This single mom's May survival kit: An organized calendar, a sense of humor and plenty of naps

From Saturday's Briefing:

Long weekends in springtime are dangerous, as they give children and their parents a hint of summer. Sunshine beckons and bedtimes lengthen.

Yet the freedom is fleeting, and soon real life looms again.

We enjoyed four days off in Frisco last week. I used one day to clean the house. Another to run errands and cook. Another to celebrate Easter with family. By Monday I was worn out. There were still more house projects (that list is long). There was a stack of papers to grade. There were meals to plan and prep.

My body and mind, though, told me to stop. To sit in the big green chair and do nothing. To watch the first 30 minutes of West Side Story before succumbing to a nap.

I felt a twinge of guilt and heard the murmur of unorganized closets and ungraded poems and unchopped vegetables.

Louder than those whispers of guilt, though, was the rolling thunder that announces May — that glorious season of celebration, the 31 days that give December competition for the title of Most Overbooked Month of the Year.

I'm no stranger to the bittersweet and exhausting demands of May. It's wise practice to conserve energy and strength in advance of this emotional rollercoaster.

This year's combination is the most powerful in the Damm house so far: single mom who's a teacher plus daughter finishing middle school plus son graduating from high school. There's not a moment I want to miss.

Our family's calendar includes but is not limited to multiple STAAR and AP exams, a band concert, two performances of Schoolhouse Rock Jr., booster club scholarship night, alumni receptions at elementary and middle schools, baccalaureate, senior Sunday at church, mentorship presentation night and the moment that Cooper has been working toward for 13 years of public school — graduation.

It's a moment that I've been working toward for almost 18 years, nurturing and pushing, cajoling and applauding my firstborn toward a finish line that's also a launching pad. All of the work and love leading to this moment feels like a lifetime and a blip all at once.

I have no intentions of bemoaning our celebrations, scorning our milestones or wishing away a single day. I've learned to embrace all that May represents, even when it makes me weepy or weary.

These events showcase individual progress and teamwork toward a common goal. They celebrate learning from mistakes, taking risks and persevering. They acknowledge that it's a community of family, friends, teachers and coaches who help to raise a child. They offer a tidy end to one season and invite a new season to begin. 

Experience tells me that the whole month of May is more joyful when you face it with a game plan that includes but is not limited to synchronized calendars, shortcuts for meals, a ready supply of Kleenex, a sense of humor and a whole bunch of grace for yourself and your people.

Katie and Cooper, Easter Sunday 2019

I've also learned to revel in whatever downtime presents itself. We'll share as many low-key meals together as possible. We'll recap our day and share plans for tomorrow. We'll ignore the chores that can wait in favor of needed breaks and the comfort of one another's company.

I'm ready for you, May — for your flashy shindigs and hushed moments, for your reminders of full lives and hard work, for your symbolic conclusions and convocations. (And please don't be offended if I take a nap or two.)

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

We need shared experiences to remain in community — so go outside and start living

From Saturday's Briefing:

It's easy, too easy, to live inside.

We're a click away from groceries, movies, paper towels. We can ask our artificially intelligent speakers to give us current weather conditions or play radio hits from 1989. In the comfort of our homes, we aren't forced to interact with anyone we don't know.

Yet there's untold value in living outside.

Our sofa cushions were lonely last weekend. The only entertainment we sought was out in the real world. We rooted for the home team and enjoyed two live stage performances, surrounded every time by like-minded strangers.

Friday night was devoted to a Frisco RoughRiders game. I am a fair-weather fan, preferring baseball in the glory of April. You're not sweaty by the time you walk from the parking garage to the entry gates. There are no heat-related tantrums in the park. No matter your team, there's still hope for a winning season.

A trip to the Frisco ballpark is inexpensive and social all at once. We always run into friends. We chat with folks seated nearby and in concession lines.

On this visit, a fan was wearing both an Auburn University T-shirt and a University of Alabama pullover. My son, who will attend Auburn beginning in the fall, was intrigued and struck up a conversation. We learned that he's a diehard Alabama fan first, the SEC second. He was ready to cheer for the Auburn Tigers in the Final Four and wished Cooper luck as he begins a new journey.

We all stood up and sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I'm a terrible singer, I but I always belt that one with gusto, emboldened by the crowds.

The next night we settled in at a local theater to support one of my former students. Princess Whatsername offered mashed-up fairy tales performed by elementary- and middle-school children. They almost always remembered their cues and lines.

We were wowed by some of the singing voices (much better than mine) and smooth dance moves. We belly-laughed when the 5-year-old bear roared with ferocity. We knew almost no one on stage, but we cheered for each of them like they were our own.

And then the next day one of our dreams came true. We attended the Sunday matinee of Hamilton at the Music Hall at Fair Park.

This was a repeat watching; we lucked into tickets for a performance in Chicago in 2017 and have been reminiscing about it ever since, hoping for a chance to see the musical again. (I vowed to keep my own singing in my head.)

Photo by Joan Marcus
The Schuyler Sisters from Hamilton

There's something magical about being in the same space and experiencing similar emotions as 3,000 other people.

Chills when the first note hits.

Laughter when King George saunters on the stage.

Holding your breath when Eliza sings about her husband's affair.

Sobbing when she later mourns the death of their son.

Leaping to your feet when the last note ends, wishing you could stay for the next performance.

I'm thankful for Amazon Prime, high-speed internet access and on-demand viewing. There are evenings when I've had enough of other people, thank you very much, and want to retreat to my cozy home with only my own people.

Yet we need shared experiences to remain in community. We need to clap, cheer, groan, sing, dance, laugh and cry together — with people we know and people we may never see again.

Spring is the best time in North Texas for a festival. Get out and listen to some live music. Find a school performance nearby. Go to a game — any game — and enjoy the camaraderie of the crowd. Let's leave our cozy cocoons long enough to meet one another in the lobby, in the stands, in line for snacks and to celebrate living together.

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

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for nature's beauty

From Saturday's Briefing and in today's Dallas Morning News:

Cooper at Monument Valley

One of the great joys of travel is rediscovering the wonders of our earth and the complexity of our spirits.

Our recent spring break included a three-day tour of the Southwest, allowing us to explore land that we'd only ever seen on National Geographic calendars and computer screensavers.

Katie, Cooper & Tyra at the Grand Canyon

Cooper, Katie and I hiked along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking nonstop about the colors, dusting of snow, unusual rock formations and incredible enormity of the park. We'd stop often to admire the scenery from different angles. We took dozens of photos.

We were excited to reach the entry to Bright Angel Trail, hoping to hike down a mile or so to fully appreciate the canyon's proportions. We were confident in our abilities and heartened when we passed older travelers returning from the trail. They were a sturdy bunch but at least 30 years older than me and 60 years older than my children — surely we could tackle Bright Angel.

One glance at the trail itself, though, and we were defeated. Recent snow had melted, frozen and turned to ice. The steep incline appeared treacherous. Unlike those senior citizens, we lacked ice cleats and walking sticks. We passed the trailhead and kept walking along the rim, impressed by the athleticism of those septuagenarians, humbled by our lack of preparation and awed by beauty at every turn.

Katie at Monument Valley

The next day we toured Monument Valley, an iconic region in the middle of the Navajo Nation, straddling Utah and Arizona. Sandstone buttes punctuate the landscape, made famous in the past century by cowboy movies and Forrest Gump.

Our Navajo guides drove us through the backcountry and stopped occasionally to let us roam. We scrambled up rock and slid through sand. We admired Moccasin Arch and Eye of the Sun, potholes high in the rock created by water erosion. We spied Anasazi petroglyphs on walls and remnants of pottery on the ground.

I couldn't have asked for more.

And then our guides surprised us with music.

One played a wooden flute, the notes echoing off rock walls. The other chanted a traditional Dine song while he played a small drum.

We were wowed by nature and humbled by humanity's own art.

Later that afternoon, we wandered through Antelope Canyon, a slot canyon in northern Arizona known for its curved walls, waves of color and peek-a-boo sunbeams. We were halfway through the tour, surrounded by gorgeous sandstone chiseled by millions of years of floodwaters, when angelic sound flooded the canyon.

A women's choir had burst into song, taking full advantage of the canyon's natural acoustics. Our tour group stopped, made room in the narrow passageway and listened as choir members shared their gifts with strangers.

The whole scene was like heaven on earth.

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for standing on the edge of a cliff at Lake Powell, studying the Colorado River as it winds around Horseshoe Bend. Or for hiking up a trail at Zion National Park to stand beneath Weeping Rock and rejoice in sprays of water.

There's also no substitute for making friends along trails or enjoying impromptu concerts in the wild. We don't have to leave the state or even the county to forge new adventures, but we do have to leave the comfort of our homes and our routines to discover fresh reminders of the breadth and depth of our planet and of our souls.

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