My senior is 100 percent ready for senior year, but my heart is catching up

From Saturday's Briefing:

Dear child on the eve of your senior year,

You are 100 percent ready for this final year of high school. My heart is catching up.

When you stand on the front porch in the morning, posing for our traditional first-day-of-school photo, I will see both a 6-foot-4 young man and a squirmy 5-year-old. Or perhaps I'll struggle to see much at all, vision clouded by tears.

I anticipate many momma tears this year, as you experience all sorts of "lasts" and prepare for a host of "firsts." But I'm also prepared for a whole bunch of joy — and the smidge of frustration that veteran parents have warned me about.

You and your peers were the last group of babies born in the carefree days before 9/11. While the nation was in shock and mourning, we parents held our babies extra tight, fearful for your future, comforted by your innocence.

We have persevered. You have persevered.

When you started kindergarten, your family looked like most of the families in our neighborhood. Mom, dad, little sister. In the middle of first grade, your life took an unexpected turn with Daddy's cancer diagnosis. Your world shattered at the beginning of third grade, when Daddy took his final breath.

We have persevered. You have persevered.

Your third-grade teacher, guidance counselor, principal and I set a goal in the days after Daddy's death: You would end the year emotionally healthy. I cared little for how many spelling tests you passed or how many math facts you memorized.

You cared a great deal, though. You struggled and persisted and progressed.

We learned in the middle of fourth grade that you had been coping for years with undiagnosed dyslexia and dysgraphia. You cheered the news — literally, as if you'd won a prize — thrilled to have an explanation for the obstacles you tackled daily.

You never backed down in the face of learning disabilities. You adopted new strategies. You advocated for yourself. You discovered that trying even harder can be exhausting -- and rewarding.

I have few fears about your senior year and life beyond because you've already endured some of life's greatest heartaches. And you have flourished.

You are creative. You are compassionate. You are light in the darkness.

Moms and dads who've already been where I am tell me the same thing: Enjoy every moment of this year. It's the same advice I give to new mommas, holding their precious infants, because this journey is circuitous and unpredictable and passes faster than our imaginations can comprehend.

I've got all kinds of checklists in my head: college and financial aid applications, senior photos, yearbook ad, registration for AP exams, campus housing deposit, graduation announcements. And events already march across our calendar: senior breakfast, one more ACT, cross country meets, homecoming, bonfire, prom, baccalaureate, graduation.

I'm trying to leave room for what isn't scheduled, for impromptu moments when you share a new favorite song, when I keep you company while you study for calculus, when you ask with sincerity, "What spices did you use for this chicken?"

Some days will be rocky. You will test boundaries. You won't always agree with my decisions. You will question my logic, and I will question yours.

We will forgive one another. We will persevere.

A year from now, you'll be settled in a dorm room far away, embracing new freedoms and exploring life beyond our little house. You'll be ready before me, but I'll eventually catch up.

Know that when I hug you extra tight in these coming days and weeks and months, I'm storing up comfort. I'm preparing my heart.

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

First day of kinder in 2006, first day of 12 grade in 2018

Kitchen adventures put need for control to the test

From Saturday's Briefing:

I like to think that my children have solid life skills, that I've given them appropriate freedoms and responsibilities to function in a home.

In theory, my two teenagers can prepare meals, wash dishes, take care of laundry and clean the house. The work isn't always done with precision, and there's some work I'd rather just do myself, but they don't balk — at least not obviously — at chores I give them.

Some of their domestic skills, and my need for control, have been put to the test recently.

Their youth group was hosting a potluck at church this week, the same week my schedule was packed with deadlines. I asked Cooper and Katie to choose the dishes, create a shopping list, purchase the ingredients and prepare the recipes.

The first step was simple. They agreed on cowboy cookies (a family favorite) and orzo pesto salad (based on no past experience).

Cooper shopped, navigating the store with occasional questions, which he would sometimes ask grocery employees and sometimes text me.

"Where is celery? I'm struggling."

(Produce, near the lettuce.)

"What about orzo?"

(Pasta aisle.)

"And chocolate chips?"

(Baking aisle.)

After he returned home, he realized that he'd forgotten unsalted butter. And that he had mistaken pecans for walnuts in the bulk aisle. He returned to the store.

At last, all the ingredients were assembled, and Cooper and Katie divided to conquer tasks. She was in charge of making pesto and boiling orzo. He was in charge of chopping all the veggies. They would share the cookie duty.

As I worked on a project nearby, trying not to hover, I realized all kinds of tips that I hadn't yet shared. It's easier to chop bell peppers from the flesh side, not the waxy skin side. You can line up two stalks of celery, side by side, for quicker slicing. Basil should be rinsed well and totally dried before being tossed in the blender.

I attempted to stay out of the kitchen and to offer advice only when asked.

With the salad complete, they moved on to dessert. I left the house to run a couple of errands, expecting to come home to the scent of cowboy cookies.

Instead, I came home to frustration. The dough was too thick, Cooper complained. I quizzed him on butter. Did they put in one cup? Or one stick?

The kitchen was silent, followed by frantic rereading of directions and butter sticks. Alas, the batter was missing half its butter.

Their faces fell. "Is all this wasted?" one wailed.

"These are the kind of mistakes we can recover from," I counseled. "You can still add more butter." (It's much harder to remove it, as I learned in the Great Snickerdoodle Debacle of 1994.)

I intervened before they just threw another stick in. I suggested that they scoop the dough into a new bowl, use the mixer to beat another half cup of butter, then return the dough and mix again.

At last, the dough was ready, and together we scooped teaspoons of the stuff onto cookie sheets — cookie sheets that were warm, by the way, because Katie forgot to remove the pans from the oven before preheating.

The whole experience took twice as long as it would have, had I done the work myself. There would have been less uncertainty, less irritation, less mess.

There also would have been no risks and no rewards.

Cooper and Katie gained a few new skills as they prepped for their potluck. I suspect they'll be more likely to remember that lists should be double-checked before leaving the store, that one stick of butter equals half a cup, that the oven should be cleared before preheating. Most importantly, I hope they remember that most mistakes aren't life-or-death matters — they're invitations to grow.

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

Katie and Cooper, hard at work in the kitchen (with special Sandy appearance)