How my high-schooler is dealing with dyslexia, a year-round, nonstop kind of life

From Saturday's Briefing:

It’s impossible to miss Breast Cancer Awareness Month and its frenzy of pink. We are, apparently, also in the middle of International Walk to School Month, National Dental Hygiene Month, National Stamp Collecting Month and about 100 other various special interest celebrations.

October is also Dyslexia Awareness Month, though as anyone who lives with dyslexia can attest, you don’t need 31 days set aside to remember. It’s a year-round, nonstop kind of life that affects an estimated 10% of the population — and there is no cure.

I don’t have dyslexia myself, but as a classroom teacher and mom to two children with the learning disability, I often feel like I’m in the trenches.

Both of my children were diagnosed in elementary school, Cooper in the middle of fourth grade and Katie in the middle of third. Neither showed what I thought were obvious symptoms. They seemed to not only understand texts but could ask insightful questions, make inferences and explain their new learning. Both enjoyed reading, and honestly, there wasn’t much of a choice in our home. We devoted hours each week to board books and picture books, poetry and novels. Stacks of books punctuate every room of our home.

Yet there were struggles at school and with homework. We’d spend a frustrating number of hours studying for spelling tests, only for those words to fall out of their heads the next day. Copying words from the board or a worksheet was a painful experience. Details such commas and capitalization often went unnoticed.

Even after two years of daily intervention at school and many more years of developing coping skills and strategies, challenges remain — as expected. One has more difficulty than the other with written expression. One needs more time and repetition to process nonfiction.

Yet Cooper has incredible spatial awareness and the ability to construct and innovate. Katie thinks and speaks, writes and empathizes with the heart of a poet.

They both have to work harder than most of their peers, and despite extra hours of reading, thinking and studying, they rarely earn grades that reflect that additional effort.

They’re developing layers and layers of resiliency.

The transition this year for Katie from middle school to high school has been understandably tough for all the reasons that incoming ninth-graders toil. New building, different expectations and increasingly difficult classes. She learned quickly that her old study habits wouldn’t support her new coursework, and I was reminded that she needed extra help at home.

After some trial and error, she’s found a method that’s working for memorizing new vocabulary. She creates flashcards early in the unit and relies on repetition — reading the words and definitions to herself, reading them aloud, answering my questions at breakfast and dinner. Last-minute cramming isn’t an option.

Katie studied for hours for a single human geography vocabulary test. Demographic transition models, migration patterns, pro-natalist policies — she’s got them covered (and I’m not so bad at them myself). I wept and cheered when I received her text reporting her test score: 96.

I remind my children — my two Damm kids plus the 73 seventh-graders I teach this year — that everyone is carrying some kind of burden. Some challenges are obvious — complete with T-shirts, bumper stickers and rubber bracelets — but many are hidden. Our community is a better place when we offer grace and compassion to everyone, allowing room for named and unnamed struggles.

There’s nothing wrong with a month of awareness to teach the world about a hobby, condition or disease. Yet there is power in living each day with awareness and compassion for everyone and whatever weighs them down.

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

Hard-working Katie

While my son is off forging his own adventures at Auburn, we have a lot to celebrate here in Texas

From Saturday's Briefing:

Daily life is quieter at the Damm house. As the wise philosopher and meerkat Timon sings in The Lion King, "Our trio's down to two."

Cooper left for Auburn University in early August, and while he is adjusting to sharing a dorm room, doing his own laundry, rustling up some grub, navigating college coursework, making new friends — basically launching a new life — little sister Katie and I are adjusting to life without him.

That means fewer loads of laundry and fewer groceries to buy. There are fewer moments that I need to knock on his door and holler, "It's time to get up!" followed 10 minutes later by, "Seriously. Get up now!"

His absence means that we're solely responsible for taking out the trash and remembering to place the bins at the end of the driveway on Tuesday nights for early Wednesday morning pickup. We're down to one driver in the house — and one adult who can pick up the dry cleaning or make a late-night run for emergency ice cream.

I do get unsolicited text messages ("What's the Amazon code?" and "Thanks for sending the snacks!" and "Can my khaki pants go in the washing machine?"). We talk on the phone at least once a week.

But we're missing his daily running commentary on classes, peer antics, current events and music. I miss Saturday morning cross country meets. I miss his "Love you," said every single time I left the house or he left the house or one of us went to bed.

I find solace in the joy I hear in his voice when discussing engaging classes, stories from his civil rights book club and his project work with Engineers Without Borders. He's made friends. He attends home football games and socials. He works out at the rec center. He has plans for an Appalachian Trail hiking and camping adventure.

He says that his tough high school coursework prepared him for freshman year (a relief, especially now that Katie is in the throes of that work now). He seems to be — as far as I know — going to class, studying and turning in projects.

He has found his home at Auburn.

As Katie and I adjust to our new normal (and count the days until Thanksgiving break), I'm reminded that her time here at home is fleeting. When Cooper comes home for Christmas break, she'll be halfway through ninth grade. Experience tells me her high school years will fly by.

The passage of time isn't lost on my 14-year-old, either. To celebrate the first day of autumn, she created a fall 2019 bucket list, with an ambitious number of activities — 29 to be exact — to complete before winter dawns.

Her illustrated list includes reading books on a rainy day, volunteering at our church pumpkin patch, eating candy corn, taking a hayride, enjoying a Harry Potter movie marathon and walking through a haunted house. (I'm hoping to outsource that last item. Or maybe just sit in the car.)

Katie's list symbolizes more than an affinity for fall. It's a reminder that while Cooper is off forging his own adventures, we've got a lot to celebrate here in Texas. We can exist in the dichotomy of missing him and creating our own memories at the same time.

So while Cooper is cheering for the Tigers and shouting "War Eagle!" at Jordan-Hare Stadium, Katie and I will be looking for a corn maze, sipping apple cider and burning fall candles. And I'll be counting the days until his plane lands in Dallas.

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

Katie's fall 2019 list

I'm thankful my high school years weren't my best years

From Saturday's Briefing:

I have just celebrated 30 years since graduating high school with a reunion at a suburban country club, including a pasta buffet, a DJ serving up '80s tunes and a roomful of people I either remember well or have no recollection of ever seeing once in my entire life.

I left feeling not nostalgic but thankful. Thankful for enduring friendships, fond memories, shared experiences and, most of all, thankful that my high school years weren't my best years. If I could whisper in the ear of 1989 me, I would share, "The best is yet to come."

My generation lacks a singular defining moment. We were mercifully spared the Great Depression and World War II. We were too young for the draft or Woodstock.

We recall gas shortages, hostage crises and the malaise of the 1970s. We remember the flash and excess — and the parachute pants and shoulder pads — of the 1980s. We witnessed the crumbling of the Soviet Union in the early '90s and the dot-com boom and bust during the rest of that decade. We watched pension plans decline and mostly disappear.

We were in the middle of starting families on Sept. 11, 2001. We've been raising our children in a post-9/11 world, seeking balance between sheltering and preparing our kids for an uncertain future.

My generation has learned to adapt to technological changes — some forced upon us and later others of our own design. We grew up with phones attached to walls and televisions that required antennae and someone willing to turn a knob to change the channel. We embraced cable TV, video game consoles and the social-life salvation of call waiting.

I first used an Apple Macintosh SE computer in yearbook in 11th grade, creating pages on a wee screen not much bigger and far less powerful than my current iPhone.

No one I knew owned a mobile phone in college.

I wore a company pager in the late '90s.

I can identify a floppy disk, know how to change the thermal paper on a fax machine, and understand the importance of rewinding VCR tapes — though none of that matters anymore.

I've embraced social media, online shopping, the cloud, countless new applications for work and artificial intelligence (Alexa and I banter every day).

And yet, in a sure sign that I am aging, I'm finding that I have limits.

I have no interest in curating a list of YouTubers to follow. I'm happy to access YouTube for the occasional how-to video (thank you, sink disposal repair geniuses!), but it's never been my go-to entertainment venue.

While I have the Snapchat app, I rarely use it and am perplexed by teenagers who keep up daily streaks by sending photographs of their forehead or a car dashboard or ceiling tiles.

I find myself irritated when my son says he "talked" to someone when in fact he used his phone to send typed messages back and forth. "Talking" requires the exchange of spoken words.

I keep thinking that I understand the definition of a meme, but my daughter tells me I'm wrong. The exact characterization of a VSCO girl eludes me, though I gather that the current version includes puka shell choker necklaces, slip-on Vans and scrunchies (you know, the oversized ponytail holders we wore in '80s). I'm just now catching up to the idea of an eBoy, though I can't be sure that I've seen one in the wild.

I don't need to adopt these trends of Generation Z, and I don't begrudge them their fads, even the ones that will make them cringe when they look back in a couple of decades. I look forward to how they'll change the world, and I hope that they, too, keep seeking their glory days and the promise that the best is yet to come.

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

A few promises to my daughter as she heads off to high school

From Saturday's Briefing:

Dear child on the eve of high school,

You've been an old soul since the day you were born, so I should be totally prepared for this milestone. Yet I can still see you on your first day of kindergarten, hand on your hip, braid in your hair, sassy smile on your lips.

Every year since, you and your brother have endured my photo traditions. Katie in front of the door. Cooper in front of the door. Katie on the steps. Cooper on the steps. Katie and Cooper on the steps together.

This year's routine is unlike any other. When you stand on the front porch tomorrow morning, you'll pose for photos by yourself. Though you will always be the little sister, you're now the only child at home.

For better and worse, your big brother has paved the way. Everything we know about your high school, we know because of Cooper. Pretty much everything your high school knows about the Damms, they know because of Cooper.

You've had a front-row seat to late-night study sessions and report card conversations. You've already visited college campuses across the country. You've waited for acceptance letters to arrive. You've unpacked boxes in a tiny dorm room.

Cooper was my trial-and-error teenager, and you'll reap the rewards of — or bear the brunt of — my parenting education.

You still have a long journey ahead, though you and I both know how quickly those four years will pass. As you continue your own path, I have a few promises to share.

I will not compare you to others.

Your worth is not defined by your class rank. You might apply to universities that want to know how many students have higher grades than you, but that number — or any other number — will never change my love for you. I want you to compare yourself to only yourself. I want you to recognize your own progress and value that growth above any metrics or peer or sibling.

I expect you to give full effort.

You have big dreams that include law school and a career in civil rights. I will support you 100% as you work toward this goal, making sacrifices in our schedule and resources to help you get there. I expect the same devotion from you. I hope that you'll take advantage of the opportunities afforded by our suburban school district. I want you to check your work and meet deadlines, admit your mistakes and try to learn from them.

I will ask questions. 

How was your day? How are you feeling? How will you solve that problem? How can I help? Where are you going? Who will be there? Will parents be home? Will there be drugs or alcohol? I ask because you're important and because I want you to be safe. I ask because your answers matter and because they'll lead to conversations that will help me understand you better and help you make healthy decisions.

I will be your biggest fan. 

You have overcome huge obstacles in your young life. You have endured your daddy's illness and death, developing deep empathy for others in crisis. You have learned to cope with dyslexia, devouring hundreds of books along the way. You work hard to conquer fear. You create art and poetry that warms the soul. You serve with an open heart. I will root for you even on — especially on — your roughest days.

I won't wish away a single day.

There are 708 school days remaining until you graduate. You might struggle to get out of bed some mornings. We will disagree on clothes and curfews. We will say words that we regret. More often, though, you will wake up like sunshine, and we'll compromise, and we'll take care to speak with kindness. Either way, I'll give thanks for another day with you and your wise, old soul.

Love, Momma

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

Kindergarten Katie and freshman Katie

Loosen up, take a chance and go cliff-jumping (just remember to take off your watch)

From Saturday's Briefing:

My role as a risk-averse mom places me in a tough position when our family is forging adventure.

On the one hand, I want to expose my children to opportunities to explore life and new experiences. I want them to embrace challenges and overcome fear. On the other hand, I want to envelop them in bubble wrap.

We dashed to Beavers Bend State Park in southeastern Oklahoma last weekend for one last hurrah before Cooper starts college and Katie starts high school. We're no strangers to the Mountain Fork River, all of us veterans of kayaking and tubing on that scenic water. But we've never ventured onto Broken Bow Lake.

On this visit, I embraced the challenge. We rented a small pontoon boat for four hours. Cooper and his friend took charge of steering, and we puttered across the water to reach Cooper's dream destination — 20-foot cliffs ideal for leaping if you're so inclined.

I stayed back while the kids swam ashore and starting scaling the rocks. Waves and wind pushed me toward the cliffs, and I, for the first time ever, at the age of 47, commandeered a boat.

I took photos of the jumping teens from a safe distance, holding my breath every single time. I offered encouragement to Katie and her friend, who really wanted to jump but were also slightly terrified. "Jump if you want! But you don't have to!" There's a fine line between supportive and pushy.

After watching these courageous kids leap into the water, and after feeling renewed confidence from my just-discovered boat-driving skills, I decided to fight my fears and try to jump myself.

Cooper swam to the boat and regained control of the steering wheel. I set my glasses aside. I swam to shore. I climbed rocks on shaky legs, with Katie offering encouragement.

I found a jumping-off spot and inched out. I waited for my breath to settle and legs to steady. I waved to the tiny people below. I took Katie's advice and looked out, not down. (Without those glasses, the hills and trees were amorphous blobs.) I briefly regretted not leaving my watch on the boat, considered taking it off and then declined, not wanting to abandon it on the cliff.

I listened to my teenagers cheer me on, took deep breaths and contemplated walking back down to safety.

Eventually, I counted — 3, 2, 1 — then pushed myself off the ledge and let gravity take control. 

I hit the water shoes-first, became fully submerged then popped back up. Before I could celebrate this unexpected bravery, though, I realized that my watch was missing.

The watch was a gift last school year from many of my students. It's the kind of item I would never ask for or buy for myself — and certainly not something I would want to lose.

I should have left it on the boat.

While I had been waffling up there on the cliff, Cooper and his friend were chatting with a couple of guys in an idling boat. They live not far from the lake, and on days off from work they often dive for treasure at the cliffs. They had just put on their SCUBA gear when the watch fell off my arm.

These gentlemen dove in and explored the depths of the lake. About 30 feet under, they discovered a couple pair of sunglasses and my treasured watch. I swam back to the rocks and thanked them for their good timing and skill.

My cliff-jumping career ended as quickly as it began. One hop was all I needed, delivering more excitement than I bargained for — including a serendipitous reminder of the kindness of strangers. I won't stop seeking adventure, though, and I'll keep cheering for my courageous children. Life is more interesting when you take leaps of faith.

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

Cooper leaps from a cliff at Broken Bow Lake.

I'm thankful for a weeklong vacation that wasn't really a vacation at all

From Saturday's Briefing (and will be in Thursday's Dallas Morning News):

My week away this summer was atypical. Yes, I packed my bags, boarded the dog, left town and returned exhausted. Instead of sightseeing and sampling local fare, though, I worked 18-hour days while grocery shopping and cooking for 120 people.

I can't wait to do it again next year.

Teens and adults from four Texas churches descended on Granbury last week. A local church opened its doors, allowing us to eat, sleep, worship and play there. The campus served as home base for work teams that spread out to help rehab homes, build wheelchair ramps, replace roofs, spiffy up community centers and clear piles of debris.

I'm not confident with power tools, but I do know how to follow a recipe, so I signed on to support the kitchen team. Our job was to make sure that volunteers were well nourished for their important work in the field. We four Frisco women planned, shopped, chopped, sautéed, boiled, baked and served three meals a day.

We burned our hands, spilled an entire tray of macaroni and cheese, (accidentally) squished a tiny toad that hopped into our path, boiled over a batch of tea and started a tiny grease fire.

Those mishaps were inconsequential compared to the sleepy smiles at breakfast each morning and the profusive "thank you so much" dinner compliments from folks who'd just worked long hours in typical July conditions and couldn't wait to dig in to tacos or cold watermelon slices or piles of pasta and meatballs.

Dinnertime was the best time to catch up on project progress and hear about clients.

One gentleman had been confined to his home after suffering a stroke. His house is elevated because of its proximity to the river, and getting in and out in a wheelchair had been impossible — until a group of volunteers constructed a ramp for him.

Another resident was living with a hole in the floor that revealed the earth below. His back wall was so unstable it could be pushed out about 6 inches. A crew installed new flooring and reinforced the wall.

There were rotted fences and ramshackle roofs. There were jungles to tame and wasp nests to contain.

Volunteers didn't only perform manual labor, though. They worked on building relationships — with one another and with their homeowners. Volunteers invited clients to join their group for lunch each day, and clients in turn often invited volunteers into their homes. Everyone was in service together — the people who need a little help and the people in a position to offer it.

When the week began, I considered the sacrifices I was making. I sacrificed my usual sleep routine, getting at most five hours a night. I sacrificed comfort, sleeping on an air mattress in a nursery room. I sacrificed control, keeping a schedule that was dependent on the needs of others.

As Tuesday turned to Wednesday and then Thursday dawned, I thought less of the sacrifices and more about my advantages. My temporary living conditions were warm, dry and safe. I would return to my own home soon enough, where accessibility and security are no concern.

When the week ended, I gave thanks for all that I had gained. New friendships, new memories, new perspectives.

I am thankful for teens who give up cellphones for a week, work in hot and humid conditions without complaint, initiate conversations with strangers who become friends. I am thankful for adults who guide them through difficult tasks. I am thankful for neighbors in Granbury who trust strangers with power tools, offer genuine hospitality, share their stories.

I am thankful for a week that wasn't really a vacation but was refreshing nevertheless and a week of insignificant sacrifices that fuels a year of gratitude.

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

On Friday, Cooper's team helped to install basketball goals at a Granbury community center.

Summer is the perfect time to loosen the reins and give kids more freedom

From Saturday's Briefing:

About 50 adults squeezed into a conference room for advice on sending our children to college. I was expecting revolutionary ideas that hadn't yet been revealed on this parenting journey, tips that are reserved only for the moms and dads of 18-year-olds.

In fact, I heard variations of the exact words I tell my new middle-school parents at the beginning of each academic year.

Let your child make mistakes and learn from them. Encourage your child to advocate for herself. Insist that your child solve his own problems.

If teachers are asking parents to do this with 11-year-olds, why do colleges need to do the same with parents of young adults? Because it's not easy.

Though I try not to be a helicopter mom (constantly hovering and swooping) or a lawnmower mom (eliminating obstacles on behalf of my children), I'm also not a permissive parent (yes to everything!) or a free-range parent (good luck out there, little one!). Actually, I'm guilty of — and sometimes even proud of — a few characteristics of all those styles.

Summer offers excellent conditions for testing new parenting techniques. Lazier days with fewer commitments mean more freedom. My Katie and Adam, our neighbor and honorary third sibling, spend hours each week outside. As they've grown older, they've started living a little more like 1970s children — running into one house or the other for water or supplies but otherwise playing outside until dusk beckons or a parent hollers, "Dinner!"

It's the way I grew up. When I was 4, 5 and 6, I was part of a gentle gang of North Dallas kids who would gather in the middle of the street, discuss possible adventures and then set out. We'd climb trees, explore trails and fish crawdads out of Joe's Creek — all without a single supervising adult.

A few years later, my sister and I would roam the streets of tiny Belton, Texas. We'd walk a couple of blocks south to spend 27 cents on a small Slurpee or, if we had saved our money for a few days, $1.07 to buy a drumstick and biscuit from Golden Fried Chicken. Or we'd wander farther north to peruse the aisles of TG&Y and the Hallmark store. There were pay phones if we needed them, but no one expected us to check in.

All of that freedom created natural opportunities for building consensus, solving problems, settling disputes and figuring out basic first aid.

Yet we 21st-century parents are often paralyzed by fear. What if someone makes a bad decision? Gets their feelings hurt? Feels left out? Gets lost? Gets injured?

When is it appropriate to let go and allow your child to experience the inevitable disappointments — and inherent lessons — of life?

Earlier this summer, Katie rushed into the house, seeking duct tape and bungee cord. She dragged our rusty red wagon from the front porch to the alley. I was suspicious. She told me not to worry.

I, no doubt, worried.

Upon further investigation, I discovered that she and Adam had used the tape and cord to attach the wagon to the back of his bike. She would sit in the wagon while he pedaled. As he turned, she also turned, but without control or grace.

I held my breath and closed my eyes as they careened through the alley. She tumbled out a couple of times. I eventually insisted that they stop.

Her left leg still shows scars from the concrete, and I can't get the image out of my head, but it's one of their favorite memories of summer so far.

I try every day to make the right decisions for my kids — or, better, to let them make their own. I'm working on not rescuing Cooper in the mornings, when he sleeps through his alarm but needs to get dressed for work. (I'm mostly failing.) I've encouraged them both to cook more often and experiment in the kitchen. (Katie's a pro with the toaster oven and George Foreman Grill, and Cooper can bake some tasty chicken.) I don't swoop in to finish their chores. (Even if that means the sink fills with dishes. I take lots of deep breaths.)

When school starts this August, I'll once again advise my students' parents to step back as often as they're comfortable — while trying to trust my own two kids to rely on the foundation we've built together.

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

Bike. Wagon. Duct tape. Bungee cord. What could go wrong?

My roles may change, but this mom business (and miles of memories) lasts a lifetime

From Saturday's Briefing:

Long ago, during my firstborn's first year, we were visiting longtime friends in Baltimore. We were seated at a tiny Fells Point cafe, having stowed the diaper bag and settled Cooper into a highchair, when Gretchen asked, "Has parenting changed you?"

I answered "yes" before she finished the question. Then I stumbled through explaining how this nascent parenting adventure had changed me, how all decisions were made from a new point of view, how the weight of being responsible for another human altered everything.

I've never stopped considering the question, and it feels especially relevant as Cooper prepares to launch his own new journey.

One big change? Vocabulary. Though it's been years since a child in my home watched an episode of Dora the Explorer, I will forever call tape "sticky tape." (I'm not sure why Dora feels the need to modify a noun that is, by definition, sticky, but I've learned to embrace it.)

If anyone says, "We're going on a trip," I can't help but finish the sentence (almost always in my head, not aloud) with a singsong "in our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the sky, Little Einsteins!"

And, like all mothers of a certain age, the only way to finish "to infinity" is with "and beyond!"

Our children's obsessions become our own, especially when they're young and require constant supervision. I can still recite every word from The Going to Bed Book by Sandra Boynton and Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. I can decipher the mysteries of a Lego instruction manual. I know my way around the paper, washi tape, paint and clay aisles of three major arts-and-crafts stores. I can sing most every word of the Hamilton soundtrack.

Our children's experiences and memories are entangled with our own.

When summer began, the three of us wrote a wish list to conquer before Cooper leaves for college. We included restaurants and museums to revisit, board games to play and movies to watch again. We can't possibly fit in all of our favorites from Cooper's 18 years and Katie's 14, but we're willing to try.

Our list of Disney favorites is long, and last week we settled in for Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3 at home. (We all agree that the original Toy Story is good but the least charming of the franchise. Plus, we're a little traumatized by Sid.)

We can reenact the entirety of Toy Story 2, a video on constant repeat in our family room for many years. By the time Toy Story 3 was released, though, we'd mostly moved beyond the watch-a-movie-100-times phase. I'd somehow forgotten that the movie's premise is now-teenage Andy packing his room as he prepares to leave for college.

Could I endure watching a fictional mirror of my own current experience?

I chose courage and watched it from beginning to end for the first time since 2010. The three of us laughed at jokes we had forgotten — or hadn't noticed the first time. We cheered for strengthened toy relationships and held our breath as those toys held hands on the path to a fiery doom.

I wept when Andy's mom, standing in his empty room, says, "I wish I could always be with you." Amen, Andy's mom! 

Yet the truth about parenthood is that these children who we swaddle, cuddle, bathe, feed, correct, shelter, entertain, teach, guide, shoo, support, discipline, push and, above all, love, are always with us. We carry their entire childhoods in our hearts. We don't see only a 17-year-old on the way to college or a 13-year-old on the way to high school. We also see in one fell swoop a tiny infant and a stubborn toddler, a precocious preschooler and a rambunctious kindergartner. We hear rap lyrics mixed with The Wiggles and lines from The Office jumbled up with giggling Elmo.

Parenting continues to challenge me and change me, and the journey's far from over. My roles may change, but this mom business (and miles of memories) lasts a lifetime.

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

Cooper, on the eve of Camp War Eagle, looking like a college student 

My daughter's last day of middle school ended with tears — and hope

From Saturday's Briefing:

As the final minutes of the school year tick down, our eighth-graders walk the halls on a farewell tour, waving goodbye and giving high-fives to teachers and younger middle-schoolers. Parents crowd the end of the path, welcoming their newly minted high school freshmen into the sunshine and summer break.

My Katie vowed that she would complete that final walk without crying. Why would she be sad when she was looking forward to ninth grade?

I saw her three times on the walk — first with a peace sign, then an enthusiastic smile and, finally, dramatic sobs. I totally understand. I've always been a last-day-of-school crier, too.

Endings are tough, no matter what opportunities await.

Katie's tears welled up when she thought of friends she wouldn't see over summer, of friends who are moving, of friends who might not be in her classes next year or even share the same lunch period.

I understand all of this, too. I'm often guilty of experiencing emotions for circumstances that haven't yet happened. We're both planners, for better or worse.

Childhood offers enviable chances to make friends. It's as if there's some sort of unspoken code. "You're at the playground. I'm at the playground. We clearly both enjoy sliding and swinging and climbing, so let's be pals." It's the same in kindergarten classrooms and bouncy houses, at neighborhood pools and grocery store aisles. Little kids are instinctively drawn to other little kids, without pretense or fanfare.

As children get older, they become choosier, taking note of qualifiers that might invite or exclude a future friend. Clothing, hairstyle, shoes, obvious interests, other friends. Yet each new school year or activity welcomes another opportunity to meet new people.

There's a whole crop of ninth-graders coming from the other feeder middle school, and there's unknown possibility among the crew she's grown up with. So while Katie and and a few friends may naturally drift apart, there will be new people and previous acquaintances in debate class and French, in the cafeteria and the gym.

I met some of my dearest friends in eighth and ninth grades — the women who would eventually stand next to me when I got married, who I call or text with good news and tragic news, who know my quirks and love me anyway. I can't imagine life without Jayshree, Karen, Melissa and Swati. But there are many others who were important at the time and eventually faded away, not because anyone was frustrated or angry but because maintaining strong friendships requires work from both sides.

Sometimes there are simply not enough common interests to keep the bond healthy, and that's OK because one of the great blessings of growing older is continuing to expand your circles of friends.

I also can't imagine life without Gretchen, who I met when we were young journalists in Lubbock, or Julie, who has been my neighbor for 17 years, or Sharon, who was my boss for a little while but has been my friend for much longer, or Jenny, who I met through PTA, or Jana, who mentored me through my first year of teaching and is still my go-to school confidante.

We don't know what each season will bring, which people we'll meet, which memories we'll hold on to. The end of one season doesn't necessarily mean the end of friendships, but it almost always offers the hope of new relationships.

On that last day of middle school, I embraced Katie as she cried and then stepped aside as she continued to say goodbye to friends, most of whom she would text later that afternoon. I look forward to watching (and advising when asked) as her relationships deepen, as she discovers more of her people, as she learns for herself which friends she can rely on and how she can be the best kind of friend. There will be more tears in the journey, but I'm expecting a greater number of peace signs and cheerful smiles.

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

Peace out, middle school

My soon-to-be high school graduate is ready to make his own way — 751 miles from home

From Saturday's Briefing:

This time, 18 years ago, I was sitting in my newsroom cubicle, working on a project but distracted by a nagging concern: How would I get my child to soccer practice on time?

My office was downtown, and my husband and I lived in the suburbs. Practice usually starts around 6 p.m., but I worked unpredictable hours, and traffic on the tollway is dicey.

We'll figure it out. We'll make it work.

I did have the advantage of time. I was pregnant with our first child, at least four years from registering anyone for recreation soccer.

That firstborn is now days from high school graduation, heading to Auburn University to study mechanical engineering and nuclear power systems.

When all the graduation festivities settle down, Cooper and I will start his dorm packing list in earnest. In the meantime, I've been checking off the list of intangibles that he'll need, too.

That list includes resiliency, tolerance, grace, humility, determination, compassion and flexibility. He's had ample opportunities to practice them all here, and I'm praying that those life lessons stick with him when he's far from home.

Every family has its own story of unexpected twists, disrupted plans and even tragedies.

Our story includes learning disabilities, a cancer diagnosis and death. But our story also includes hard work, silver linings and life.

When Cooper was diagnosed with dyslexia — a condition we never planned for — he adjusted.

He received daily intervention at school for two years. He received some accommodations for class work. He learned to advocate for himself. He often had to work harder than many of his peers.

He figured it out. He made it work.

He refused to be defined by a label. He continued to devour fantasy, mystery and adventure novels. He signed up for challenging courses. He asked questions. He never gave up.

There have been all kinds of opportunities to practice similar determination at home. Steve's cancer and death certainly were never part of our plan. For almost 10 years now, it's been only me, Cooper and Katie. They don't have many memories of two parents who shared housework, decision-making, driving and bedtime routines.

Instead, they have earned experience as members of a small team that cooks, cleans, walks the dog, takes out the trash and performs other duties as assigned.

We have figured it out. We have made it work.

They don't dwell on the loss. This is our normal. They have built layers of independence and empathy. They understand sacrifices and compromises.

These aren't lessons I planned, but embracing them is better than being smothered by them.

Way back in 2001, when I was worried about car seats and strollers, preschools and soccer teams, it never occurred to me to consider 2019, the year that my baby would graduate high school.

My heart couldn't have handled the conflicted emotions of celebrating this milestone while anticipating a new beginning — especially without Steve by my side.

Even now, I can't anticipate or plan for every trial that Cooper will face as a freshman living in a dorm with strangers, 751 miles from home, while taking 16 hours that include calculus, chemistry and computing for engineers.

I expect he'll have some social conflicts, struggle with a class or two, make a few poor choices and occasionally feel homesick.

He and I can keep talking through scenarios until he leaves. I'll be available via phone calls, text, FaceTime and email. But most of the preparation for this big step has already happened.

He'll provide his own rescues or seek help from trusted sources.

Perhaps the best advice I can offer him now is the reminder that we've always figured it out. We've always made it work. He's equipped for the adventures and challenges and rewards to come.

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

Reedy High School Baccalaureate, two weeks before graduation