If Katie takes a sliced apple to school for lunch, forgets to eat it and then throws it away at home after remembering it in her bag hours later, I'll remind her that it's like throwing out a couple of dollar bills. Organic apples are pricey, even when you buy them on sale.
If I hear Cooper chomping ice, I'll ask him to stop, citing "those $9,000 teeth." The $9,000 represents total orthodontia costs so far and doesn't include routine cleanings or recent wisdom teeth removal. And soon I'll have to call them his $10,200 teeth, as those impacted wisdom teeth caused a bit of trouble, and we're about to enter a third stage of braces.
These admonitions don't come easily, though. I often feel conflicted talking about expenses with my children. I don't want them to feel guilty for the costs associated with growing up, yet I want them to understand that most everything has a price. They need to be prepared for their own bill-paying future. They need to appreciate what they have and understand why they often don't get what they want.
It's the same kind of conflict that comes from living in our mostly affluent community. I'm thankful for access to new technology at new campuses, clean streets and responsive police. I'm grateful for the opportunities my children have in a school district that offers academic and career and technology classes that read more like college courses. I'm in awe — and even slightly embarrassed — that our football team plays games at the Dallas Cowboys' indoor practice facility. (When I'm at normal high school stadiums, I find myself wondering, "Where is the giant video board for replays?" and "Why is there no air-conditioning out here?")
We live in a modest home not far from much newer, more extravagant houses. I drive a 10-year-old minivan (keep on, trusty Odyssey!), while many of the cars around town have Bluetooth technology and touch screens.
Some families ski every spring break and spend at least a week of summer along Highway 30A in Florida — that is, when they can fit in vacations around select sports travel schedules.
I begrudge them nothing. These same families work hard, volunteer all over town, make wise decisions and share generously.
Our bubble isn't representative of the nation, though, or even our Denton County. Our community's affluence is an anomaly. Most people don't live in magazine-ready homes. Most children don't attend classes in brand-new buildings. There are school districts all around us in which the majority of students qualify for free or reduced lunch.
Not all children — despite what mine see — have access to braces. Many families would prefer to buy organic produce but simply can't justify the extra expense from their meager food budgets.
So, what is our responsibility in the middle of — or on the edges of — affluence?
At the Damm house, we're working on an awareness of both what we have and what others lack, plus responsible use of the resources we have — including donations when we can. We talk about how difficult it is to work out of poverty, and we consider historical and current policies that make life more difficult for low-income families.
When necessary, I remind my people that double reeds and private oboe lessons aren't free and that I won't replace lost or broken items that you can live without.
A few weeks ago, we were driving to meet family for dinner at Legacy West, one of the many swanky restaurant districts within 7 miles of our neighborhood. Cooper, who is months from graduating high school and moving on to college, was staring out the window and remarked, "Wherever I go to school, there probably won't be anyplace as fancy as this."
"Nope," I answered. "I'm thankful you realize that now."
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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