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.