Summer means it's time for parents to loosen the reins — sorta

My column from Saturday's Briefing:

Summer break beckons, with Memorial Day weekend marking the end of the school year for some families and a quick taste of freedom to come for others.

Along with summer comes a shift in parenting — with less emphasis on bedtimes, deadlines and grades — yet we parents aren't really on vacation. Parental vigilance doesn't go away. It simply shifts with the age and season.

Vigilance in the earliest years requires attention to an environment mostly in our control. We install latches on cabinet doors and gates at the base of stairs. We're in charge of the food our children eat and the media they're exposed to.

As our children go to preschool and then elementary school, our vigilance evolves. We're preparing our young people to make decisions on their own while trusting that the adults around them are protecting and guiding in our absence.

And then, quicker than you can imagine, those little ones are taller than you, driving and venturing out without any supervision. You pray that all those years of teaching made an impact.

Here, for example, is a recent conversation between my teenager and me:

Me: Did all of your friends make good choices while you were out?
Teen: Yes.
Me: Vaping?
Teen: No.
Me: Drinking?
Teen: No.
Me: Drugs?
Teen: No. It will always be no.
Me: I will always ask.

I ask because I love this young man with the intensity every parent knows. I ask because I want him to know that I'm paying attention and that his choices and his friends' choices matter. I ask because, though I trust my children, they are still children. They push boundaries and make mistakes.

Summer doesn't offer a break from social vigilance — when you have teens it actually increases — but there is a reprieve from the usual school-year management. I don't need to ask about homework or due dates. There are no morning or afternoon tutorials to attend. We don't need to check grades online or shop for supplies for a Rube Goldberg machine for physics.

With a rising senior at home, though, there are different kinds of tasks to manage: studying for one more ACT, writing drafts to answer essay prompts for the Common Application, researching scholarship opportunities.

And, of course, there are the parenting challenges that exist year-round: calendars, chores, curfews.

Summer calendars evolve as children age. Not long ago, I would piece together day camps, carpools and baby-sitting to accommodate my work schedule and the kids' freedom.

Summer now means volunteering at church camps, staying home (and going out) without me and getting out of town for Boy Scouts, church choir tour and mission trips. That extra freedom requires a special kind of parenting upon return. There's often the shock of re-entry, when the reality of family life clashes with the romanticized version of life on the road.

There's laundry to fold, trash to take out, floors to vacuum and sinks to scrub. It's not glamorous, but it's necessary. Because one day these children are going to leave and return only to visit. They'll be running their own households, making big decisions on their own, budgeting time and resources based on priorities, maintaining their own homes.

Maybe by then we parents can let our guard down a little, though I suspect that the instinct to protect our babies is a lifelong condition, lingering long after they're no longer babies.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Parenting is a lifelong condition. I'm thankful to have these two!

I was never a gifted speaker -- until loss forced my hand

From Saturday's Briefing:

Head for the Cure 5K on May 5 (photo from HFTC)

I am not a gifted public speaker. This is no secret.

In the final weeks of my husband's life, he was planning his memorial service with our pastor and chose verses, hymns, ministers and speakers. I was on his list, but Steve also knew that I would struggle to speak, so he asked that I write something and then find someone to read my words.

His mom, as always, came through. She delivered my memories to the hundreds of people who gathered to remember our Steve.

My career path shifted after his death. I continued to write and edit while working to become a classroom teacher. After I completed my coursework and certification, I couldn't wait to share my passion for reading, writing and civics with students.

Except I was slightly terrified of standing in front of so many people and talking.

Fifth-graders are a forgiving people. I taught 48 of them that first year, and they helped me to find my speaking voice. In time, I was able to make eye contact and speak in coherent sentences without my voice and hands shaking, without my cheeks flushing. I learned that acting goofy goes a long way toward overcoming fear.

Speaking in front of their gathered parents? That was a different story.

Over the past five years, though, I've become less awkward and more comfortable when speaking to crowds. My stomach no longer flip-flops when I'm handed a microphone.

In fact, recently I delivered a prayer before about 1,700 people at the North Texas Head for the Cure 5K, an annual event that raises money for brain cancer research. As I stood on the platform, waiting for my turn in the program, I marveled at the turns my life has taken.

I have supported Head for the Cure for eight years, eager to be part of a cause that finds a cure for the cancer that stole my husband and my children's father much too soon. Through the nonprofit, I have become friends with like-minded folks, people who have been directly or indirectly affected by brain cancer.

The team running in memory of Steve included people who knew and loved him and people Cooper, Katie and I have met since his death.

There's no way to know what our life would look like if Steve hadn't acquired a deadly tumor — or if a cure existed — and I know from experience that it's a dangerously depressing game to play.

I do know that our lives have been richly blessed in the years since — not because of his absence but in spite of it.

We've connected with other families who have experienced loss. We continue to find comfort and strength in our faith. We have learned to rely on the kindness of others and, in turn, to share that kindness as often as possible.

Adversity has grounded my children in ways that only experience can. They are empathetic, and they have perspective on life and death that no one wants but everyone truly needs.

These gifts that come from trials and loss aren't typically celebrated, especially in the middle of crises. I have friends fighting daunting diagnoses and hardships today. They need support, love and resources — not outsiders looking for silver linings on their behalf.

Yet when I pray for their health and circumstances, their caregivers and loved ones, I also pray for unexpected gifts — strengthened relationships, clearer understandings, fears overcome and skills refined.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

You are not your child's activities, so don't take it hard if they quit

From Saturday's Briefing:

I've stored up an extensive supply of mom identities.

I've been a soccer mom, gymnastics mom and dance mom. Girl Scout mom, violin mom and Destination Imagination mom. My current status includes church choir mom, Boy Scout mom and track mom.

And marching band mom.

That's a heavy burden, as any marching band family will tell you. All-day drills in the height of August heat, early morning practices as long as the football season lasts, Friday night lights, daylong competitions on Saturdays.

Of course, I'm not the one doing the strenuous work. That's up to the kids, who learn a particular method of marching, play an instrument, manage props, adjust constantly based on feedback, all while meeting expectations of directors and drum majors and section leaders. We parents have a lighter burden, often related to logistics and morale, but we take the work seriously.

Cooper, who is finishing 11th grade, has recently decided that he won't return to marching band for senior year. He's putting away his shako and plume, and I'm hanging up my marching band volunteer parent shirt.

I didn't take the news gracefully at first. When he told me that he was thinking about leaving, I said no, absolutely not, we won't even discuss it.

And then I realized how foolish I sounded, stopped talking and listened.

His academic schedule remains ambitious, with a healthy dose of AP courses and two hands-on engineering classes. He wants to continue running with the cross country team, whose season is concurrent with marching band. He's been accepted in a mentorship program that requires extensive extracurricular work.

He wants to attend football games as a regular student for just one year.

Most importantly, he's considered what makes him happy and what he wants for his future.

Who am I to say no to that?

So much of our community revolves around children -- most every imaginable sports league, tutoring and accelerated learning centers, gyms for competitive cheer and tumbling, music and dance studios, plus access to private lessons to keep up with every other child taking private lessons.

We have strong schools with highly engaged parents who support PTA and booster clubs. Drive through our neighborhoods, and you'll find yard signs proclaiming membership on the swim team, the drill team, the baseball team. You'll spy back windows of SUVs and minivans with stickers supporting orchestra, cheerleading, volleyball.

We have wrapped ourselves in our children's passions. Or perhaps, in some cases, our children have been enveloped by our passions.

We schedule vacations and celebrations around tournaments. We shuffle family budgets to accommodate extraordinary expenses. We ask our neighbors and colleagues to buy cookie dough to fund trips and uniforms.

Are all of these sacrifices justified? That's up to each family to decide. More importantly: Are families comfortable even asking the question?

Cooper's decision forced me to think about how I define myself. Is my identity dependent on what my children choose to do? Are my children's actions or inactions a reflection of me?

Cooper, at an October 2017 game

Without question, my love for Cooper and Katie is constant, not contingent on membership in any club or placement on any team. They can own their own passions, with or without me. They don't need my approval as much as they need my love.

And they don't call me "Band Momma" or "Tennis Momma."

They simply call me "Momma." No extra adjectives required.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.