The Damm Spot

Before church this morning

2012-02-12T10:32:00.000-06:00

Life goes by pretty fast, so stop and watch the zombies

2012-02-10T09:03:00.000-06:00

It’s easy to determine my age based on the list of movies I loved during high school: Dirty Dancing, Back to the Future, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Top Gun and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Yes, I am a child of the ’70s, a decidedly ’80s girl on the verge of turning 40. All those hours of watching silly movies on cable and VHS weren’t fruitless. There were lessons — some more hidden than others — in all the flicks.

Stand up for what you believe in. Take risks. Don’t judge a book by its cover or a teen by his label. Don’t take too many (or any) muscle relaxers the day of your wedding. Navy pilots are dreamy. And, every now and then, you need a break from routine.

Or, as Ferris Bueller would say, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris is enjoying a resurgence these days, thanks to nostalgic types like me and a car commercial that imagines an adult version of playing hooky, with Matthew Broderick feigning illness like his famous character.

I’m home this week after my own version of playing hooky — an annual long weekend away with friends, away from children and work and laundry. This year’s slice of responsibility-free heaven: Savannah, Ga.

We three moms had a list of places we wanted to see, things we wanted to do, food we wanted to eat. But we were relaxed enough to allow some items to drop off the list, open to making room for unexpected discoveries.

Like the puppet show we stumbled into after touring an art museum. A group of sixth-grade drama students presented the story of Juliette Gordon Low and the founding of the Girl Scouts 100 years ago in Savannah.

We learned fascinating facts about an honorable American woman. We laughed at corny jokes. And I left with stories to share with my own Daisy Girl Scout troop.

“Random free puppet show” is nowhere on any travel guide’s list of things to do in Savannah, but I’m glad we didn’t miss it.

Travel guides do recommend Fort Pulaski, on the road from Savannah to Tybee Island. The fort was designed to protect the young United States from foreign attack, but it wasn’t battle-tested until the Civil War.

I’m certain the architects of Fort Pulaski never imagined what shenanigans would actually take place there more than 150 years later.

On a whim, we pulled into the fort for a look-see — with serendipitous timing. A cannon firing was scheduled to begin in 10 minutes. We parked and hustled across a couple of bridges to be sure we didn’t miss the event. That’s when we spied some unusual activity. We were surrounded by a dozen zombies. And not just any zombies. These undead hailed from the 1860s.

We quickly learned that Fort Pulaski was serving as a backdrop to a low-budget, direct-to-DVD movie with the working title Abe Lincoln vs. Zombies.

After covering our ears during two cannon demonstrations, the three of us walked the pentagonal fort, taking in architectural details and imaging the life of an average soldier. Then we spied on the movie set.

The director, we discovered, takes his craft seriously. He spoke with arrogant authority, as if directing a remake of Citizen Kane.

While perched atop a brick wall, peering into a stairwell, he discovered a camera angle he preferred to the original plan.

“From overhead this is very compelling,” he spoke down to a colleague.

Hesitation sets in.

“Before we marry this, do we have enough zombies?”

Perhaps not.

“Let’s get every zombie in here!”

The creepily dressed extras move in.

“Just surround him with zombies!”

Desperation sets in.

“Is this every single zombie in the joint?”

At this moment, between giggles, my traveling companions and I consider scoring some 1860s garb and volunteering for the job. But the director yells, “Action!” and the zombies stretch out their zombie arms and make zombie noises, and the scene is wrapped.

The lesson from this movie? There are never enough zombies. And there are unexpected rewards when you stop and look around.

I’m glad we didn’t miss it.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Two zombies and me

Every single zombie in the joint

Little Dribblers never cease to entertain

2012-02-03T06:04:00.003-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Seats to the most entertaining show in town aren’t comfortable. If you arrive late, it’s standing room only. There’s no concession stand.

But the hour is free. And rewarding, especially if you’re related to one of the players.

For a couple of months I’ve been enjoying first-grade girls basketball, a spectacle of traveling and fouls and jump balls and missed opportunities. When I’m not cheering for Katie and her six teammates, I’m giggling. And giving thanks for patient coaches and referees.

Patience is required with 6- and 7-year-olds who are new to a sport that requires so much coordination and willingness to follow so many rules.

Katie lacks a little of both.

Despite her slight deficiency of natural ability, she has become expert at dribbling, partly because she practices on the front sidewalk as often as the weather allows and partly because she spends a lot of time dribbling during games.

After the opposing team scores, she always angles to be the player to receive the inbound ball. If successful in her quest, she moseys as she dribbles, slowing with each step as she nears the half-court line.

And then she dribbles some more, surveying the five opponents who have lined up, as menacing as beribboned, 4-foot-tall girls can be. Seeing no obvious hole through the defense, she backs up, still dribbling, as if she has all afternoon to cross that line. (There’s no shot clock in recreational first-grade basketball.)

Meanwhile, her mercifully kind coaches urge her to move up or pass the ball. If I can’t take it any longer, I cheer (or holler), “Katie!” and dramatically wave my arms in the direction of the basket. And I stifle laughter.

Finally she crosses the line or passes the ball, which is then often stripped away by one of the five hovering, vulture-like girls.

Katie shakes off disappointment as she turns, searches for the girl she is supposed to be defending and skips toward the basket, sometimes with arms tucked inside her jersey.

At every game, there’s a jump ball or two. The girls have been taught to grab the ball and not let go. In other words, they’ve been given permission to do what they’ve been trained not to do their whole lives. And they don’t let this opportunity to blatantly steal go to waste.

If a defensive player gets her hands wrapped around that ball and the offensive player is able to hold on, we’re treated to a few seconds of intense tussling and a pair of determined, scrunched up faces. It never fails to make spectators laugh.

Our ever-serene ref (who looks too young to have his own kids and may delay parenting plans for a long while) eventually blows his whistle and calls the team that wins the jump ball. We always cheer.

Of course, we cheer loudest when someone scores.

One of the most beautiful things about first-grade girls basketball is that we all cheer, no matter which team scores. Now, we might clap and holler a little louder for our own girls, but we don’t let a single basket go unnoticed. Maybe because it seems like a tiny miracle each time the ball actually makes it past the half-court line, gets into the hands of someone who is able to hold on and shoot, reaches the rim or backboard and then falls through the net.

Those few baskets are more exciting, more entertaining to witness, than any live college or professional game.

Best of all, after the final whistle I get to hug my favorite player, praise her for working hard and laugh with her as we relive moments from the game.

Even if her team lost (unofficially, as scores aren’t kept), it’s truly one of the best hours of the week.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before Sunday school this morning

2012-01-29T14:27:00.000-06:00

Elementary school's end will just be the beginning

2012-01-27T09:30:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

The school year is half over — or, as I prefer to think about it, half full. I’m relying on an optimistic attitude to get through my son’s final weeks of fifth grade without too much weeping.

Cooper’s last day of elementary school may be in June, but getting there is an emotional journey.

I’ve already met with his future middle school counselor to discuss classroom accommodations related to dyslexia. (Despite fears fueled by young adult novels, comic strips and years of television programming, she was not cold or detached or clueless.)

Next week we’ll spend an hour in the middle school cafeteria so Cooper can try out band and orchestra instruments in an effort to determine his musical future.

Soon after, he’ll stand before a couple hundred people to accept his Arrow of Light, which symbolizes completion of achievements in the Cub Scout program. Then he’ll walk across a small bridge to be accepted into the Boy Scout troop of his choice.

A month later, the entire fifth-grade class will hear facts about puberty. The highly anticipated gender-specific talk is scheduled for the hour before the bell rings for spring break, giving the kids no time to compare notes in class and guaranteeing all kinds of fodder for family discussion while we’re allegedly relaxing.

A few weeks after that, he’ll play his final soccer game with the team that’s been together since 2005, when the boys were baby-faced, wiggly, completely adorable preschoolers.

All this builds to what promises to be the most tear-filled event of the whole process: the last day of school, when fifth-graders attend their own special assembly and then parade throughout school, giving high-fives to younger children lining the halls, all while music plays over the intercom, possibly designed to drown the sobs of sentimental moms like me.

(Some of my mom friends refuse to step foot on campus that last day of school, shielding themselves from the emotional experience until their own children are graduating fifth-graders. I show up every year, sort of hoping for some kind of inoculation.)

If all I focused on were these goodbyes and rites of passage, I would be a big ol’ blubbery mess until June. No matter how often I told myself to stop and enjoy the moment, to not wish for the next phase but to enjoy the current phase, Cooper’s elementary school career has zipped by entirely too fast.

So, while I’m misty-eyed about everything that’s ending, I’m working on embracing all that’s about to begin.

In August, Cooper will launch a new school career, with a different classroom and teacher every hour and a locker with a combination lock and the freedom to sit at any table in the cafeteria. He’ll study our world and read novels and solve problems with greater intensity.

He’ll report to the band hall to learn how to play a new instrument. Maybe it’s the first step that leads to marching band in high school and college, like his dad. Or maybe he’ll try it for a year and decide to try a different brand of art.

Like every other sixth-grader, he’ll struggle with and eventually conquer pre-adolescence, part of a necessary journey that will lead to the young man he’s designed to be.

He can choose to try a new soccer team or a new sport altogether. He could spend more time on long-distance running and triathlons or take a few tennis lessons or find a basketball team. Or maybe he’ll take a break from sports, spending more time camping and completing achievements as part of Boy Scouts.

For every milestone we know about and can ink on the calendar, there are many more that aren’t scripted, that we can’t anticipate. Some of those moments will make me cry, too, but I expect the majority will make me smile.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

2012-01-22T11:32:00.000-06:00

Learning about diversity, one sake bomb at a time

2012-01-20T10:57:00.002-06:00

From today's Briefing:

You just never know when and where you’re going to learn a lesson.

I recently took Cooper and Katie to dinner to celebrate their awards in our school’s PTA Reflections contest. Cooper wrote a poem, and Katie wrote a poem and created a pastel drawing, all on the topic of diversity.

We ate at one of those Japanese restaurants where chefs slice and dice and cook and serve right there at the communal table. I started to feel a little uneasy about the choice as we walked to our table with randomly assigned companions.

They were three couples. The men wore shiny shirts that matched their shiny hair.

The women had tall, teased hair, balanced by impossibly tall shoes. Their outfits, in defiance of the cold wind outside, revealed a lot of skin. One of the women wore more eye shadow that night than I have worn cumulatively in my entire life.

They were obviously celebrating in a more adult fashion than my children and I, and I was unsure that we were a good fit for a two-hour, interactive dinner.

But, as Katie wrote in her diversity poem: “No one looks the same, and that is good.”

After the nine of us were seated, a waitress took drink orders. Two soft drinks, one tea, six refills from the bar.

We quickly learned that one of the men was turning 30. One of the women shared with the group her favorite gift from turning 30.

It is the kind of gift that can’t be described in a newspaper intended for a general audience.

At this point, I feared that years of deliberate, careful parenting would totally unravel around a teppanyaki table. And it was the point at which I employed the tried-and-true parenting technique of distraction.

Cooper and I discussed the merits of steak and shrimp vs. chicken and shrimp. Katie colored her paper menu/hat and placed it on her head. While we practiced our own brand of silliness, I stole longing glances at a nearby table filled with mild-mannered folks who didn’t seem to be discussing R-rated activities.

The 30-year-old birthday boy borrowed Katie’s hat. His girlfriend took pictures. We all laughed.

While the chef prepared fried rice, our tablemates told a couple of racist jokes, and I worked on more distraction.

And I thought of more of Katie’s words: “You shouldn’t make fun of people or laugh at them by the way they look. You could hurt their feelings and make them so sad.”

The waitress delivered six sake bombs. My children were enthralled by the process: Place chopsticks parallel across the top of a glass of beer, balance a shot glass atop the chopsticks, pound the table, then watch the shot of sake fall into the beer, making a fizzy concoction intended for immediate consumption.

One of the men slammed his, pointed at Cooper and hollered, “This is the life!”

Wide-eyed Cooper took another sip of Sprite.

Ambient noise mostly camouflaged the colorful adult language from their end of the table. The kids and I had plenty to discuss without homing in on their conversation.

When dinner was over, we all sang “Happy Birthday,” and Katie’s hat was employed for another photo.

Bills were settled, we said goodbye and walked into the cold, dark night.

As we neared the car, Cooper remarked in trademark deadpan, “Those were some interesting people.”

In that moment, I realized that years of parenting can’t be destroyed by one night with a few slightly wild tablemates. In fact, it offered an opportunity to discuss our family’s values — like tolerance and moderation.

And in that moment, I was reminded of the opening lines of Cooper’s poem: “Diversity makes this world richer.”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Prodigal Son

2012-01-19T20:23:00.002-06:00

There are a few Bible stories I struggle with. One of the most difficult for me: the Prodigal Son, from Luke 15:11-32 (below from NRSV).

Then Jesus said, ‘There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he divided his property between them.

A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs.

He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ ”

So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But the father said to his slaves, “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.

Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” Then he became angry and refused to go in.

His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!”

Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.” ’

Let's be honest: I struggle with this parable because I've always identified with the elder son. Why bother doing the right thing all the time if someone else can make bad choices for years then repent and be rewarded?

In reality, every single one of us is the younger son. None of us is the elder son. None of us make the right choice every single time. We all stray, we all make bad decisions, we all find ways to separate ourselves from God.

I'm going to try to let go of my disagreement with the New Testament in this case. And I'm going to work on being thankful for the Father who welcomes all his sons and daughters home, who lavishes his children with promised riches -- simply because they came home.

After piano lessons this afternoon

2012-01-15T23:30:00.000-06:00

(It was super sunny and windy today!)

Cooper's last pack meeting

2012-01-15T23:27:00.000-06:00

Wade and Cooper at Cooper's final Pack 946 meeting, before bridging to Boy Scouts

Parents must set strict rules for pellet guns

2012-01-13T08:30:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Last week an eighth-grader in Brownsville was shot and killed when he refused to stand down and lower his weapon.

Turns out that his weapon was a pellet gun that looked very much like a real gun. Officers say they couldn’t distinguish the difference, and force was necessary for fear that the child would shoot and kill others.

Last week in my own neighborhood, battles were brewing over pellet guns.

The guns are popular after-school playthings for many neighbor boys, even though it’s against Frisco law to discharge them in the city limits.

A middle school boy was threatening younger kids by pointing the gun at close range. An elementary school boy was hit and bruised by one of the pellets.

This is all in open green space, near homes and backyards dotted with jungle gyms, space where parents are usually comfortable allowing their children to run around unsupervised.

I grew up with no exposure to guns, no interest in weapons. I don’t understand the fascination that people have with shooting virtual people on video games or shooting real people with pellets or paintballs. But I recognize it exists and that it’s the culture I’m raising my own children in.

In an effort to better understand gun play, this week I called on Dr. Sarah Feuerbacher, a licensed clinical social worker supervisor and the clinic director of the Family Counseling Center at Southern Methodist University.

Feuerbacher, mom of a toddler son, specializes in family violence and healthy relationships. Here are excerpts from our conversation.

Why do children, especially boys, like to play with guns?

Just like girls are socialized to typically play with Barbies and pink things, it’s going to be the same thing for little boys at a very early age. It’s very much a socialization thing. It’s very much environmental.

Even if a child lives in a home without guns, they aren’t so isolated to live only in that home. At some point that child is going to be exposed to it.

The pellet guns sold today are remarkably realistic interpretations of automatic weapons. Why is the market eager for such realistic weapons?

There’s a video that I show in family violence class, Tough Guise by Jason Katz. It goes through and depicts pictures of G.I. Joe from World War II up to today. It’s incredible to see how the action figure’s body has changed, depicting a much stronger, bulkier individual. The guns are also true to form.

The guns have changed since the cowboy days. The real guns are getting bigger.

If a family chooses to allow their children to play with pellet guns, what kind of rules do you suggest? What should those families talk about with their children?

Never aim it at something living, especially a person, but even a squirrel. Teach them the difference between something with life and aiming at the ground.

Talk about what it represents and where you might see a gun for real. Ask, “How do guns make other people feel?”

Talk to them at a young age — what are the rules around real guns in the house?

They should make sure the family is protected, that there is appropriate security.

If a parent has a gun in the home and a child happens upon it, that child is going to be at a disadvantage if they haven’t talked about it.

Shooting pellet guns in a safe environment at targets on a tree is very different than running around, chasing each other in the street unsupervised.

How can families that do allow access to these kinds of guns live peacefully with families that don’t?

I highly recommend that pellet guns be kept in a gun case or safe, locked.

When a pellet gun is used, it’s with appropriate supervision, like a father taking his son to a deer lease. Go to an appropriate location. Put a target up together. Shoot it in that capacity.

The entire system should model what a parent would do in a real gun environment.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

From January 2006

2012-01-11T13:09:00.000-06:00

Baby Katie and her stuffed ladybug Lotty

Before church this morning

2012-01-08T11:25:00.000-06:00

Katie: Diversity Means

2012-01-06T13:52:00.001-06:00

Katie entered two pieces in this year's Reflections contest -- a pastel drawing and a poem. Both pieces earned an Award of Excellence and advanced to district. Woo hoo, Katie!

Everyone is Different

Kathryn Damm

No one looks the same,

And that is good.

Some people have blonde hair, some have brown hair, some have black hair.

Some people have light skin,

Some people have dark skin.

No one looks the same,

And that is good.

You shouldn’t make fun of people or laugh at them by the way they look.

You could hurt their feelings and make them so sad.

God created us all differently,

And that is good.

It wouldn’t be fun if we were all the same.

We would get bored if we looked and acted the same.

We all have different gifts from God,

And that is good.

Some people have the gift of being good at art.

Some have the gift of being kind.

Some have the gift of singing and dancing.

Some have the gift of being brave.

Some have the gift of sewing.

Some have the gift of being a compassionate teacher.

Everyone is different,

And that is good.

***

Katie's drawing is titled "Winter Spring Summer Fall" and shows all four seasons in one image. Here's a photo from her process.

And the final product:

Cooper: Diversity Means

2012-01-06T13:45:00.000-06:00

Cooper wrote a poem for this year's PTA Reflections contest. Today we learned that his entry won an Award of Excellence at school and has advanced to the district level -- the same as last year's poem. Go, Coop!

The World’s Differences

Cooper Damm

Diversity makes this world richer.

Because of diversity in people,

I can be friends with a British boy and an Asian girl.

Because of diversity in food,

I can have crunchy cheese toast for breakfast, chicken dumplings for lunch and pizza for dinner.

Because of diversity in literature,

I can read the mysterious Secret series and books about mythical gods.

Because of diversity in skills,

People can do amazing things in the fields of science and art

And excel in

Chess, writing, reading, cooking, math and social studies.

Because of diversity in music,

I can listen to the blues, country and rock music.

Because of diversity in animals,

A turtle is slow and has a shell for protection,

A chameleon is quick and can change color for camouflage,

A lion is fast and has sharp teeth to tear through flesh.

Because of diversity in landforms,

Texas has big skies that no mountain can touch

And Colorado has peaceful valleys and mountains that can touch the sky.

Because of diversity you can have a peaceful relationship

With a Christian, a Muslim and a Buddhist

All in the same community.

The world is diverse,

And it enriches my life with countless things.

Judy Blume speaks to me (in books and on Twitter)

2012-01-06T07:05:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Every now and then I’m reminded that I haven’t read Gone With the Wind.

It’s certainly not the only classic I’ve missed. But when other women — my Southern sisters, especially — learn of this particular shortcoming, I typically hear a passionate gasp, delivered with the sort of drama I imagine honors Scarlett O’Hara herself.

Even worse to some: I haven’t seen the movie, either.

I know enough to get by. I know that Scarlett, out of desperation, fashions a gown from green drapes and that in the film Clark Gable delivers the ultimate break-up line: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

The latest reminder of my literary and film omission came during a recent Twitter conversation with friends, some of whom were quoting the movie.

That late-night virtual exchange renewed my interest in the novel. This is the year, I’ve decided with conviction, that I will read Margaret Mitchell’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book, a copy of which I bought three years ago, when I was feeling similarly uneducated. I’ll reward myself after with the movie.

Gone With the Wind is one of my measurable goals for 2012.

Another also involves reading, and this one has a deadline.

I plan to reread as much of the Judy Blume anthology as possible before April 19, when the beloved children’s author will be in Dallas to speak. When I think of all the events I’ve got planned this year, Judy Blume’s engagement ranks near the top.

(Typical writing style would dictate that I call her “Blume” after the first reference, but I’ve called her “Judy Blume” in one breath almost my whole life, and I don’t plan to stop now.)

If you tell me you haven’t read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, prepare for a passionate, dramatic gasp. Same goes for Blubber and Deenie and Superfudge.

(I will spare you my exaggerated disdain if you haven’t read her more recent series, the Pain and the Great One. Neither have I, though they’re on my to-read list.)

Judy Blume was the hip, soulful, empathetic parent we all longed for. Her stories of childhood and adolescence answered our questions and gave us fodder for whispered conversations with friends. (None more so than Wifey, which we all knew was written for our moms but we stealthily read anyway.)

I learned about Adolf Hitler and the dangers of jellyfish off the coast of Miami in Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself.

Blubber spoke to my fears of the school bus and being bullied in general. In fact, I never was bullied — in part, I believe, because I was on guard after being warned by Judy Blume.

For months after reading It’s Not the End of the World, I would assign a grade to my day, always seeking the elusive A+, just like Karen.

And Margaret. Dear Margaret. The sixth-grader who introduced me to exercises that allegedly increase bust size and the horror of 1970s feminine hygiene products.

Beyond the puberty angle, which garners most of the attention, Judy Blume helped to shape my early thoughts on God and faith at a time when no adults around me were interested in going to church or even talking about religion.

In a twist that I could have never imagined 30 years ago — when I first read Are You There God? — I now follow Judy Blume on Twitter. I know, in real time, what movies she’s seen and likes, what she’s serving for holiday meals, when she’s buckling down to write.

When her updates pop into my Twitter feed, I’m reminded of the power of good words and good books. And I’m reminded to keep seeking stories that entertain and inspire and explain.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

***

Arts & Letters Live hosts Judy Blume at 7 p.m. April 19 at First United Methodist Church of Dallas. $16. dallasmuseumofart.org. 214-922-1818.

Work nest

2012-01-03T19:20:00.000-06:00

I'm about to settle in for another night shift. Since September, I've been working three nights a week from home, editing on deadline for the DMN.

My favorite work night of the week is the night that overlaps with Laura, my best Universal Desk friend. She always greets me with a hello email. She anticipates questions and answers them before I even think of them. She offers excellent advice. She sends me little snippets of her own life at home and always makes me laugh.

Sunday night, as I virtually reported for duty, I sent her a note describing my work nest -- my workspace for four hours.

PJs and slippers

Sitting in Steve's grandfather's old green leather chair

Feet on ottoman

Covered in new, soft green blanket (Christmas gift)

Pillow behind me

Coffee, iPad and iPhone by my side

MacBook in my lap

And now, I'm off to create tonight's work nest.

Before church this morning

2012-01-01T13:15:00.002-06:00

A week without planning before the calendar fills up

2011-12-30T09:19:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

I’m a native Texan who has often coveted four distinct seasons, the kind from storybooks. Where spring means daffodils and quiet rain, summer means pleasant backyard dinners, fall means brilliantly colored leaves that drop into piles perfect for leaping, and winter means soft snow for building snowmen and forts.

Instead, we get tornado warnings and suffocating heat and difficult-to-predict conditions for Halloween costumes and the occasional ice storm that shuts down a five-county area.

As long as I’m in Texas, I’ll miss out on idyllic, picture-perfect seasons — and continue to seek contentment with what we do have.

Besides, it’s not the weather that dictates the rhythm of the year in our house. Rather, the rhythm is decided by calendars related to school and Scouts, soccer and basketball, church and PTA.

For example, we’re about to enter the season of standardized testing. This year Cooper will take math on March 27, reading on March 28 and science on April 27. It’s never advisable to miss school unless you’re actually ill, but from now until tests (this year called STAAR) are over, classroom time is especially crucial.

At the same time, we’re entering an intense Cub Scout season: winter campout, Pinewood Derby (and all the prep that comes with it), food drive, race to complete advancements and finally the Blue and Gold Banquet in mid-February, at which Cooper will bridge to Boy Scouts.

Earlier that same day, he’ll play his first soccer game of the spring season. (Calling it “spring season” is cruel for those first few weeks, when the last of winter’s winds howl across elevated, treeless fields.)

Before all of those seasons begin, though, we’ve been enjoying the gift of this week — the quiet lull after the nonstop activity of Thanksgiving giving way to four weeks of Christmas.

In years past, I didn’t fully embrace the laziness that this week can offer. We usually fit in a museum visit or two. We might head to Fort Worth for some Cowtown culture. Rarely is there a day without a plan, without a reason to wake up with an alarm clock.

This year, though, I was worn out before the first Sunday in Advent. I didn’t want to deny Cooper and Katie the social fun of the season; I also didn’t want to collapse before Santa could visit.

My compromise: a plan to be free from plans for one week, to keep the days between Dec. 25 and Jan. 1 free from obligation (except work). This week we’ve stayed up late, slept late, read books, put together Lego sets, played with American Girl dolls, watched movies at home.

When a friend called to ask if we could meet for lunch, I was able to say yes. Our calendar was wide open.

When another friend emailed with an invitation to bring the kids over to play with new toys, I was able to say yes.

I don’t feel ragged or rushed. I may even start 2012 feeling refreshed.

This season of leisure may be short-lived, but the week is a welcome respite after a full holiday season and before a whole bunch of new seasons.

You might even call it idyllic.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Sensitive soul

2011-12-27T16:30:00.001-06:00

On Christmas Eve, we attended the 7 p.m. candlelight service then drove to Jim and Betty's for dinner and stockings.

As we drove west on Frankford Road through Carrollton and Far North Dallas to get to the Tollway, Cooper spotted someone walking in the cold, damp night.

Cooper's small voice from the backseat: "Mommy, I just saw a homeless man walking down the road. He was wearing a Santa hat."

And then Cooper began to cry.

I offered to turn around to find the man so that we could give him money. Cooper said no as he continued to cry.

I tried to assure him that most likely the man in the Santa hat wasn't homeless. He was probably without a car and walking to a nearby store.

"Oh, I hope so," Cooper said.

Me, too.

"And the king will answer them,

'Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these

who are members of my family, you did it to me.' "

(Matthew 25:40)

Apples to Apples

2011-12-25T23:02:00.002-06:00

Cooper and Katie received the game Apples to Apples from Aunt Ginny. After lunch and dessert (including traditional British Christmas crackers, encasing fortune-telling fish, candy and paper crowns) today, all six Damms gathered at the kitchen table to play.

It was a fight to the finish; Papa won, with Uncle Jim, Cooper and Grandma all close behind.

The victor during play

Katie and I formed a formidable team.

Grandma suggests that future games allow for some card-culling on account of some not-exactly-family-friendly phrases.

Uncle Jim was one card away from beating his dad.

O Christmas Tree

2011-12-25T21:51:00.000-06:00

Cooper and Katie have had a surprise in the works for a few days. I was instructed not to go in Cooper's closet. And to not wake up too early Christmas morning.

All was revealed this morning: They had designed and built a Christmas tree using pieces from their Straws and Connectors set (one of the most-used toys ever purchased in the Damm house -- off and on for five years).

The idea was Katie's. The design required a lot of trial and error. Cooper developed the final design, based on Katie's requirements that it be tall and green and shaped like a Christmas tree. And that it have yellow lights (the connectors) and a yellow star on top.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 25

2011-12-25T21:40:00.000-06:00

Little Red was gone this morning. We found this note, next to a half-eaten cookie left for Santa. (We also left three marshmallows for LRC. There was no trace of them this morning.)

The text, in case you can't read the photo:

Dear Cooper & Katie,

Merry Christmas!

I sure love you both. Let me tell you, I hear a lot of stories from other elves, and it is totally true that you two are at the top of the list for kind and compassionate behavior.

I am proud of how much you help your mommy around the house! I am impressed by your hard work on homework and reading! Cooper, your piano playing gets better every week. Katie, your practice on cartwheels and dribbling is really paying off.

Thank you for giving me a good home for the third year in a row. It’s tough to say goodbye after such a fun month with your family. I’m thankful that I get to return next year!

Before church tonight (special Christmas Eve photo at Steve's bench)

2011-12-24T23:22:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 24

2011-12-24T08:52:00.001-06:00

Can you spy Little Red Charlie? He's spending Christmas Eve in Steve's stocking. (Steve and Little Red never met. Little Red came to the Damm family just after Steve died. No doubt, though, that Steve would have appreciated LRC's spirit and humor and slightly mischievous ways.)

Little Red is perfectly positioned to greet Santa tonight and then hitch a ride on his sleigh for an adventurous journey back to the North Pole.

He's already curious about what next year will bring, when he's visiting the Damm house with a middle-school Cooper and second-grade Katie. He's certain they'll each be a couple of inches taller and a little wiser and filled with even more love and laughter.

Merry Christmas!

Constant surprise is the best gift of parenting

2011-12-23T17:19:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

When you’re little and it’s a couple of days from Christmas, the anticipation of what’s to come after Santa visits is almost too much to bear.

You’ve studied the catalogs and circled options. You’ve compared notes with friends. You’ve written a list. You’ve counted the number of sleeps until the big day.

Then you wake up Dec. 25 and rush out of your room to discover the gifts.

And then it’s over.

If it’s the right gift, it’s not really over, of course. You can build with it or play with it or create with it over and over. But you get only that one shot to be surprised.

I’m learning that one of the best gifts of parenting is the constant factor of surprise. Admittedly, not all of the surprises are as welcome as Christmas morning, but the joyful surprises definitely outnumber the lousy ones.

Parenting surprises are often truly unanticipated, stunning even. There’s no countdown to the exact moment your child takes unassisted steps. Or says “thank you” without being prompted. Or independently sounds out and reads a road sign from the backseat of the car.

My 10-year-old son has had his share of school-related struggles. Cooper’s a big-picture, big-idea kind of guy, so he has to work extra hard on tasks requiring precise attention to detail.

He has dysgraphia, making writing a particularly laborious and frustrating chore. On top of that, we learned a year ago that despite his love for reading, he had been obliviously coping with and compensating for dyslexia.

Cooper doesn’t let these challenges define him, though. He’s learning to break big tasks into manageable chunks. He misses regular class work every day to meet with our public school’s excellent dyslexia specialist. He has to study spelling words with more tenacity than many of his peers, and yet he hasn’t made less than an A on a spelling test in months.

Cooper, like fifth-graders all over the country, is learning American history this school year. Every few weeks, he’s tested on a group of states, their capitals and their location.

For his first test, we studied at home every night for a week. I quizzed him randomly (“Coop, it’s time to wash up for dinner. But first, what’s the capital of Delaware?”) and gave him blank maps to be filled in.

By the Thursday before the test, Cooper was, without question, ready. I wasn’t surprised when he came home with a big ol’ 100.

A few weeks passed. Then Cooper’s social studies teacher sent an email with a list of reminders, including notice of a cumulative states test the very next day. Somehow I overlooked previous notes about the test, this one on the first 11 states he studied, plus an additional 12 southeastern states.

I admit that I panicked.

When Cooper came home that day, I asked why he hadn’t told me about the upcoming test.

“I’ve been studying in class,” he said with casual confidence. “I’m ready.”

I was skeptical but reluctantly let it go. I didn’t mention Kentucky or Arkansas or any other U.S. state the rest of the night.

When Cooper came home the next day, his first words were, “I made a 100.” He earned that perfect score all by himself. He proved that he’s managing his time better, that he’s more capable of knowing when he does and doesn’t need help.

What a welcome gift for this momma who worries more than she should — and looks forward to the next random surprise worth celebrating.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 23

2011-12-23T09:18:00.000-06:00

Little Red is starting to feel nostalgic. In a couple of days he'll be gone, back to the North Pole for 11 months (though he's angling for a beach vacation sometime in there). He's going to miss the Damm house and all its activity. Today he's nestled next to Santa photos: 3-and-half-year-old Katie from 2008 and 3-and-a-half-year-old Cooper from 2004. And he's perfectly positioned to see all the cooking that's going on today. Mom's already made a batch of cranberry sauce (the kind that glops out of the can is icky). LRC is hoping that one of today's recipes calls for marshmallows.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 22

2011-12-22T08:54:00.000-06:00

This morning we found LRC at the base of our tabletop Christmas tree. He's surrounded by special ornaments -- including a carriage from Mackinac Island (2007 visit), macaroni angel handmade by Tyra's mom, a photo of Steve, Tyra, Cooper & baby Katie, the White House (2000 visit), an angel in remembrance of Steve. They are all sweet reminders of special moments and the love that binds us and makes us strong.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 21

2011-12-21T08:50:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie has donned a scarf for his stay today in the freezer, where he keeps watch over a pint of limited edition peppermint mocha ice cream. He's holding a spoon, but without opposable thumbs, I'm not sure he'll have much luck digging into this delicious treat.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 20

2011-12-20T07:41:00.000-06:00

Sometime overnight, Little Red removed Sibley (Katie's American Girl doll) from her luxurious bubble bath and dove in for his own soak. Don't be fooled, though, by his state of relaxation. While he's getting squeaky clean today, he can also observe life in Katie's room (will she make her bed? put away her shoes?) and overhear interaction in Cooper's room and the playroom (where some serious Lego-building is underway).

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 19

2011-12-19T08:47:00.000-06:00

LRC can't contain his excitiement. It's Monday morning and his charges are still here! Winter break has begun, and Little Red gets much more time with Cooper and Katie. He chose a spot in the middle of the action -- perched atop a family photo on the mantle in the family room. (Also, he loves the photo frame and reminder to "Be joyful always," courtesy of Thessalonians 5:16.)

Plumpy'nut

2011-12-18T16:59:00.002-06:00

Katie and her wares

Our church is participating in the Advent Conspiracy again. The idea is that you spend less on gifts for people who don't really need them and more on folks who do.

In the past years we've helped buy mosquito nets in the effort to prevent malaria and clean water wells in underdeveloped countries.

This year, money donated will buy Plumpy'nut, a peanut butter-based food that helps reverse severe malnutrition in children. It's a nutrient-rich, shelf-stable product that requires no additional ingredients or cooking.

On Wednesday, Pastor Andy was visiting us at the house. Katie came into the family room with two tubs from her arts-and-crafts supplies -- jingle bells and puff balls.

She said that she wanted to raise money to buy Plumpy'nut by selling a handful of the bells and balls for $1. And she wanted to raise $10 by Sunday.

By the end of the night, she had $4.47.

Fellow first-grader Jason buys $2 worth of puff balls and jingle bells from the family room store.

On Thursday afternoon, she set up shop in the family room, and I posted a FaceBook invitation to neighbors to stop by. She sold a few more handfuls, often for more than the $1 she requested.

I delivered orders to a PTA board cookie exchange that night. And again the next day at school.

The last of Katie's inventory

By Friday afternoon, she was out of inventory. And she'd raised $49.47.

Pastor Andy spoke about Katie and her fundraising efforts at the 8:30 service this morning. Then he donated a dollar to her total, to push her over $50. Pastor Georgia did the same.

After the service, a few more church members approached Katie with dollar bills.

She walked out of the sanctuary, through the Narthex and into the hallway, where she handed over $59.47 to members of our church missions committee -- almost six times her goal.

Thank you to everyone who supported Katie's cause!

A packet of Plumpy'nut

Is it possible to get bigger in less than 48 hours?

2011-12-18T13:28:00.000-06:00

Cooper on Friday afternoon, before leaving for a Webelos campout

Cooper on Sunday morning, home from camp (wearing five shirts to keep warm)

Before piano lessons today

2011-12-18T13:25:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 18

2011-12-18T07:16:00.001-06:00

Little Red Charlie is spending today surrounded by love and warm wishes sent from friends near and far. He's tucked into the Christmas card holder that hangs by the garage door. From here he can see his charges come and go (lots of both on Sundays). And while they're gone, he can focus on the beautiful faces and sweet words captured on each card that has made its way to the Damm house this season.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 17

2011-12-17T22:53:00.001-06:00

Little Red isn't afraid of heights, of course. He flies to and from the North Pole nightly. (How exactly is one of the current big questions in the Damm house.) So it's not surprising that he's spying from a top spot in the kitchen.

Today he missed Cooper, who is camping with Webelos from the mighty Cub Scout Pack 946. LRC was able to watch Katie create origami animals (a parakeet and a tiger) and watch her make a surprise breakfast for Mom: bread with honey and marshmallows. (Seriously.) LRC is proud of Katie's initiative and applauds her love for marshmallows.

Through Katie's eyes

2011-12-16T22:56:00.000-06:00

Cooper left for a Webelos winter campout today. He and his group were supposed to leave Mr. Brian's house at 3:30 p.m.

But Mr. Brian's SUV, the one that pulls the big trailer full of tents and coolers and assorted gear, had a tire with a slow leak. (I am thankful the leak was discovered before the trip rather than during.)

So another dad, Mr. Rodney, offered his SUV. For reasons I don't understand, the keys to his SUV were at his Plano office. While he drove south and back to fetch his keys, Katie and I waited with Cooper and a few other boys and some dads.

(photo by Tyra/all others by Katie)

For some of the time, the boys played touch football. Katie watched as long as she could, and then she grew bored and asked for my camera. Here are some of her images. You can see more here.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 16

2011-12-16T09:50:00.000-06:00

Big news in the Damm house: Yesterday we received a cheerful cookie jar filled with homemade cookies as a Christmas gift. The happy snowman has sidled up next to the wise owl (which contains leftover Halloween candy). Little Red Charlie's loyalties are split between the two, and honestly, the contents of each jar. Is LRC here to spy on folks who might sneak too many treats? Or here to sneak a few sweets for himself?

Some kids need more holiday cheer than others

2011-12-16T09:24:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Talk show host Jimmy Kimmel challenged parents this fall to (1) lie to their children about eating all of their Halloween candy and (2) record the conversation.

The resulting four-minute clip, complete with crying and yelling, has been viewed on YouTube almost 24 million times.

Kimmel recycled the idea for Christmas. This time, he asked parents to (1) wrap a terrible gift, (2) give it to their children as an early Christmas offering and (3) record the conversation.

No doubt the newest clip, complete with youthful disgust and superfluous use of the word “stupid,” will be one of the runaway viral video hits of the season.

Both videos are slightly funny and seriously painful — and not just because we’re watching parents deceive children.

What’s most disturbing is the raw reminder of how spoiled we’ve become, of how we’ve enabled our children to expect much more than they need. (Of course, we expect much more than we need.)

In the Halloween video, children fall to the ground, whine, throw empty wrappers, punch a wall, declare angrily, “Daddy, you’re ugly!”

Their parents can’t disguise laughter behind the camera. And maybe you laugh, too, but uncomfortably so, worried that your own children would fall apart under similar deceit. Or maybe you laugh without regret, fed up with spoiled kids and a society that seems to unnecessarily cater to young people.

The fake Christmas gifts are, admittedly, stinky. Half-eaten sandwich. Old banana. Single hot dog. Beat-up hammer. Gender-specific gifts purposefully given to the opposite sex.

And yet the dramatic reactions are still a little shocking.

“Take this back! I want a refund!” screams one boy. He eventually devolves into the classic “I hate you!” Another wails, “I asked for a toy!” and chunks his gift across the room.

These are some seriously dejected kids.

Of course they are. We have trained our kids that Christmas is the most magical, wonderful, joyful, sugar-eating, gift-giving extravaganza of the year. Give a boy a Hello Kitty shirt or a girl an onion, and you’re guaranteed some disrespectful drama.

We’ve taught them that if you make a list and you’re really good (and honestly, even if you’re not), you’ll get all or most of what you ask for.

I’ve convinced my kids that you can ask Santa for only one or two or at most three gifts. In my role as a Santa helper, that seems reasonable to me.

When we visited our Santa last week, Cooper and Katie were given a postcard to write a wish list. There were 10 lines.

There are certainly children in our community and all over the country and the world who actually need at least 10 gifts from Santa, but they’re not the ones standing in line in a suburban bookstore, wearing coordinating outfits and playing on smartphones to pass the time.

While Kimmel’s videos portray one kind of American kid — the one with too much already, the one who appears more greedy than grateful, the one who’s quick to complain — there’s a different kind of American kid that isn’t funny even in a painful way.

A 2011 report on quality of life by Children’s Medical Center reveals that 30 percent of Dallas County children live in poverty. The North Texas Food Bank estimates that more than 25 percent of Dallas-area kids are food insecure.

We’re not catering to those kids. We barely notice that they exist.

If you’re looking for a way to fulfill some true needs for a child — not another of a long list of wants — you’ve got plenty of local options. The food bank, Salvation Army, Metrocrest Service Center, Voice of Hope, Big Brothers Big Sisters.

A little money goes a long way with these nonprofits. And the recipients aren’t likely to stomp their feet or crumple to the floor. They’ll be grateful.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 15

2011-12-15T07:58:00.001-06:00

LRC is a big fan of the Big Guy -- Pere Noel, Babbo Natale, Julenissen, Father Christmas. Santa Claus to you and me. Little Red finds comfort spending the day with this year's photo of Cooper, Katie and good ol' SC.

Little Red would also like to address the brewing Mommy War over the Elf on the Shelf. (For background, you can read a recent blog entry by clicking here.)

LRC believes that each family gets the kind of elf that it needs. (Not everyone even needs or wants an elf, and that's OK.) What each elf chooses to do in his or her own home shouldn't be judged by others. And no one should punch anyone else in the throat, virtual or otherwise. Peace to all elves and their families!

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 14

2011-12-14T07:59:00.000-06:00

Little Red has heard reports that Katie is really improving on her bed-making skills. Today he's hiding on top of a pink purse that hangs from a hook on her wall near her bed. It's the perfect spot for observing Katie as she pulls up sheets and blankets and arranges pillows and stuffed animals just so. And tonight he'll stare at her as she falls asleep -- not in a creepy way at all.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 13

2011-12-13T08:05:00.000-06:00

Little Red is reading Calvin & Hobbes. What's unclear is his motive. Is he brushing up on the art of mischief for his own purposes? Or is he familiarizing himself with the kind of kids who earn their way on to the naughty list?

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 12

2011-12-12T08:09:00.000-06:00

All good elves and friends of elves have seen the movie Elf. Remember how much sugar Buddy the Elf devours? In fact, he says, "We elves like to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup."

No doubt, then, that elves are experts in proper dental hygiene. And that's why our own Little Red has squeezed himself into a plastic bin, eager to see children reaching for toothpaste morning and night. The shelf just above him includes dental floss. Nearby cabinet contains mouthwash.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 11

2011-12-11T11:28:00.000-06:00

Little Red feels right at home on the kitchen breakfront -- cozy red flannel, Santa helicopter (an antique toy from Grandma Betty), wooden Santa, Advent calendar. He's perfectly positioned to observe afternoon homework (Cooper likes to finish as much as he can before the school week begins) and crafting sessions (Katie likes to create as much as she can every day of the week).

After church this morning

2011-12-11T11:20:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 10

2011-12-10T10:00:00.000-06:00

It may appear that LRC is interested in beads and pearls and glittery things. His true interest, though, is guarding the nearby closet door. Beyond that door lies some hidden Christmas gifts. And from here he's perfectly positioned to spot prying children. They've never snooped before, but Little Red is a vigilant elf. (A day surrounded by jewelry is just a bonus.)

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 9

2011-12-09T10:46:00.000-06:00

Sometimes it's lonely being an elf. Silent all day. Always watching others have fun. Sure, there are other elves to visit with at the North Pole each night, but some of them just brag about their own adventures and locales. (Some of the smuggest elves are those that get to hang out in beachfront houses every day of December.)

Anyway, LRC today sought the comforting company of some other plush creatures. This gang lives in Katie's room, in a big rolling bin. They've got some stories to tell.

As we grow, our souls need nourishment, too

2011-12-09T10:35:00.002-06:00

From today's Briefing:

We parents are the keepers of growing bodies and souls. We are charged with nourishing both.

It’s monumental, really, being responsible for the physical and emotional and spiritual well-being of humans, with the goal of developing healthy and independent and well-adjusted adults.

Of all the advice I’ve read on how to do that exactly, one quote, courtesy of C.S. Lewis, has offered the most guidance:

“You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”

It’s a powerful message when discussing self-worth. How we fix our hair, whether or not we have glasses or braces or freckles, how our clothes and shoes compare with a peer’s wardrobe — none of these qualities define who we are.

As Martin Luther King Jr. told us almost 50 years ago, we are defined by the content of our character. How we show dignity and respect to others, how we value relationships over things, how we express love to our neighbors (and whom we even recognize as our neighbors) — these qualities define who we are.

When my husband was dying and I needed a way to prepare our children for what that would mean physically and spiritually, I relied on Lewis’ words.

I explained to our then-4-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son that the body is a temporary (and important) home for an eternal soul. That when Daddy’s body eventually stopped working, his soul would be free from cancer. That while the physical heart stops beating, the emotional heart never stops loving.

When Katie or Cooper have increasingly intense questions now about how Steve died, I think of that quote before I answer. I emphasize the importance of caring for these temporary bodies the best we can while never ignoring our spirits.

Lewis’ words have been especially meaningful to me the past few days.

A young girl we know started chemotherapy for leukemia last Friday.

The drugs designed to kill her cancer cells will most likely steal her beautiful hair. As I explained to Katie and Cooper why this happens — and how the hair eventually grows back — I also reminded them that appearance means nothing.

What matters is what’s happening on the inside. What matters is how health will be restored in that child’s body. What matters is the condition of her spirit, her soul, while she’s undergoing treatment and in recovery and on the road to remission.

I’ve also been thinking of Lewis’ words in the wake of the tragic propeller accident in McKinney last weekend. Fashion writer Lauren Scruggs, 23, accidentally walked into the path of a spinning airplane propeller after a sightseeing flight.

Her left hand was severed. Her young face slashed. Her skull injured. She surely has a long road to recovery.

Scruggs has built a career around sharing beautiful clothing, shoes, accessories, people and locales with others. Her story is an international story because of her undeniable beauty.

What really matters, though, is what’s happening on the inside. How her body heals, how she regains function. What really matters is the condition of her spirit, by all accounts joyful and beautiful before the accident.

No matter how her body heals, how her appearance may have changed, it’s the soul that really counts.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 8

2011-12-08T08:43:00.000-06:00

Little Red is snuggled inside a burlap stocking that hangs from the television cabinet in the family room. I believe this means (1) he's warming up from yesterday's hideout in the refrigerator and (2) he's wanting to make sure that no one watches television today. (A certain family member has been known to watch a syndicated rerun of The Big Bang Theory during lunch, which sort of derails the work momentum that should be taking place with a certain family member.)

2005 and 2011

2011-12-07T21:42:00.001-06:00

Oh, my heart.

I know that children are supposed to grow. For goodness sake, I've written a dozen columns (like this one) on the bittersweetness of our babies growing into the independent people we want them to be.

And yet my heart still aches to stare at these photos, separated by six years filled with intermingled joy and sorrow that was inconceivable way back in 2005.

(Check out 2008 here. And visit the Damm house for the complete collection, dating to 2001, all with the same wonderful Santa.)

Cooper, age 4; Santa, timeless; Katie, 6 months

Cooper, 11; Santa, just the same; Katie, 6

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 7

2011-12-07T07:51:00.000-06:00

There are few things as startling as opening the refrigerator at 6:30 a.m. to begin breakfast and lunch preparation only to find an elf staring at you.

Little Red holds a tangerine while seated atop a chair of blackberries. No doubt he's emphasizing the importance of at least five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. And he'll be the first to know if there's too much snacking between meals.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 6

2011-12-06T09:18:00.000-06:00

Little Red must be hankering for some downtime. He's spending today in Cooper's room, where there's not a whole lot of activity. LRC will be able to spy Coop reading tonight before bedtime. And maybe catch Margie the dog settling in for a long almost-winter's nap.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 5

2011-12-05T08:18:00.001-06:00

LRC seems to be seeking shelter from the ongoing storms. He's tucked himself inside a lantern on the family room mantel. When all the people are gone today, he can stealthily read some spiritual guidance (Merton's classic "No Man Is an Island" -- really, no elf is, either) and cautionary tales on letting consumerism spoil the spirit of Christmas (Hank Stuever's "Tinsel," set right here in Frisco, Texas).

Before today's piano lesson

2011-12-04T14:36:00.001-06:00

(It's been raining almost nonstop today. We got a lucky break after church and Sunday school, before piano, to take a photo.)

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 4

2011-12-04T07:42:00.001-06:00

Little Red is precariously perched atop a 2009 drawing of a prairie chicken by Cooper. From this station in the front entryway, he can keep an eye on the Christmas tree and the gifts underneath (no shaking!). He can watch children walking to and from bedrooms and the playroom. He can also keep watch over furry Margie, whose lifelong goal is to sprint out the front door without a leash.

Dec. 3: Little Red Charlie

2011-12-03T11:35:00.000-06:00

If you ask me, LRC looks like he's sleeping on the job today, lounging in the cozy arc of a wreath hanging on the door that leads to the garage. I told Katie that he looks lazy today. Her response? "No, Mommy, he's teaching us that it's not OK to slam doors." (Because if we did, he'd surely tumble.)

Katie is almost a shoo-in for a good report to Santa tonight. Me, not so much.

A mom's best holiday gift: deep breaths and patience

2011-12-02T09:16:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

At the top of my December to-do list, the list with no end: Take lots of deep breaths.

Those breaths help me draw patience from what I hope is a never-ceasing well, help remind me that we can’t possibly do everything, help me focus on the whole point of the 24 days leading up to Christmas.

My holiday-related patience has already been tested by an alleged pre-lit Christmas tree.

The first two years of the tree, all 850 lights shone bright. The past two years revealed a steady decline in the quality of those lights. And this year, when the tree was plugged in, a lonely grouping of about 50 bulbs shone.

I enlisted help from a friend, who coaxed about half the additional branches to light. The rest of the tree required extra strands and lots of wrapping — reminding me of why we all embraced pre-lit trees in the first place.

After days of wrangling, short bursts of decorating and lots of deep breaths, our tree is bright and covered in ornaments representing special moments, interests and adventures in our family.

We love adventures, even when they’re just a few miles from home. And when you live in North Texas, there is no shortage of Christmas-related adventures.

Trains at NorthPark. Candlelight at Dallas Heritage Village. ICE! and sledding at the Gaylord Texan. Half a dozen varieties of The Nutcracker. Ice skating. Gingerbread villages. Tubes at the downtown Neiman’s. Holiday in the Park. Movies. Santa in a giant snow globe. Santa on parade. Santa in a faux cabin.

It’s impossible to do it all.

This year I chose two special events for our family and penned them on the calendar: an afternoon tea at a fancy hotel and a morning performance of Madeline’s Christmas at the Dallas Children’s Theater.

Then I took a deep breath and resolved to not worry about all the other adventures we’d probably miss because of school and work and basketball games and Destination ImagiNation and Sundays at church.

I resolved not to worry about some of the regrets I’d have to send in reply to party invitations.

I’ve been focusing instead on making each day of the season special at home.

We eat everyday meals on cheerful plastic Christmas plates, placed atop colorful Christmas linens.

Our Elf on the Shelf (a stuffed sprite who spies on behalf of Santa, flies to the North Pole each night to report the day’s events and returns before children awake) has returned, adding Christmasy joy to each morning. Katie spins through the house trying to find our elf’s newest perch, never failing to marvel over his magic.

We’re watching recorded Christmas specials when we have time.

We all just watched for the first time Nestor, the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey. Katie sobbed when the momma donkey dies in an effort to save Nestor’s life. Cooper declared the show’s stop motion animation “creepy.” I vowed to screen our options better.

Just yesterday we started opening tiny flaps on multiple Advent calendars, counting down to the big day and, more important, reminding us what we’re about to celebrate in the first place.

That’s when those deep breaths really come in handy.

I need something centering, something to remind me that we all are responsible for piling too much onto Christmas. That if we feel like we’ve failed in some way to create the most magical experiences, it’s only because we set our expectations too high.

I need something to remind me that Advent is not about being busy but about anticipating the birth of Jesus.

I’m getting closer to that calm center with each cleansing breath, and I’m even becoming more willing to knock a few to-dos off my December list.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 2

2011-12-02T09:13:00.000-06:00

LRC is an elf of mystery. He spends one-twelfth of the year in our home and yet we know so little about him. Does he eat anything other than marshmallows? Does he tire of his red and white uniform? Does he tire of the Christmas music playing seemingly nonstop in the Damm house? And how exactly does he get to and from the North Pole every single night? Perhaps on the wings of a tin chicken?

Little Red Charlie: Dec. 1

2011-12-01T07:46:00.000-06:00

From this spot, nestled in garland at the top of the staircase, Little Red can sneakily observe activities in the kitchen and family room. (He's tiny, but he's not afraid of heights. He flies to and from the North Pole nightly, for goodness sake.)

Little Red Charlie: Nov. 30

2011-11-30T07:53:00.001-06:00

Our tree-hugging spy is looking forward to this afternoon, when Cooper comes home from school (Katie will be at chess club) and will surely practice his music. This piano perch is the perfect spot for listening and feeling Cooper's music (currently a collection of Christmas hymns and carols and a jazzy number called "Deep Down Blues"). LRC also has a panoramic view of the family room and kitchen -- the most happening spots in the Damm house.

Dear Santa

2011-11-29T07:54:00.000-06:00

Every Christmas season, Katie frets over what Santa will bring Margie. (Santa has a spotty track record remembering our furry friend. He means well, but other details sometimes get in the way.)

This year she's leaving nothing to chance. She penned a letter to Santa on behalf of Margie.

As soon as Katie began the note Sunday, Margie hopped up on the kitchen chair to join her and perhaps influence Katie's request.

"Santa Claus please give Margie a toy squirrel! Love Kathryn Damm!"

Little Red Charlie: Nov. 29

2011-11-29T07:42:00.000-06:00

This perch serves two purposes. LRC is close enough to the playroom to listen to children playing nicely, never arguing over placement of Legos or battles between Legos or moments when a Littlest Pet Shop pet might get caught in the middle of a Lego battle. And he's nestled against one of his favorite words: Believe. Because LRC believes in Santa (of course) and the inherent goodness of people and the presence of a loving, gracious, forgiving God here on earth.

Little Red Charlie: Nov. 28

2011-11-28T08:05:00.000-06:00

LRC remembers well what Monday mornings mean at his Christmas workplace. Children return to school. Mom has a morning meeting and errands and work. Margie the dog tends to nap on the sofa.

So, this clever elf needs some daytime entertainment. Today he's reading a book (Christmas kind, of course) in the family room. The page he's reading? "E is for Elf." (Boosts his self-esteem.)

And come 3 p.m., he'll be perfectly positioned to watch children unpack backpacks and complete homework and listen to dinner being prepared. Around 7 p.m., he's hoping to listen to Mom read aloud Chapter 9 from Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne. (He really is a silly old bear.)

Little Red Charlie: Nov. 27

2011-11-27T14:27:00.000-06:00

After just a day at the house this season, our rascally elf dove headfirst into a jar of Christmas marshmallows. Little Red Charlie has a decided weakness for the sugary, pillowy sweet treats. In fact, if he's accidentally touched while on spy duty, the way to restore his magic is to offer him four marshmallows. In this case, he's just being greedy.

After church this morning

2011-11-27T13:04:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie: Nov. 26

2011-11-26T13:34:00.000-06:00

Little Red Charlie must have been eager to return. He never comes to the house until it's decorated for Christmas. Until this year.

Katie woke around 5 a.m. and reports: "I was looking around the kitchen, like I always do, about to do some crafts, when I saw him!"

So far today LRC has seen most of the Amezcua family (Rob is helping fix lots of errant lights on the alleged pre-lit Christmas tree), the Tarun family (in town for lots of visiting), most of the Wheeley family (here to help decorate) and Shannon (another decorating friend).

He noticed that Cooper no longer has braces. Katie's wearing pretty purple glasses. Both have grown a few inches taller. (Which reminds LRC: Is he ever going to get taller?)

As families evolve, so do traditional holiday menus

2011-11-26T06:45:00.000-06:00

From yesterday's Briefing:

Take a holiday built around a feast, sprinkle in folks from different families plus some changing dietary needs, and you’ve got a recipe for potential disaster.

Thanksgiving is always at Aunt Ami’s house in Austin. Ami is the perpetual hostess, the cheerful gourmet, the keeper of tradition, the young matriarch of the family after her mother (my grandmother) died.

One of Gramma’s signature recipes was her cornbread stuffing and dressing. (Stuffing because some of the batch was stuffed into the turkey carcass; dressing because some was baked separately.)

Each year, Ami pulls out her Thanksgiving file and finds the handwritten dressing recipe. And we discuss notes from past years and possible alterations.

Gramma baked her cornbread in a cast-iron skillet. Ami uses a giant cake pan to accommodate the doubled recipe.

A few years ago, my sister was diagnosed with celiac disease, forcing her to give up anything with gluten. That included Gramma’s original cornbread recipe and the stale white bread added to the dressing. So now our cornbread is a gluten-free version, perfected over much experimentation and sampling.

The end result is no longer stuffed into a bird. It slows the turkey’s cooking time and creates favorable conditions for a bacterial nightmare.

An additional twist this year: a newly vegan cousin. For Thursday’s feast he prepared a separate dressing altogether. And it didn’t dress up any poultry at all. Just all the other vegan dishes.

It’s not the first year we’ve served two kinds of dressing. For the first few years that Ami and Rich were married, Rich insisted on a bread-based dressing, similar to what his mom made when he was growing up.

Ami relented and prepared a Stove Top version in addition to the cornbread dish. Eventually, Rich relented, and Stove Top was pulled from the menu. (Though he confesses he’d love to have a bread version back on the menu. “Cornbread just doesn’t taste right.”)

He can’t give up on green bean casserole, though. The kind held together with cream of mushroom soup and topped with canned, fried onions. Our version has evolved to include fresh green beans instead of canned or frozen.

We serve a variety of pies — some gluten-free, some free of any animal-based products. We’re flexible on the version of sweet potatoes (this year’s was vegan). No one is choosy about the kind of rolls.

For every family that broke bread together Thursday, there are similar stories. The non-negotiable dishes. The experiments. The dish that only one person (often the cook) eats.

I have a set of friends who, when they started having children, decided they would eat just one Thanksgiving meal, always at their home. Family members from both sides are welcome to join.

And they do. But even after years of eating at the same time under the same roof, they don’t eat the same meal. They don’t even eat at the same table.

One side prefers one kind of turkey (smoked), dressing and potatoes. The other side has a completely different turkey (never smoked), stuffing and potatoes.

This year, the husband spiced up the get-together. An excerpt from a pre-Thanksgiving email to family members:

“And I (in my traditional Thanksgiving attempt to EVOLVE tradition) will be challenging two dishes to a THROWDOWN (yes … I’ve watched too much Food Network).”

Potential for disaster, pitting two families’ versions of green bean casserole and mashed potatoes? No doubt. Potential for long-lasting memories and tales to be repeated? You bet. Potential for a new tradition, beloved and improved year after year?

Only time will tell.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Futile attempts at a Christmas card photo

2011-11-24T15:02:00.000-06:00

(Perhaps the first of many parts in 2011)

Before church this morning

2011-11-20T11:38:00.000-06:00

There are ways to win big without even keeping score

2011-11-18T07:34:00.000-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Soccer season is over. Basketball hasn’t quite begun.

With that break in competition schedules, we spent a few hours this weekend playing games — without keeping score. It was a welcome respite from fields and courts on which some hypercompetitive parents are a little too invested.

A Saturday free of organized play allowed us to commit to a summer camp reunion at one of those all-in-one fun places — miniature golf, go-karts, bumper boats, video games.

While waiting for hamburgers on the griddle, my children joined others on the sand volleyball court.

Kids served, volleyed and spiked over and over, pausing only to chase an errant ball. No one counted how many touches it took to get that ball over (or sometimes under) the net.

If a teammate missed, his buddy didn’t grumble. Not a single dad hovered or paced the sideline. Not a single mom hollered for a child to move faster, to hit harder, to dive quicker.

Those kids played because they wanted to, and they didn’t keep score.

After lunch and reunion activities, Cooper, Katie and I set out for more games.

When we selected clubs and brightly colored balls, we ignored the tiny pencils. We cheered for each other as we played 18 holes of putt-putt golf. When Cooper missed a hole in one by the thinnest margin, all three of us groaned. When Katie achieved her first hole in one ever, we all cheered. (So did the mom and daughter in front of us.)

We allowed do-overs and a few unorthodox moves. There may have been some dancing as we waited on families in front of us to finish.

We played because we wanted to, and we didn’t keep score.

I drove a go-kart for the first time in my life. Cooper lapped me. Twice. (I’m a slow-and-steady kind of go-kart driver, and everyone else is Mario Andretti. I think every driver on the course lapped me. At least twice.)

The bumper boats, tucked away in a lonely corner, beckoned. We were the only three in the pool. Girls in one round boat, boy in the other.

If bumper boat scoring existed and if it were judged by how often a human target was sprayed with water, Cooper definitely won.

My hair was soaked. My right sleeve was soaked. Not that I’m keeping score.

I drip-dried as we walked into the arcade, where 10 tokens per child doesn’t stretch far. Cooper’s and Katie’s gaming skills earned them each a few tickets. Not enough to cash in for more than an eraser or pencil or maybe a strip of stickers. (Has anyone ever “won” a bicycle at one of those counters?)

On our way out the door, Katie spied a younger girl playing games with her grandmother.

“Here. These are for you,” she said as she gave away our small stack of tickets, adding to the little girl’s medium stack.

It was a win-win kind of day.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

2011-11-13T14:35:00.000-06:00

Sleep with your head uphill (and other camping lessons)

2011-11-11T09:41:00.002-06:00

From today's Briefing:

Family legend has it that sometime in toddlerhood, I went camping.

It didn’t go well, so the story goes. I couldn’t — or wouldn’t — fall asleep. I talked all night. I stumbled around the tent, much to the chagrin of my sleep-deprived parents.

It was the last time anyone took me camping.

Really, that was fine with me. Years later, when I could have taken myself, I chose not to. I’m not particularly fond of extreme temperatures. Or critters. Or the lack of control that comes from sleeping in natural surroundings, without a passel of pillows and layers of covers.

Cooper has been a Cub Scout for four years, and every time he’s gone camping, we’ve found an adult other than me to go with him.

Really, that was fine with him. He preferred an experienced camper at his side. Someone who wouldn’t squirm upon finding daddy longlegs in the latrine or a copperhead in a tent. Someone who embraced sleeping on the ground — or at least faked it well.

Now my son is just months away from bridging from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. The family-inclusive campouts are almost history. Moms don’t just tag along on Boy Scout excursions — they have to be fully trained and registered volunteers in the organization.

So last weekend’s Cub Scout family camping weekend was my best opportunity to see what Cooper has learned about life in the wild — and my best chance to redeem that awful camping night from so long ago.

You could argue that I didn’t really camp. I was onsite for maybe 14 hours. We were just six miles from home. I was able to go home to shower and brush my teeth with running water.

I would argue that it was a good first step.

Some lessons learned:

Choose a flat site for your tent. Cooper chose our patch of land by the lake and expertly pitched our tent with just a little assistance from me and little sister Katie.

What he didn’t notice was the slight incline on which the tent was assembled. After s’mores were eaten and sleeping bags beckoned, the three of us climbed into the tent and discovered the angle.

“Sleep with your head up, Mommy,” Cooper said with authority.

I did, but my sleeping bag kept sliding down the cot, carrying my body with it. All night long I wrestled with that slippery sleeping bag on a slope, silently wishing we had moved the tent to a flatter spot before taps had sounded.

Some habits run in the family. Katie wasn’t exactly the tiny version of me. She slept off and on throughout the night (often curled up in a protective, heat-conserving ball at the low end of the tent).

But she did talk a lot. She chattered while we all tried to fall asleep. Woke up talking when she needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Talked off and on after that until sunrise.

“Mommy, I want to go out and play!” she’d announce with surprising clarity for 3 a.m. My mumbled reply was always no.

“Mommy, this is the longest night ever,” she said once. I agreed as enthusiastically as possible for 4 a.m.

Camping isn’t as scary as I’d imagined. Yes, I was slightly uncomfortable. I shivered all morning, after escaping our cozy tent and braving bone-chilling winds. I narrowly avoided some mud. There was no method for drying hands in the (mercifully clean) bathroom.

But there were no bug bites, no scary wildlife encounters.

There were plenty of opportunities to enjoy the still lake and a few birds and the sounds of children running, chasing and laughing. And to watch my outdoorsy, nature-loving son in his element.

That alone makes me willing to try it again.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

UPDATE: Last week, I wrote about how my family planned to celebrate my late husband’s birthday. We were hoping that friends would help us perform at least 43 acts of kindness to honor Steve’s 43rd birthday. The response was overwhelming.

I received more than 200 reports of good deeds from Nov. 4; some are still trickling in. You can read about these kind acts on my personal blog: checkonsteve.blogspot.com.

Artist at work

2011-10-30T18:35:00.000-05:00

Katie works on a PTA Reflections entry. In these photos she's blending pastels with a sponge to create a grassy hill.

Before church this morning

2011-10-30T18:33:00.000-05:00

It's not too late to scale back

2011-10-29T11:18:00.003-05:00

From yesterday's Briefing:

My favorite childhood party was in 1979.

The entire first-grade class of Walnut Hill Elementary was invited. All the kids piled into the back of my dad’s red pickup truck, and we all spilled out at a small North Dallas park, where we ran around and played Red Rover and ate cake to celebrate my seventh birthday.

That party was better than ice cream at Swensen’s or rides at Penny Whistle Park. I didn’t need anything complicated — just time with friends.

The birthday party scene has grown up since then. I can’t count the number of times I’ve taken my children to Pump It Up, Main Event, Strikz, Chuck E. Cheese or one of a handful of gymnastics centers for a friend’s celebration.

I do know that all of those parties add up to thousands of dollars spent to entertain little kids. To make them feel special.

I’m no stranger to the big party scene.

When I worked full time and Cooper was in day care, I threw extravagant parties — handmade invitations, thoughtfully procured goodie bags, elaborate cakes, craft stations and more, all tied to the carefully chosen, unique-to-Cooper theme.

I reasoned that Steve and I worked hard all week, that I owed it to Cooper to devote time to make his the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER, that we could splurge on our child, that you only turn 1 or 2 or 3 once.

When I shifted to a hybrid stay-at-home/work-from-home life, I continued to throw extravagant parties for Cooper and Katie. I reasoned that part of my stay-at-home job was to celebrate big and small occasions with gusto.

And now, in my single widowed mom life, I set aside money for extravagant parties outside the home. I reason that once a year my children deserve a big celebration all about them. (Though I’m a little more relaxed on trying to create the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER.)

I’m afraid we’re all celebrating a bit too much.

Have you seen the elaborate ways young men are asking young women to homecoming dances? Some of the inquiries are more extensive than marriage proposals.

A boy might write and perform a song and post it on YouTube, with the big question at the end. Or dress his little brother in a suit, put a sign in his hands (“WILL U GO 2 HOMECOMING WITH MY BROTHER?”) and have him knock at the door of the intended girl. Or hold a giant poster during live broadcast of theToday show for the whole nation to see.

And if the girl says yes (man, I hope she does after all that work), the celebrating really begins. Giant homecoming mum, the size and shape of an adolescent alligator. Pre-dance photos with a gaggle of teens in a home with a grand staircase or in a neighborhood with a picturesque body of water. Dinner out. Dance. Party after.

All these well-meaning but over-the-top displays are what happens when we’ve celebrated our children too much. Of course they have to have the BEST HOMECOMING EVER. Something has to top the over-the-top birthday parties we’ve been throwing them all their lives.

It’s not too late to scale back. I’ve seen what can be our future.

One day after school this week, Katie attended a first-grade birthday party. Walker told his mom that he wanted to feed the ducks and play. So Mom sent emails a week in advance, and we all gathered at the neighborhood park.

There was not a licensed character in sight. There were no electronics. No goodie bags filled with junk to be thrown out or forgotten. Just some playground equipment, a pond and sunshine. And kids climbing, shrieking, swinging, sliding, bouncing, running.

They took a break to feed the ducks and fish and turtles in the pond.

Then they returned to playing.

They took a break to eat a cookie and drink some juice.

Then they played some more.

When we left, I gave the birthday boy a hug and told him that it was the best first-grade party I’ve been to in a long time.

Probably since 1979.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Yee haw

2011-10-27T22:41:00.001-05:00

It's Red Ribbon Week at school, which means there's been a special theme day each day this week -- camo day, jersey day, red day and today's Western day.

Cooper and Katie are lobbying big time to return to Rainbow Trout Ranch this summer. (Well, there and Hawaii. Dream big, right?) They loved living the cowboy life in the summer of 2010, and they're eager to re-create it anyway they can -- even if it's just wearing boots and hats to school.

Couple a cowpokes doin' some homework

Before Be the Church Sunday

2011-10-23T12:33:00.002-05:00

On our way to paint over a wall of graffiti

Lunchroom visit shows how far kids have come

2011-10-21T19:12:00.001-05:00

From today's Briefing:

This school year is a series of lasts in our family.

It’s Cooper’s sixth and final year in grade school. We’ve already conquered his last meet-the-teacher night and last first day of elementary school, a cozy place where everybody knows your name.

As more last moments pile up, I’m feeling particularly sentimental.

Thankfully, I’ve got the perfect antidote in Katie, who still has almost five full years of elementary school. Cooper will be moving on to lockers and electives and a long list of teachers and a whole bunch of new students, but Katie still has years of cubbies and rotating specials and one classroom teacher and a smaller circle of friends.

Cooper will be moving on to lunch breaks in which parents are pariahs. Katie still has years of lunch periods in which parents are welcome, even hugged upon arrival.

At our school, parents are welcome any day to join their children for lunch. A row of tables in the back of the cafeteria is reserved for folks to sit with their kids and visit — even eat a slice of pizza or some steak fingers if you’d like.

A couple of days a year, parents volunteer as cafeteria monitors so that teachers can enjoy a PTA-prepared appreciation luncheon — secluded from their energetic charges.

There’s a lot to learn from a 30-minute cafeteria shift. The most obvious: Teachers perform miracles daily.

They wrangle disparate personalities, learning styles, struggles and strengths. They don’t get to turn this off. They manage all those differences while teaching reading, writing and reasoning. They monitor behavior during hallway transitions and assemblies and recess.

They keep their teacher hats on while helping to open water bottles, clean up spills and mediate disputes during lunch.

Another observation: Dessert often gets eaten first. And piles of food go to waste. I seriously wonder if our generation of parents needs to revive the old “There are children starving in (fill in the blank)” line.

Another cafeteria truth: The younger the child, the needier the child.

During my first-grade lunchroom shift, I fetched a bandage and patched a paper cut; cleaned a chocolate milk spill and found a pair of spare pants for the milky child (who happened to be my own first-grader); opened more bottles and packages than I can remember; fielded questions about life and death from an especially curious table; granted permission for various children to go to the bathroom, return to the lunch line or get a drink of water; and encouraged a handful of children to keep their pockets on their chairs, their hands to themselves and their voices low.

Later that day, I worked fifth-grade lunch. If a fifth-grader needs something, he motions with a specific hand signal. He waits for a wave of approval and then carries on.

So, during that half-hour I mostly stood with fellow volunteers and chatted. I did say hello to Cooper, ruffling his hair and then retreating so he could resume conversation unabated. (Whereas first-grade Katie would have preferred I sit by her side the entire lunch — clearly impossible given the nature of the work required.)

Standing on the sidelines of Cooper’s lunch, instead of in the trenches, I was feeling sentimental. And strengthened.

Cooper and his peers aren’t quite ready for middle school, but they’re close.

For the most part, they know how to follow the rules and control their bodies and emotions. As they’ve taken on more responsibilities, they’ve gained more independence. They don’t need help punching a straw in a juice box, and they often don’t need help settling disputes.

I can’t promise that I won’t find lots to cry about as this year of “lasts” continues. But I’m comforted knowing that the timing is right. And that next school year we’ll have a whole bunch of “firsts.”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Happy ending

2011-10-18T14:01:00.000-05:00

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about Cooper's attempt to become Student Council treasurer. And his attempt the following week to become class representative.

Here's the speech he wrote and delivered to his classmates.

Hello, my name is Cooper Damm, and as you probably know I am running for class representative.

As one of my favorite presidents, Abraham Lincoln, said “I do the very best I know how, the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end.”

I am trustworthy, loyal, kind, smart, and I never give up. I work well with others without arguing. I am creative. We can make Bledsoe even better by working for better soccer goals, better art supplies and better school supplies.

I will listen to the ideas of you, the students, to represent Mr. Jensen’s class. And I will cooperate with the board to help make your ideas a reality.

Thank you for letting me get up here and speak and please vote for me.

His perseverance paid off. His classmates elected him one of two class representatives to Student Council, and last week he was inducted in front of the whole school.

Before church this morning

2011-10-16T12:09:00.000-05:00

Impolite world makes it tougher to teach civility

2011-10-14T09:55:00.000-05:00

From today's Briefing:

I feel like we’re living through a civility crisis.

Too many of us are talking when we should be quiet. Not enough of us are listening.

I’m not targeting politicians and the people who analyze them on television, though they could certainly use a scolding, too. I’m talking about us regular people. Folks who have forgotten the good manners they were taught at home — or perhaps never got the lesson.

There was no school Monday. A lot of families spent the day at the State Fair of Texas or the Ballpark inArlington. Everyone else, it seemed, was at the movies with me, my daughter and her friend. The three of us were lucky to find seats together, and we tried to not grumble as we squeezed into the second row, contorting our bodies and especially our necks in awkward positions in order to watch Dolphin Tale.

The movie had barely begun when a real-life drama broke out in the row behind us. A small child began to cry. Another child began to chatter.

They both sounded too young to sit through and enjoy a two-hour movie absent of animated characters and rousing musical numbers.

In that moment, five minutes into a film playing in a theater packed with other people who have paid $5 a head plus outrageous prices for snacks, the courteous act would have been to remove those two children from the theater.

Mom did not. And the crying and chatter continued for two hours, their voices often competing with dialogue blaring from giant speakers.

That family’s decision to stay sent a clear message: “I am not willing to inconvenience myself for the sake of this room full of people. You all are just going to have to cope with my inability to be a responsible parent in this situation.”

I struggled with what the group response should be.

Should someone — even me — stand up and politely yet firmly suggest that noisemakers leave the theater? Should someone fetch an usher? Or should we just keep quiet, occasionally sending significant looks in the dark to the family in question?

I had the same struggle at a recent school event, in which children boldly and bravely stood in front of their peers to speak.

I stood at the edge of the room to listen. A group of adults gathered nearby. Those grown-ups spoke and giggled among themselves the entire time that children were speaking to the whole audience.

At the same time, a mom in the crowd allowed her two young children to talk, squawk and cry throughout the presentation.

Those adults sent a clear message: “I am not willing to inconvenience myself for the sake of this room full of people. You all are just going to have to cope with my inability to keep my mouth shut or my inability to be a responsible parent in this situation.”

How on earth are our children going to grow into polite, respectful, gracious members of society if the adults around them model such rude, discourteous, uncivil behavior? Are we raising a generation of kids who think it’s socially acceptable to comment our way through a film or play or musical performance or speech?

And what’s wrong with the rest of us who remain mute, silently tolerating the boorish behavior, complaining only after the fact?

In the moment, staying quiet seems the civil thing to do. But staying mum during a crisis rarely achieves results.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

First-grade Katie

2011-10-11T11:43:00.000-05:00

Katie is wearing glasses now, to correct her slight nearsightedness. (Special thanks to teacher Kelly Starnes, who noticed that Katie was having trouble reading the board during class.)

She chose the frames by herself -- they suit her very well! She takes excellent care of her glasses. Last week she asked to go to Nurse Morris' office twice -- both times because there were smudges on the lenses. When Nurse Morris offered to clean them with a tissue, Katie insisted that she stop and use "the special cleaning cloth." (We have since discussed that it's not necessary to clean smudges every single time they appear. And Katie's packing a "special cleaning cloth" in her bag each day.)

Yesterday was parent-teacher conference day. Katie's classroom teacher, Shannon Gallant, shared this writing and art sample.

Picture:
From left: Katie, Margie, me (wearing green, my favorite color, and saying "let's go to Nana Yogurt") and Cooper

Text translation:
"I love my mommy. She is nice. I go to Nana Yogurt. I watch a lot of TV. My brother is Cooper."

My notes:
"I watch a lot of TV" makes me laugh -- I'm always certain that Cooper and Katie feel like they don't watch enough TV.

Picture:

A giant M for the University of Michigan, in honor of Steve

Translation:

"My daddy died. He was so nice. My dog is a Scottie. I love my family. My dog barks a lot. I love writing."

Before church today

2011-10-09T13:02:00.000-05:00

Cooper and Katie couldn't sit down this morning. The bench was too wet from much-needed rain.

Living with highs and lows of elections

2011-10-07T12:04:00.000-05:00

From today's Briefing:

Fifth-grade election season is tense. And mercifully short.

At our elementary school, only fifth-graders are allowed to run for student council offices: president, vice president, treasurer and secretary. They are elected by fifth- and fourth-graders.

To be eligible to run, a student must receive permission from all five grade-level teachers and turn in a written speech in advance. Two posters of a prescribed size are posted on a Monday, followed by speeches and voting that Friday.

Cooper and 43 of his fellow fifth-graders summoned the courage to enter the election. My son was among 15 candidates for treasurer.

Our kitchen table became campaign headquarters. Cooper drafted a succinct speech, extolling his trustworthiness and ideas for raising and spending money. Together we crafted posters with catchy slogans, friendly-yet-serious photos of the candidate and colorful-yet-tasteful borders.

Cooper was realistic about his chances in a heavy field.

“I need to win votes from fourth-graders,” he told me with the gravity of a cable news commentator.

He would lobby fourth-graders during the day in hallways covered in campaign posters (some decorated with battery-operated blinking lights) and share with me at night the votes he’d corralled.

My resident politician spoke with guarded optimism of his chances, never wavering in his aspiration.

He carried confidence as he walked to school on Election Day. It was the same confidence that followed him on stage and propelled him through his speech. He showed no sign of nerves or unease (perhaps because I was feeling it all for him).

His opponents were equally at ease with a microphone, in front of more than 200 peers plus teachers and parents. One treasurer candidate surprised the voting bloc with a speech gamely sung to the tune of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It was a bold move, deservingly met with rousing applause.

Votes were collected before lunch, and winners were announced just before dismissal.

A friend inside the building had offered to text me the results so that I’d know what kind of Cooper would be walking home.

I would be receiving a disappointed Cooper. His friend with the beautiful voice and clever National Anthem-turned-speech earned the most votes.

Cooper’s backpack slid off his sagging shoulders as he told me he lost. Tears followed.

“I really thought I could win,” he said. “I thought I had enough votes. And I didn’t know you could sing your speech!”

In that moment I offered no platitudes. I remember being 10 and being disappointed and frustrated by grown-up attempts to make me feel better. (Though I later did concede that the song was a brilliant move.)

I sat next to him on his bed, my arm wrapped around his shoulders. Empathetic little sister sat on his right, matching his sobs and wailing, “I’m sorry you didn’t win! I’m sorry you’re sad!”

I silently wondered if professional campaign managers are trained not only in the art of strategy and polling and marketing but also in the art of consoling.

My consolation skills may or may not be put to the test again today. Cooper may have lost the race for treasurer, but he’s not giving up on his political career. Today he’s running for homeroom representative, jockeying to be the one boy elected from his class to serve on the student council.

He threw out last week’s speech and has written a new one. In it he quotes his favorite president, Abraham Lincoln:

“I do the very best I know how, the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end.”

And Cooper added some of his own wisdom:

“I am trustworthy, kind, loyal, smart and I never give up.”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Even with pep talks, this idea wasn't a slam-dunk

2011-09-30T16:04:00.001-05:00

From today's Briefing:

With trepidation and doubt, I have registered Katie in a recreational basketball league.

A few months ago she volunteered that she wanted to play. “Are you sure?” I asked. “You have to run and dribble and follow the rules and go to every practice and every game.” (I would have bowed out at “dribble.”)

She answered yes then and every time since that I’ve asked.

I still considered “forgetting” that she wants to play until past the deadline for winter enrollment. But too many of her first-grade friends are trying the sport, too, and hiding the entire season would be impossible. And mean.

I fought the memories of her two rocky soccer seasons and our calendar already crammed with activities and my daughter’s sometimes fickle nature as I clicked “submit” on the online form just in the nick of time.

So now we wait to be placed on a team (please let it be with other girls from our school) and to learn practice logistics (please let it be at a nearby gym on a day that’s not already booked) and to see the schedule (please let there be no 8 a.m. games).

In the meantime, we continue to talk about commitment.

When Katie was 4, she tried soccer. She was enthusiastic about the uniform, matching hair ribbons, cleats, pink ball and even the concept of the game. She was not a fan of actually playing the game.

She was reluctant to get out of my lap and sit with her team, never mind play with her team. When she was on the field, she was more of a speed walker than a runner. Finding and kicking the ball was a low priority.

To be fair, she was a preschooler. She’s matured since then, and I’m not going to hold those two tearful seasons against her.

Katie still has commitment issues, though. Take, for example, her love-hate relationship with gymnastics.

For more than two years, she’s taken a one-hour weekly class, working on forward rolls and bridges and the ever-elusive cartwheel. When she’s there, she loves it. Some Tuesday afternoons, though, it takes a lot of coaxing to get there.

When I picked her up in front of school this Tuesday, the pleading was in full force.

“I don’t want to go to gymnastics today,” she said, giant tears threatening to spill on her cheeks.

I felt her forehead. No discernible fever. I considered how much sleep she’s had. No discernible shortage.

Time for my speech.

“Katie, I’ve already paid for this lesson, and not going is like throwing $20 away. It takes a lot of work to earn $20. And you took a break from gymnastics this summer and begged to return in the fall. So you’re going.”

She crossed her arms. Some tears fell. She said no, again. We started walking home.

We stopped to say hi to a friend, mom to two older girls. I asked for advice on the lesson — should I give in or make her go?

Maybe if she has a snack first she’ll feel like going, my wise friend suggested. Her fifth-grade daughter knelt down, looked Katie in the eye and told her, “Sometimes I don’t feel like going to dance, but when I get there, it’s actually fun.”

Each of us emboldened by advice, we stopped at home for a snack. At 3:30, Katie bounced without regret onto the gym floor, and at 4:30 we headed home, each of us in good spirits (despite a slip off the balance beam that scared us both).

“Are you glad I made you go, Katie?”

Without hesitation: “Of course.”

Bring on basketball season. We’re ready.

Before church this morning

2011-09-25T13:38:00.002-05:00

Put aside the books while teaching the facts of life

2011-09-23T08:57:00.003-05:00

From today's Briefing:

When you’re in the throes of a stage with your child, it’s sometimes difficult to maintain perspective.

Like the week we potty trained Cooper. All activities were structured around getting that almost-3-year-old boy out of diapers. We spent 72 hours straight at home, reasoning and coercing, charting and rewarding, pleading and crying.

More than once I imagined a life trapped at home, convinced that this child would never listen to his body. We would be banned from preschools all over North Texas. We’d be pariahs on the playground and at birthday parties.

Then it clicked. And the longest week of our lives was history.

Some stages last longer than others.

Like the two years that Cooper would throw the world’s most intense tantrums. We eventually learned how to contain him at home, but we always struggled with how to address massive meltdowns in grocery stores, at the mall, in church.

I would worry that our outings would forever be cut short by emotional explosions. We would be kicked out of schools all over North Texas, shunned from shopping centers and museums and playing fields.

Then he eventually stopped (with less fanfare than the potty-training days). The longest two years of our lives were history.

Some stages have no obvious expiration date. Like when your child learns about serious, adult matters.

Last weekend, Cooper participated in a nine-hour workshop, Created by God, designed to explain human sexuality to fifth- and sixth-graders.

When I was in fifth grade, a classmate described how babies were made in the crudest fashion imaginable. I didn’t know enough of the process to know how to research it on my own, so I eventually mustered the courage to ask at home.

Mom handed me the classic Where Did I Come From? and told me to ask more questions if I had them.

Well, I had questions but I sure didn’t want to speak them aloud. And that right there concluded my parent-led study of the birds and the bees.

It’s not the same model I want for my children, and yet I felt woefully inadequate to improve upon the “Here’s a book about reproduction, get back to me if you’d like” system.

So, I was thrilled to outsource the job, even while I mourned my son’s fleeting naïveté.

Cooper spent the weekend learning precise medical terminology and explanations for just about everything that happens to girls and boys during puberty and beyond.

He now knows how babies are created. (“It’s weirder than I thought.”)

He now knows about sexually transmitted diseases. (“I wasn’t aware of that before. You have to be careful.”)

Most importantly, he knows that he can ask me questions about all of it. And believe me, he’s asked plenty. I have never been so thankful for a visual separation between the back seat and the driver’s seat.

Unlike previous stages, we’re in this one for the long haul. I’m praying for many years of questions and discussions — and a comfort level that matches my son’s.

I’m hoping that even when he chooses to talk to friends about such mature matters — because I know I won’t be the “expert” forever — he’ll still give me the chance to add my two cents.

And I’m thankful that even though we’ve started this stage, Cooper hasn’t graduated from all the others. His head may now be full of mature content, but he’s still a 10-year-old boy.

After nine hours of human biology and faith-based values and a string of questions, Cooper made a beeline for our playroom and a whole mess of Legos.

He built and played in there all afternoon — the best antidote for this momma who sometimes needs a healthy dose of perspective.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

2011-09-18T17:25:00.000-05:00

Mother's film, book explores school food

2011-09-16T10:30:00.000-05:00

From today's Briefing:

Mom and documentary filmmaker Amy Kalafa is passionate about what your children eat. And what they’re not eating.

Her documentary Two Angry Moms describes the alarming decline in American nutrition — particularly in America’s public schools — and offers help for parents who want to do something about it.

After the movie was released, she fielded similar emails over and over: How can I improve nutrition in my own child’s school? How can I get involved?

Those constant requests pushed her to write a book, Lunch Wars: How to Start a School Food Revolution and Win the Battle for Our Children’s Health, which was released last month.

The book describes failures in school nutrition programs and startling statistics about the health of U.S. children — and then offers grass-roots solutions.

Kalafa will sign copies of the book at 7 p.m. Tuesday at A Real Bookstore, 113 Prairie Road, Fairview. I spoke with her by phone in advance of her visit; here are excerpts.

You call yourself an “Angry Mom.” What makes you angry?

It started with frustration. I started speaking with a lot of parents. They all said they are angry. These were parents who wanted to take an active part in this issue.

You think, “Why don’t I just go to the school and help them?” Then we run into The System. Then we find out it’s not so easy. The more you learn about the system, the angrier you get.

I realized that the school was undermining the work I was doing at home. They were teaching my child that it was OK to make a lunch out of Rice Krispies treats and a bag of chips. Then you start finding out about marketing forces controlling what goes in the cafeteria, you get angrier. It’s more like the ballpark or state fair than a healthy food environment.

What has made The System so difficult?

A lot can be traced to how the school lunch program started in America, at the end of World War II. The federal government had been subsidizing farmers for a hungry Army. The war ended, and we kept subsidizing farmers and put food in schools. It is very successful in reaching almost every schoolchild in America.

Over the years, the government has cut back on regulations, and school districts have to break even or make money on lunches.

The food aspect of public education has fallen prey to business people who say they know how to do this better, cheaper. The healthy part fell away.

Now we’re a nation where children’s health is imperiled. This is the first generation in our nation’s history that is predicted to live shorter lives than their parents.We have to look at how we look at food.

What are some simple steps that parents can take right away?

Go to the school cafeteria and have lunch with your child. Organize with some friends. Go in a group. Let the food service director know you’re coming.

While you’re there, ask to see a list of ingredients of anything that is processed, packaged, not made from scratch — which in most schools is everything. When you see artificial flavorings, colorings, sweeteners, speak to the food service director. Ask about finding better replacements for those things.

There are fun things to help raise the food IQ of every child. You can start a school garden. Volunteer in the cafeteria and guide kids in their choices. Set up a table and experiment making smoothies with different fresh fruits.

Have chefs volunteer in the classroom. Have kids look at a vegetable, taste it. Connect local farmers with the school.

How much of a child’s nutrition is the family’s responsibility vs. the school system’s responsibility?

Food businesses and school superintendents will say it’s up to the parents. The USDA will say it’s the parents’ role.

It’s absolutely the parents’ role first and foremost about food and choices on the budget available. It’s certainly not the school’s role to undermine parents or teach them lessons that really contradict the work parents are doing.

Like “Eat whatever you want. Throw away food. Eat in 10 minutes. A giant cookie is fine for lunch.”

Then parents have to be vocal on their own lessons, correct?

There are things parents can do to affect policy. Showing you care helps. You can give detailed specifications of what we want in the food and what we don’t want in the food.

What should the whole school food environment be like? What are kids eating on field trips, athletic events?

We want to have our choices and education echoed by the community we live in. It’s about each community making it a priority. Just like parents get involved in bullying and guns in school. You say, “My child is in danger here. What’s going on here?”

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Column from 2008

2011-09-11T19:48:00.000-05:00

This column ran in Briefing on Sept. 11, 2008. Later this week I'll update how our family has since dealt with 9/11.

Does your child know about the events of Sept. 11, 2001?

Ours don't yet. Katie is just 3. Cooper, our first child, was barely two months old the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. The sense of responsibility and fear that comes with being a new parent was magnified that morning and in the weeks that followed. What kind of world would he grow up in?

That October, we flew to Baltimore for a previously scheduled vacation. We took a commuter train into Washington, D.C., and proudly showed baby Cooper his nation's capital - still standing, still strong, just weeks after an attack on U.S. soil against American civilians.

As he grew, we purposefully avoided discussing Sept. 11. A family vacation to New York City in 2003 did not include a stop at Ground Zero. Steve and I weren't ready to see the emptiness, and there were many other favorite sites to share with our son.

When he was 3 and attended a suburban day-care center, I had a small battle with one of the directors. She was insistent on remembering Sept. 11 at the school, with children no older than 5. She was passionate that toddlers and preschoolers learn about the day's events and recognize our nation's heroes. I was equally passionate that they didn't need to have discussions about planes flying into buildings with their day-care teachers.

But why now, at age 7, does he still not know about a huge event that redefined and continues to shape our country? He's not completely sheltered from current events, though we do limit his exposure to violence. He knows about wars and is thoughtful about why countries disagree and even battle.

I polled some fellow mom and dad friends to find out if they've told their children about Sept. 11. Their answers and reasons why reflect distinct details about their backgrounds and parenting styles.

One family was living in Pennsylvania seven years ago today. The dad of another family was on the last Port Authority train into the World Trade Center that Tuesday morning. For these friends, 9/ 11 is a part of their family histories.

Another family discussed the recent history with their son after he found information on the Internet. His 5-year-old sister doesn't yet know.

Some families haven't broached the subject at all. The mom of a second-grade girl wants to wait until her daughter is more mature and less likely to stress over unnecessary fears. Another friend with three daughters in kindergarten through third grade wants to address the subject individually, when each child is able to understand the complexities of the event and aftermath.

As with most important topics, Steve and I prefer to talk with our kids first, before peers, before school, before other influences. We don't expect the topic to be officially addressed in his second-grade classroom.

There is no statewide curriculum mandate on 9/11, as the history curriculum in place now was written before the attacks. The Texas Education Agency allows local schools to decide how and when to address the events. (American history textbooks approved for Texas students in fifth grade and up published in 2002 and later include references.)

Our son's peer group and increasing awareness of the media are harder to predict. Playground and cafeteria talk veers into uncharted, unsupervised territory. And while the comics section is his first destination in the newspaper each morning, he also takes note of images and headlines on the front page.

So Steve and I are confronting our fears about discussing Sept. 11. How to explain evil. How to explain the senseless deaths of people riding on planes and working in offices and desperately trying to save lives. How New York City, a city he loves for what it is now, was altogether different on Sept. 10, 2001.

How there are questions that don't always have answers and stories that don't yet have endings.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

2011-09-11T13:46:00.002-05:00