'Yet' blunts our unfinished tasks

From today's Briefing:

Tiny, unassuming “yet” wields all kinds of power.

I’ve been using the word more often the past couple of years, as I’ve become acquainted with the concept of a growth mind-set vs. a fixed mind-set, via the writings of Stanford professor and psychologist Carol Dweck.

Dweck relies on research to show the benefits of praising effort, not intelligence. She extols the value of making mistakes. And she writes and speaks persuasively about the power of “yet.”

“Just the words ‘yet’ or ‘not yet,’ we’re finding, give kids greater confidence, give them a path into the future that creates greater persistence,” Dweck says in a TED Talk watched more than 3.9 million times on YouTube.

Dweck’s ideas have influenced the way I teach my fourth-graders.

“We don’t all know how to identify the theme of a story yet,” I might say, “but we will keep working together until we all do.”

The word lets my students know that it’s OK to ask questions, that it’s OK if some peers have mastered a skill while others are still working, that mistakes are essential to the learning process.

The idea of a growth mind-set — that we can work to improve and develop abilities — has also influenced the way I raise my two children.

When a child is struggling with a task — conquering a piece of tough music, completing a challenging homework assignment — my encouragement relies on “yet.”

“It’s OK if you haven’t met your goal yet,” I might say. “Keep working, and you’ll get there.”

The word has given them freedom, signaling that perfection isn’t expected or even normal, and that hard work matters.

Now, I’ve got to start applying “yet” to myself.

I walk around with a long mental list of things I haven’t done as a parent. The self-imposed infractions include:

Lack of a baby book for either child

Inadequate personal finance lessons

Incomplete exposure to quality music and classic movies

An unfulfilled promise to help switch up bedrooms

I carry the guilt of these big-ticket items along with the everyday guilt associated with rushed mornings, forgotten permission slips, distracted conversations, clipped responses.

Lately, I’ve been practicing by adding “yet” to the end of my regrets.

I haven’t helped Katie study for her spelling test this week … yet.

I haven’t listened to Cooper’s clarinet solo … yet.

At the same time, I’m working on becoming more aware of what is going well.

This school year, Katie has taken control of her afternoon schedule, plotting homework and studying without prompting. She rarely forgets to complete or turn in an assignment — a huge step in independence and responsibility compared with previous years.

One evening this week, she declared, stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, eyes on the microwave clock and declared, “I need to plan the rest of the night.” She then ticked off every task still undone and an estimate of time needed for each. I may not have modeled for her a household budget (yet), but she’s grasping the concept of matching resources to tasks.

Each day when Cooper arrives home from school (or band practice or track practice), he does two things.

He asks how my day was, and he tells me about his day.

We started this ritual years ago, when I would walk to pick him up at our neighborhood elementary school. I taught him that it was polite to greet someone with, “How are you?” rather than, “Hey, I’m hungry. Where’s my snack?”

I also convinced him at a young age that it was his responsibility to fill me in on the details of the day. I didn’t allow one-word responses or “I don’t know” or noncommittal shrugs.

So now, all these years later, it’s his instinctive habit to ask about others and then to walk me through his day, with a recap of lessons, lunch and teenage dialogue. I may not have a baby book for him (yet), but we communicate every day.

I don’t expect I’ll ever have every task checked off my mom list. New action items wiggle their way on all the time. The key is to add a tiny, powerful “yet” to every line.

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

There's more to life than the race

From Saturday's Briefing:

Baby Noah

The most blissful five minutes of this whole week happened in the middle of a crowded barbecue restaurant.

I got to snuggle a tiny, 2-month-old boy. I admired his sleepy smile. I rubbed his fuzzy head. I inhaled his pure baby scent. Then I reluctantly returned Noah to his momma, a friend and colleague, while offering to quit my job and stay home to take care of him forever.

Oh, babies, you melt me. You start out so itty-bitty and lumpy, with elastic expressions and adorable cries and pure hearts.

And then you grow up so fast, like you’re in some kind of race. 

Can we call timeout? Or at least slow the pace a little bit?

My own babies are no longer babies to anyone but me. This week we’re signing a schedule card for sophomore year of high school for one child, and next week we’re approving middle school courses for the other. Elementary school days are numbered (less than 70!) in this house. 

My babies have been racing for years, long before I totally recognized the track. 

They compete in a race created by adults, who talk about balance and the joy of learning while maintaining paradigms that encourage fierce competition and value high scores over evidence of individual progress.

When I was cuddling little Noah this week, I wasn’t thinking about which pre-AP classes he’ll take in middle school or his high school degree plan or his potential class rank. 

I marveled at how much he is already loved unconditionally by his mom and dad, his two big sisters, his grandparents. He isn’t encumbered by expectations, unreasonable or otherwise. His existence alone garners him love beyond measure.

At what point in a child’s life do we shift from complete wonderment and adoration to high expectations? It varies from family to family, but by kindergarten in Texas schools, there’s little room for anything else. 

According to the Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills standards, kindergarten students are expected to discuss the theme of a well-known fairytale or folktale, identify techniques used in media, identify three-dimensional solids in the real world, identify ways to earn income, and explain how authority figures make and enforce rules. (These are only a handful among hundreds of expected skills spelled out in a 28-page document available online.)

Once we get them started on the race, we don’t seem to be able to pull them off the track. Instead, we increase the rigor. We set the standards higher. We keep them awake a little later each school year to finish homework. (At this rate, by senior year, my children may get no sleep at all.)

We tell them that they are unique individuals who should try their best, yet we create lists that number them, with infinitesimal decimal places separating them. We praise them for besting other children — or criticize them for being beat.

What do we value when we hold a newborn baby? 

Hope. Potential. New beginnings. Light. Love.

What do we teach them we value as they grow up?

Not near enough of hope or potential or new beginnings or light or love. 

The good news: It’s never too late to have your heart melted by your babies — no matter how old they may be. They’re no longer teeny-tiny, they express their own opinions, they make mistakes big and small. And they deserve love and adoration merely because they exist.

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

After church and Sunday school this morning

Interview with Mr. Else

My principal is interviewing staff members for his weekly newsletter. This week he interviewed me. Click here for the podcast.

Before church this morning

Adjusting my 'mom filter'

From today's Briefing:

When you become a mom, you acquire the mom filter. It changes how you see and hear almost everything.

Every mom calibrates her own filter. What worries one momma may not faze another, and what troubles you today seemingly didn’t exist yesterday. 

The mom filter accentuates sharp corners on coffee tables and uncovered electrical outlets — until one day you realize that you no longer have toddlers and that furniture is no longer hazardous. The mom filter might hone in on nutritional value. (How can one tiny container of yogurt harbor so many grams of sugar?) The mom filter might ruin any chances that you will ever again buy a single article of white clothing.

And the mom filter might change forever how you watch your favorite old movies.

Take, for example, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, which, incredibly, was released 30 years ago. I have no idea how many times I’ve watched the John Hughes classic, but I can sing or hum along with every song from the film and recite almost all of the dialogue.

You would think that with my countless viewings and strong memory of the script, I would have recalled that the movie is rated PG-13 for a reason.

We watched the movie at home last weekend — me, my 14-year-old son and my 10-year-old daughter. I warned Katie that there might be just a little offensive language, but we could ignore it and focus on the fun plot.

Good gracious, my mom filter was on high alert about two minutes in. I lost track of how often Cooper turned to look at me with raised eyebrows, as if to say, “I can’t believe you’re letting me watch this, much less my little sister.”

Some of it went over her head. Other phrases made her raise her own eyebrows. Every now and then I’d interject with an “Oh, boy, he’s not speaking nicely” or “Wow, that’s not appropriate.”

Certainly, no permanent damage was done. When we talked about the movie later, she focused on the angry principal, the parade scene and the girl with the gummy bear. Katie didn’t utter a single curse word.

Just a couple of nights later, I couldn’t resist the pull of Grease: Live on television. The 1978 movie was a staple in my growing-up years, mostly for the song and dance numbers. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I scrutinized the plot or understood the mature content.

Again, my mom filter was working nonstop. Cooper caught most of the double entendres (again with the raised eyebrows), while Katie was mostly mesmerized by the quick costume changes, elaborate choreography and massive sets. (“I can’t believe this is live!” she kept gushing.)

We were all ready for the end of the show — it was a school night, and we’re not conditioned for almost three hours of television — when Sandy sauntered out in skin-tight black clothes, overdone hair and heavy makeup.

Katie was convinced that another actress was playing this Sandy, the Sandy who sheds her innocent image to secure the boy she loves. 

“I like old Sandy better,” Katie said. “She doesn’t look like herself.”

Cooper was even more critical.

“It’s a terrible message,” Cooper said. “Does Sandy even like her new self?”

My mom filter picked right up on that insightful question, and in that moment I was reminded that my children don’t have to be protected all the time, that they usually make good decisions, and that they are going to be all right. 

Still, I’m keeping the mom filter — I’ll just continue to recalibrate as necessary.

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

Before church this morning

The world of dreams isn't a competition

From today's Briefing:

I’m standing in a museum gallery, staring at a photo from Glacier National Park, when my 10-year-old sidles up and whispers, “Someday I want to have photos in a museum exhibit.” She leans her head on my shoulder, stares at the mountain, then sets off to admire more works of art.

An hour later, we are in another Fort Worth museum, studying American art. A massive sculpture of reclaimed wood catches Katie’s attention. She stands close. She backs up. She hugs the wall to examine the artist’s construction and technique. 

New England Landscape II by George Morrison at the Amon Carter Museum of American Art

This is Katie’s world. 

And yet from the backseat of the minivan, on the way home that afternoon, she laments, “I feel like I should like sports.”

The comment came from nowhere, apropos of nothing, but my response was swift: “You don’t have to like sports, Katie. You like lots of other things.”

Then the conversation veered again, but I’ve had trouble shaking the sadness in her voice. 

We live in one of the most sports-friendly suburbs in all of America. Frisco already boasts connections to major league baseball, hockey, soccer and basketball, and the Cowboys are building a giant practice facility and headquarters 4 miles from our home. 

Youth sports often feel just as professional around here, with intense practice and game schedules, passionate fans, perpetual skills clinics and paid coaches for elite teams.

This is not Katie’s world. 

When she was much younger, she tried soccer, then basketball. She was a fan of neither. She endured gymnastics lessons for much longer, but she was neither interested nor particularly flexible. She spent a year in dance — and decided that she preferred creating her own moves.

Thankfully, people aren’t defined by what they can’t do or what they don’t like. 

Katie crafts soulful poetry. She creates art on a daily basis. She can stand before a crowd and speak without an ounce of fear.

She raises money for causes she believes in. Whenever she sees an ambulance speed by, she bows her head and prays for the injured or ill.

She gobbles up novels. She’s a vegetarian by choice. She loves long walks. She cheers loudly for the people she loves — including her friends who do like sports.

Some of her friends dream of careers in football or baseball or soccer.

Katie dreams of living in a cottage near a beach, writing, and illustrating and taking photos. 

This world of dreams isn’t a competition. One aspiration is no better than another, and each child deserves the right to change her mind over and over again. (In our house, the list of potential careers has already ranged from archaeology to zoology.)

I can’t predict Katie’s future. I don’t know how often her dreams will wander, evolve, change course. Maybe one day she’ll embrace tennis or golf or bocce ball. Or maybe she’ll never find a sport that speaks to her. 

What matters most to me is that she embraces the passion that whispers in her ear, that stirs her heart, that helps her realize her place in the world.

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

Working as a family reminds you to keep the holiday spirit all year long

From Saturday's Briefing:

At the advent of every Christmas season, I consider not decorating. No wreaths, no tree, no crèches.

It’s a split-second thought — crowded out too quickly to entertain seriously — borne from the worst part of the whole affair: the de-decorating. So many ornaments to take off the tree, to wrap and box protectively. So many knickknacks to gather and hide away for a long respite. So much cheer quickly packed away and tucked into a dark corner.

Our Christmas decor lives most of the year in the attic, accessible through a pull-down door and narrow ladder in the garage. Returning all the boxes to their home requires courage and brawn — historically a job for Uncle Greg, who lives 30 miles away.

Greg never complains about the work, and we enjoy the bonus visit when he’s here to help. This year, though, I thought we should at least attempt to move the boxes on our own. How hard can it be to coax a boxed, 9-foot, artificial tree up a ladder?

Cooper and I hatched a plan. He would sit at the top of the attic stairs, ready to receive the tree. I would slide it up the ladder, pushing it one stair at a time until safely within his grasp. Katie would watch from below.

He clambered up the ladder and waited. And coached. And encouraged. I needed every bit of his cheerleading and advice, because that box of plastic and metal was bulky and heavy, and my arms weren’t long enough to both handle and guide the tree. It kept getting stuck on a step, and I was unable to push it high enough to reach Cooper’s arms.

After a few minutes of struggling and strategizing, I quit. I let the box slide to the garage floor, and Cooper climbed back down. My next move was going to be a phone call to Uncle Greg to arrange a rescue.

“Let me try,” Cooper said. “You sit at the top, and I’ll push the box up.”

“It’s too heavy,” I said.

“I’m strong.”

“I won’t be able to lift the box when it reaches me,” I said.

“I’ll do most of the work.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I said.

“Let’s just try.”

I climbed the steps — always an act of bravery for me — and perched at the top. Cooper asked Katie to stand behind and spot him. Then he began to guide the giant box up — an easier task for him and his 6-3 frame — and into my hands.

Success!

My helpful teenager pushed the tree into a secure spot, then prepared for more deliveries.

I stood on the ladder. Katie lifted boxes of decorations from the garage floor and handed them to me. I walked them up to Cooper, who returned them to their hibernation spots.

“We did it!” Cooper exclaimed as he folded up the attic door.

The three of us exchanged high fives as we walked back into the family room, now strikingly bare. My eyes settled on the coffee table, no longer hosting angels or snowmen or a dish of Christmas candy. All that remained was a board game, a couple of books and a framed photo of the three of us — small doses of cheer that stay out all year long.

It’s often tough to be a single mom, to be the only adult making decisions, to shoulder full responsibility of this little family. And then there are moments when the three of us pull together, when a child takes on a leadership role, when we fully rely upon one another. Those moments more than compensate for the tough times, and they are sweet reminders of joy in all circumstances, no matter the season.

Tyra Damm can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning