, the Beatles, the Dixie Chicks and the Cure. Those tunes are a nod to the daddy they love, a man whose days were too short.
Because Parade is underappreciated, I expected to listen to the same recording over and over for the rest of my days. But a local theater brought the story to life for one night only last weekend – and I couldn’t pass up the chance to enjoy it live again.
Cooper, Katie and I attended the special production at the WaterTower Theatre, and I used all of my willpower to not sing aloud. I had no willpower to stop my tears.
The lyrics filled my soul again, and this time I was seated not next to Steve but surrounded by our two children. Sometimes I would close my eyes and just listen – and ponder the power of music that endures years, that sweeps us back in time and propels us forward.
I can’t possibly hold on to every scrap of clothing, every memento that ties us to Steve – or to any of my loved ones who have passed away. And I don’t need to. My heart swells with snippets of conversation, with scents that evoke joy, with lines of poetry set to lovely melodies.
Listening to the music again helped me to remember that there are forces more powerful than things.
Little Phoebe will twirl in Katie’s dress, then one day she’ll share it with sister Ingrid. They’ll create their own memories. My sweet memories of the dress are stored up and nestled in with songs and laughter and a few tears.


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

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Tone down the urgency: Constant competition isn't helping our kids

From today's Briefing:


Some days it feels like everything in Frisco is a competition.
Who can sign up quickest for the coveted middle school STEM camp?
Who can find the best time to show up to buy candy-coated donuts without waiting an hour in line?
Who can secure teen driving classes via an online calendar system before every other 15-year-old in town?
I sense the urgency on the streets, especially in the afterschool hours, when families are taxiing children to dance, soccer, gymnastics, cheer, volleyball, swimming, lacrosse, baseball, basketball, guitar, voice, math, taekwondo, robotics, coding, violin and/or fencing lessons. We’re competing with traffic and stoplights to get our children to competitive training on time.
I hear the urgency among high school students, especially among those with the top GPAs, the kids who know how many hundredths of a point separate one scholar from the other, who know exam scores of all their friends and frenemies, who take Advanced Placement courses not just for the extra rigor but also, maybe exclusively, for the extra points.
I see the urgency on the fourth-grade playground, especially with the basketball kids, who play each game as if they’re in the Final Four. Every few weeks I blow my whistle, gather the competitors and deliver a speech:
“This is recess basketball. This is not select basketball or tournament basketball or AAU basketball. This is supposed to be fun. This is for anyone who wants to play. You’re playing with this intensity. (I place my hand high above my head.) You need to play with this intensity. (I place my hand at my waist.)”
Frisco didn’t invent this madness – it’s simply where I experience the madness daily. It’s the community I’ve embraced for 15 years, even when I don’t always agree with prevailing opinions or motivations.
City services and facilities are reliable and clean. Neighborhood schools are student-centered and stocked with volunteers. Families reflect a growing diversity of cultures, backgrounds and religions. 
These families, generous with their time and resources, want the best of everything for their children, which works well when you’re collaborating toward a common goal, such as building a park that accommodates children with special needs or approving funding for the arts. It’s less appealing when the race to the top pits child against child, parent against parent.
I don’t advocate for participation trophies or “we’re all winners” in place of keeping score. There are appropriate outlets for healthy competition. But, as often noted but rarely practiced, moderation is key.
Over spring break, our little family combined sightseeing with college tours, as we tiptoe in to university shopping for sophomore Cooper. Student ambassadors at all three schools spoke about the importance of collaboration.
The courses are tough, shared an engineering student at Georgia Tech, and you learn to rely on each other to study and complete projects. We heard the same at Auburn University and the University of Tennessee.
“You take tests by yourself,” our Auburn tour guide told us, “but the rest is done with your group.”
It was reassuring to learn that our future problem-solvers, students who competed to secure seats and scholarships, have embraced a collaborative spirit.
We didn’t limit our tours to campuses; we sought out nearby nature. We hiked to the top Stone Mountain in Georgia. We explored boulders and creeks at Chewacla State Park in Alabama. We walked trails at Ijams Nature Center in Tennessee.

Wherever Cooper spends his college days, he wants access to land he can explore, trails he can run, rocks he can climb. He’s savvy enough to know he can’t avoid jostling people altogether – and wise enough to know he needs an escape plan for the roughest days.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

This complicated state of ours

From today's Briefing:

If you ask my fourth-graders for a quick history of Texas, they’d tell you something like this, give or take a few facts:
***
Thousands of years ago, people crossed the Bering Strait, following giant animals, into what we call North America. Some of those people settled here, on the land we call Texas.
They lived on their own for a long time, until the Spanish traveled across the sea and planted a flag and said, “This is our land.”
The Spanish flag flew over this soil for a while, until the French arrived and claimed the land. That lasted for about five years, until the Spanish reclaimed Texas and said again, “This is our land.”
Spain ruled until Mexico declared independence in 1821. Then Mexico said, “This is our land,” and the Mexican flag flew over Texas.
Mexico invited settlers from America in to Texas, to develop and protect the land. Then Santa Anna became president, and the Texians who had moved in didn’t agree with his new rules, so they fought for independence and eventually won at the Battle of San Jacinto.
Texas became its own republic for about 10 years, until the United States annexed us as the 28th state of the Union. The U.S. flag flew over Texas from 1845 until 1861, when Texas seceded and became part of the Confederacy. When the South lost the Civil War, Texas rejoined the United States.
***
Their story would end there, because that’s as far as we’ve progressed. You’d likely see a lot of sweeping hand motions and dramatic planting of flags. (Some would ignore “quick” and take off on a tangent regarding Karankawa Indians or the Battle of Alamo.) The cattle industry, discovery of oil and Dust Bowl are still to come.
If you ask my fourth-graders for their opinions of Texas history, the answers would be less rehearsed and more emotional. Learning about history is complicated.
My students struggle with the conquering.
They don’t understand how one group of people can show up, plant a flag and take over. They sympathize with the American Indians who were killed by European diseases and later pressured to give up their land, their religion, their language and their way of life, forced to conform at Spanish missions and later at the hands of Texas officials.
Together we struggle with “good guys” vs. “bad guys” in history.
They learn best when I dramatize the Texas Revolution as the good guys (Texians) vs. the bad guys (Santa Anna and the Mexicans). Indeed, we draw many parallels between Santa Anna and Darth Vader. Yet the facts are more nuanced.
Texas settlers did break agreements made with Mexico. They had agreed to adopt Catholicism and the Spanish language, yet they were reluctant to keep those promises.
There’s no doubt that Santa Anna was a power-hungry tyrant. But the men following his orders: They couldn’t be all bad, could they? And what do Mexican children today learn about our fight for freedom? Are we the bad guys?
Plus, Mexico was opposed to slavery, a position that helped push pro-slavery Texas settlers to fight for freedom. So, why are the “good guys” supporting slavery?
Speaking of which, my students struggle most of all with slavery. They are indignant. At times, even, uncharacteristically speechless.
When they regain words, they ask about the U.S. Declaration of Independence, which they know contains these words: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal …”
These 9- and 10-year-olds are sharp. They make connections across the centuries. They question decisions. They wonder about turning points and potentially different outcomes.

One day their stories will merge with our bigger history. They’ll grow up to be disciplined,  leaders – or, at the very least, citizens who hold their leaders accountable.

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

Saturday, February 18, 2017

More and more prepared: Being a Scout mom has helped me learn to trust my son

From today's Briefing:

What happens when you layer parenthood atop worst-case scenario kind of thinking? Nonstop worry from womb to, well, perhaps forever.
I’m pretty much an expert in the field.
What happens when you layer Boy Scouts atop nonstop worry? The opportunity of personal growth.
I’m getting there.
In fact, last week I was able to sit through an hour-long parent meeting about an upcoming high adventure camp without batting an eye. I wasn’t remotely fazed by warnings of injuries, floods or bears.
Cooper’s already survived all three.
Two summers ago, he and his troop spent a week on the Atchafalaya Swamp. After kayaking for a couple of days, they found respite on a small island. The boys were using various blades to chop bamboo. Cooper, for reasons I still don’t understand, used a machete.
It was a powerful tool. So powerful, in fact, that he sliced straight through bamboo and his shin. He accidentally nicked about an inch of skin.
Because they’re Boy Scouts, his people were prepared. They cleaned the wound and closed it with butterfly strips. The next day, a boat arrived at the island to take Cooper and adult leaders to dry land. Their next stop was the emergency room, to check for possible infection and the need for stitches.
Cooper came home with a story, a scar and a nickname. “Machete,” of course.
The next year, a group of Scouts ventured to Oklahoma for backpacking. Severe weather blew in, creating raging streams. Boys and dads relied on one another, savvy maneuvering and well-placed logs to cross increasingly dangerous water.
They came home with a story, know-how and appreciation for nature’s fickle power.
Last summer that same group spent two weeks together at Philmont Scout Ranch in northern New Mexico. It’s the pinnacle of the Boy Scout experience. Backpacking through the Rockies with everything you need for survival, scaling mountains, sleeping under unadulterated stars. Each day offers an opportunity for a new adventure.
One day the boys stopped hiking for spar pole climbing. (I know, only because I’m a Scout mom, that this includes scaling a tree, stripped of its branches, with the aid of a harness, some rope and blades on your boots.
While one boy is climbing, his buddy is in the charge of the rope on the ground.
Cooper’s buddy was halfway up the pole when a deer shot through the grounds. Then he heard a rustling noise. He turned around to see a black bear, just a few yards away.
Multiple accounts confirm that he sputtered, “B-b-b-bear.” And then the creature waddled away.
Cooper returned home with stories for days, incredible memories and motivation to return.
Way back when Cooper was a tiny first-grade Tiger Cub, I could have never imagined giving thanks for small accidents and near-misses. My job was to shield him from trouble.
Yet every mistake, every change in plans, every weather event, every animal encounter offers the chance to grow stronger – physically, mentally and emotionally.
He’s learned that preparation and teamwork are shields in the face of danger.
Boy Scouts has been just as valuable for me.
I’ve learned to trust my son and the people around him. I’ve realized that denying a child the ability to take risks offers zero protection for adulthood. I’ve been reminded again and again that problem-solving skills are best acquired when you’re actually solving problems.
Cooper has joined a crew for a return trip to Philmont in 2018. I look forward to more stories and his confidence found in succeeding – though I’d be content with no new accident-related nicknames.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. You can reach her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Saturday, February 04, 2017

One march, many voices

Who am I?
I am a child of the 1970s. My parents divorced when I was 7. I attended Texas public schools, where at times I relied on a reduced-cost lunch plan. Teachers and librarians were my superheroes.
We didn’t practice religion often, though there were a couple of years we spent Sundays at an Assemblies of God church.
My domains have included apartments, modest suburban homes, more than one duplex, and a trailer house in the country.
I worked two or three jobs every day I was in college, paid my own way and graduated in four years (with mediocre grades).
I was engaged once to the wrong person for me.
I’ve never used illegal drugs, though I grew up around them. I’ve never tried a cigarette or been drunk (addiction scares me).
 I accumulated entirely too many speeding tickets from age 16 to 25.
I married the right person for me at age 22. I was baptized that same year in the United Methodist Church.
My work history includes fast food, retail, a half-dozen newsrooms, a megachurch and two elementary schools. Today I have three jobs – classroom teacher, freelance writer and tutor-for-hire.
I have volunteered in schools and churches for more than two decades.
My dreamboat of a husband and I had two children together. Our son is now 15, our daughter 11. Their daddy died when they were 8 and 4, after living for a year and a half with brain cancer.
Next to my children, books and travel are my passion. I wish I had more time and money for both.
I don’t exercise enough. I worry too much. My housekeeping skills are lackluster.
I love fiercely and unapologetically, yet I’m an introvert so I fear that I often appear aloof.
I have voted in every major election and a whole bunch of little ones since I was eligible in 1990. I discuss politics in a small circle and work daily toward tolerance for all who do no harm.
And on Jan. 21, 2017, my best friend and I drove to the state capital for the Women’s March on Austin.
I was fully clothed (some outlandish reports make it sound like everyone was running around in birthday suits). I carried a mild-mannered sign (“Strong women, strong country”). I sang “This Land is Your Land” and “The Star-Spangled Banner” along with the crowd.
Never, not once, not for a single moment, did I think of shaming women who weren’t there.  And I certainly didn’t walk the crowded downtown blocks because I thought I was speaking for any particular group.
I marched because I believe in equal rights for all, because children deserve strong communities and strong public schools, because healthy families are crucial to a healthy country, because small voices are often drowned.
I marched because we live in a country that protects speech and assembly and because democracy must be practiced beyond the voting booth.
I marched because I have relied on the kindness of strangers and even the generosity of our government.
I marched because I’m devoted to Micah 6:8, an Old Testament verse: “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
I’m not defined by that one march or who I did (or didn’t vote for) or any single moment over the past 44 years. I’m like every other soul, an amalgamation of millions of moments, decisions and interactions.
I continue to pray that we all look beyond the easy – and deceptive – labels, that we ask “Who are you?” with genuine curiosity. I pray that as we acknowledge our differences, we find the courage to make peace on our much greater common ground.

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

(Published in today's Briefing.)

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Don't wait too late to make a final impression

From yesterday's Briefing:

Every weekday afternoon, I stand at my classroom door and say goodbye to each individual student.
“Farewell, young man.”
Adios, my friend.”
“Enjoy your evening, dear scholar.”
I offer side hugs to the huggers and high fives to the rest.
I often throw in “I’m proud of you” or “Love you!”
This habit began because I’ve learned the hard way that we never know which goodbye is final.
In my first year of teaching, we returned from spring break to an empty desk in my homeroom. There was a custody issue that resulted in a student moving across the country with no notice.
I worried about him the rest of the year.
How would our curriculum align with his new one? Did I teach him well enough to help him transition? Was he making friends at his new school? Did I tell him often enough that I was proud of his efforts?
What troubled me most: How did I say goodbye to him that Friday, when everyone was watching the clock and eager to leap out the door and into the sunshine?
I’m certain it was uneventful – forgettable, even. My habit was to wave to students as they walked away and I shuffled on to carpool duty. I’d throw out an all-purpose, “Goodbye!” or “Study for your states quiz!”
That missing student changed my ways. The next year and each year since, I’ve stood sentry at the door, insisting that students line up and walk out the door one at a time.
I’ve tried to change my ways at home, too, though I’m not always successful.
By the time I’ve showered, dressed, dried my hair, made breakfast and packed lunches, I have about 2.5 seconds to bid farewell to my two children. I manage to cram in some version of “Have a good day! Make good choices! Be safe! I love you!” as I dash into the garage, balancing a piece of toast atop a to-go cup of coffee in one hand, purse, lunch bag and keys in the other.
We often miss hugs and thoughtful exchanges.
I’m thankful each evening when we’re all reunited.
When I think about the people I’ve loved and lost over the years, I think of our final time together.
My grandpa had been ill, and we suspected his time was limited. When I said goodbye for what would be the final time, my heart knew.
When my grandmother fell ill about three years later, I said goodbye, but I don’t know if she understood. Alzheimer’s disease had long before stolen her memory. When was the last time that I said goodbye to her and she knew who I was? I can’t pinpoint it.
My mom had been bed-ridden for years, and every time I visited her nursing home, I braced myself, preparing for what might be our last conversation. She and I made an effort to make each goodbye meaningful.
When my husband’s time was near, we both knew. He suddenly could no longer speak, so my sister scribbled the alphabet, and he pointed:
“I love you. Thank you.”
Not long after, his body fell into a sleep-like state. Twelve hours later, he took his final breath.
We’re not always so fortunate. We can’t predict the future. We don’t know how much time will pass until we meet again – if at all. I plan to keep working on making all of my hellos and goodbyes and the moments in between meaningful. Every moment counts.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. You can reach her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Saturday, January 07, 2017

Am I ready to the be mom of a teen driver?


There were plenty of tears when we drove baby Cooper home from the hospital. I shed every single one.

I was exhausted from childbirth, in awe of the little human suddenly in our care, eager to get home and, most of all, terrified of the cars and trucks zooming by. I sat in the backseat, hovering over our newborn, acutely aware of our charge to protect him in an unpredictable world.

I thought of every worst-case traffic scenario during that drive home, all the while falling more in love with our chunky, dark-haired, blue-eyed pumpkin.

The whole scene was a pretty good preview of parenting in general, with alternating moments of hyperactive worry and intense bliss.

For example, when Cooper became mobile:

He's crawling! He's standing! He's walking! This is so exciting!

Oh, my goodness. He's going to hit his head on the coffee table. He's going to slam cabinet doors on his fingers. He's going to tumble down the stairs.

Repeat when he ventures outside:

He loves to run barefoot through the grass.

Fire ants will attack him!

He's so friendly, running to say hello to neighbors.

Stop running across the street without holding my hand!

All these years later, the pattern continues.

Cooper rides his bike about half-a-mile to and from school each day. He wears a helmet (most of the time) and obeys traffic rules (as far as I know). I'm not worried about his behavior as much as I am the drivers around him.

He navigates a four-way stop, often manned by crossing guards, but sometimes he goes in early or stays late, and then he's on his own, at the mercy of folks who don't always pay attention or stop when they're supposed to.

Sometime in the next year, that bike is likely to be replaced by a car (a sensible, used car, to be sure). In anticipation of that monumental shift, Cooper is taking driver's education, working toward a learner's permit to be followed by hours of practice behind the wheel.

My worst-case scenario tendencies are in overdrive.

A motorcycle screams by on the Tollway. A sports car swerves in and out of lanes. A pickup truck ignores a stop sign.

My first thought in all of these cases: How would Cooper handle this as a brand-new driver? My second thought: Do teenagers really need to drive? Followed quickly by: Maybe we should move way out to the country, where cattle outnumber vehicles.

I'm not necessarily concerned about his abilities (though he hasn't actually operated a car yet, so that worry may be mounting). It's all the other stuff that troubles me: lanes closed for construction, distracted drivers, thunderstorms, fog.

I consider the split-second decisions we all make as drivers — how much distance to allow between cars, when to start applying brakes, crossing traffic without a light, yielding, changing lanes — and wonder how a teen's brain processes it all and makes sound decisions.

I think of my own early driving years, in my own used (and completely unreliable) car. I recall all those times my 1975 Audi stalled simply because it was raining. I remember the first time I drove on the Tollway — accidentally because I was in the wrong lane of the service road. I sometimes drove too fast, rolled through stop signs, turned right on red when I shouldn't have.

I made mistakes. I learned from them. It's what I hope for my own children.

Way back in July 2001, I had no idea how many times parenting would lead me to wrestle with fear and elation all at once. Even today, I'm unsure of how many more tears will fall, but experience assures me that the joy of new beginnings has the power to dwarf all the worries.


Tyra Damm is a Dallas native, veteran journalist, fourth-grade teacher and Dallas Morning News Briefing columnist since 2008. She lives in Frisco and writes about family life and parenting. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.