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