Veganism, nuclear engineering and a mom trying to keep up with her teens' passions

From Saturday's Briefing:

Each stage of parenting creates new expertise.

Moms of infants are walking encyclopedias on car seats, diapers and sleep schedules (or lack thereof). Toddler parents know all the indoor and outdoor playgrounds within a 10-mile radius and which 30-minute television show is entertaining enough to buy you time to prepare dinner or fold laundry.

Elementary school moms and dads become go-to gurus of play dates and birthday parties, recreational sports leagues and art classes, spelling lists and multiplication tables, state capitals and summer camp options.

And then, with the advent of middle school, that smug sense of having it all under control starts to unravel. Those children we've nurtured and protected have more freedom. They've been developing their own interests, beyond what we've fed them. They choose their own clothes, their own books, their own TV shows, their own friends.

Suddenly it seems as if your child's interests are totally independent of your own — a natural evolution that nevertheless takes us expert parents by surprise.

Cooper was in middle school when he developed an interest in nuclear engineering. While I had a vague idea of the existence of nuclear engineers, I didn't know enough to even consider it as a possible career for my son.

He spent his junior year of high school researching the effects of small modular nuclear reactors in a community setting — words that I didn't know went together. This year he's devoting even more time to the field, creating original work related to nuclear engineering as part of an independent study. He's working with a mentor engineer from Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant, a partnership that he initiated after weeks of cold calls, emails, interviews and LinkedIn maneuvering.

Thanks to Cooper, I now know that nuclear power plants provide about 20 percent of the nation's electricity, that the production of nuclear energy is carbon-free, and that safely run plants offer nothing to fear. I am no expert in the field, but I'm happy to support my son as he tries to become one.

I offer a different kind of support for one of Katie's passions. She was in elementary school when she elected to become vegetarian. I adjusted her meals — and some of ours — accordingly. She's survived more than five years without meat. Now, in the middle of eighth grade and after extensive research, she has chosen a vegan diet.

This means she eats no animal-based products — no cheese, no eggs, no ice cream. It's not a lifestyle I would choose. I don't need steak, but I'm pretty sure I can't survive without chips and queso.

Katie isn't interested in converting me or her brother or anyone else, for that matter. She's not offended in the presence of a rack of ribs or a hunk of roast beef. But she is unwavering in her commitment to her choice, in support of her own health, the environment and the treatment of animals.

Together she and I are trying a new vegan recipe each week. Thai peanut noodles, toor dal with cumin, quinoa and black bean salad with lime dressing. I'm hovering, on the lookout for calorie count and adequate protein while teaching her to look for the same. Occasionally I remind her that she can choose to return to animal products or even meat without judgment.

I'm no expert in veganism, and I may never be, as long as I continue to embrace the inherent comfort in dairy. Yet I'll willingly root for Katie's choice and give her the freedom to become her own kind of expert.

Perhaps that's the real expertise we need to develop while parenting teens — stepping back, trusting those strong souls we've been nurturing from the very beginning and being open to what they can teach us.

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

Cooper's nuclear engineer mentor took us on a tour of Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant.

You might think raising young people helps you predict their next move. You're wrong

From Saturday's Briefing:

What does it mean to parent teenagers? It totally depends on the day.

There are routines, of course, not too different from infancy or toddlerhood or even elementary school. They need to eat and sleep. They need clean clothes. They thrive on unconditional love and affection.

And yet there are countless more variables as they get older. The routine is merely a skeleton upon which unpredictability runs wild. You might think that raising these young people gives you an advantage to understanding their next moves. You are often wrong.

I thought, for example, that I had modeled healthy, balanced meals for my children and that they, when left to their own devices, would do the same.

In between Saturday activities last week, Cooper took charge of his own lunch. He made himself a ham, cheese and pepperoni wrap. (I suggested that he include some fresh spinach or chopped tomatoes. He said those would interfere with the desired texture and flavor of his creation.)

He took one bite of his lunch then stared meaningfully at the toaster oven.

"If you want to heat it, I'd wrap it in foil first, and set the oven to bake," I counseled.

With his entree delayed, Cooper set his sights on an appetizer of sorts. I suggested some carrots or an apple. I was ignored.

He gathered two knives, two slices of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of Nutella.

He spread more peanut butter on one slice than I thought was physically possible. He repeated the feat with Nutella on the other slice.

He smooshed the two sides together and polished it off just at the wrap was ready to come out of the oven. He proceeded to devour the wrap, then searched the refrigerator for something to wash it all down with. Mango juice. At least there was a semblance of fruit.

I've got a few more months to work on him before he leaves for college. Maybe he'll surprise me.

Katie and I have a few more years together. For the first 12 years of her life, she seemed content with me hanging around. Teenage Katie still likes me, but she also wants her space. (I, too, have been a teen. I totally understand.)

She wasn't thrilled to learn that I had volunteered to chaperone the eighth-grade semi-formal. I promised to make no unnecessary eye contact and to refrain from taking photos of her at the dance. (I made no such promise for photos before.)

I worked the sign-in table most of the night, far removed from the dance floor.

About 30 minutes before the event's end, Katie came looking for me -- an unexpected twist. Her motives weren't entirely pure, though. Her goal: Convince me to allow a group of girls to come home with us to watch a movie.

I did some quick calculations and determined that to host girls for an after-party would require that I remain in regular clothes — not pajamas — and be available for general parenting and maybe even driving for another three hours.

A universal truth of teaching is that every Friday night is a finishing line. We've reached our absolute limit of activity. The fact that I was still wearing publicly acceptable clothing — a dress and heels, no less — was a miracle.

I offered a compromise: I'd take the whole gaggle to Braum's for ice cream and drive them home.

So, on that Friday night after two hours in a middle school gym, I sat alone in a booth, nursing a scoop of cookies and cream.

In an unexpected twist, I didn't even mind. I enjoyed a few moments of solitude while hearing echoes of their giggles.

These girls will be in high school soon. Their schedules will be more complex. In a couple of years, some will be driving, and they won't need a mom to linger in the background.

No matter the day or the meal or the special occasion, I'm thankful for this opportunity to guide my children toward adulthood. Life would be routine without them.

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

Friday night at Braum's

If you don't know where to start with people, try a book first

My Dallas Morning News column, from Saturday's Briefing:

I'm convinced that we would all get along better if we all read more — and not just tweets and Facebook posts that make us comfortable or books that reflect our own experiences. We need to bury our noses in unexpected literature.

I've been helping a ninth-grader understand Harper Lee's classic To Kill a Mockingbird. She's enjoying the story and working hard to ferret out universal themes, the importance of setting and how the plot affects characterization. She's doing all that work with limited background knowledge. Her parents are non-Christian immigrants, which makes some of the 1930s Southern references particularly difficult to parse.

Consider, for example, when Miss Maudie talks about "foot-washing Baptists" and tells Scout, "Sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of oh, of your father." If you're not familiar with Christian doctrine and various denominations within the church, these are tough quotes to place in context. And the whole novel is full of allusions.

The analysis is worth the reward, of course. We're having important conversations about sibling rivalry, prejudice and standing up for what's right.

My own reading lately has leaned toward historical fiction, with valuable lessons from the past that can inform our attitudes and decisions.

The Alice Network by Kate Quinn, set in France during World War I and after World War II, describes risks taken by female spies and atrocities committed by the Germans and those who supported them. There's no pleasure in reading of torture, but we can't afford to forget the cruelty of regimes that allow it, either.

The Dollmaker of Krakow by R.M. Romero is part historical fiction and part fantasy, with a wooden doll come to life who helps to rescue children from the Krakow Ghetto. Holocaust stories are never easy to read, yet that discomfort is a necessary reminder of a past we can't repeat and heroic souls who resisted.

Refugee by Alan Gratz follows the harrowing journeys of three refugee children — one escaping Nazi Germany, one fleeing Cuba under Fidel Castro and another leaving 21st-century Syria. It's impossible to read these stories without gasping, weeping and wondering more than once, "What would I take if I had to leave my home behind?" and "Would my family and I survive this kind of uncertainty and violence?"

One of my favorites of the year so far is The Night Diary by Veera Hiranandani, named a Newbery Honor Book this week. My choices typically skew Western, and I lack sufficient knowledge of South Asia, especially given the number of my students whose parents were born there. This novel helps to build on my limited understanding of Indian foods, customs and beliefs.

The Night Diary takes place in India in 1947, as the country was establishing new borders and Pakistan was created. The narrator is a 12-year-old girl with a Hindu father and a Muslim mother (who died during childbirth) who must leave her comfortable life behind to emigrate from Pakistan to the new India.

The characters are fictional but plausible. Nisha and her family nearly die of starvation and dehydration. They witness and narrowly escape inhumane violence. According to Hiranandani, more than 14 million people crossed borders in the partition of India, and as many as 1 million died in the mass migration.

These are stories I didn't know, and now I need to know more. At the same time, I wonder what kind of historical fiction might eventually be written about 2019. What kind of fictional heroes will emerge? What themes will be remembered?

How can each one of us change the narrative now? How can we draw from history and literature to develop empathy that will then foster conversations, even when we disagree?

In these days of bitterness and turmoil, we'd be wise to consider the words of Atticus Finch. 

"If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view ... until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

If you don't know where to start with people, try a book first.

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

Fellow suburban parents, it's time to talk to kids about appreciating what they have

From Saturday's Briefing:

If Katie takes a sliced apple to school for lunch, forgets to eat it and then throws it away at home after remembering it in her bag hours later, I'll remind her that it's like throwing out a couple of dollar bills. Organic apples are pricey, even when you buy them on sale.

If I hear Cooper chomping ice, I'll ask him to stop, citing "those $9,000 teeth." The $9,000 represents total orthodontia costs so far and doesn't include routine cleanings or recent wisdom teeth removal. And soon I'll have to call them his $10,200 teeth, as those impacted wisdom teeth caused a bit of trouble, and we're about to enter a third stage of braces.

These admonitions don't come easily, though. I often feel conflicted talking about expenses with my children. I don't want them to feel guilty for the costs associated with growing up, yet I want them to understand that most everything has a price. They need to be prepared for their own bill-paying future. They need to appreciate what they have and understand why they often don't get what they want.

It's the same kind of conflict that comes from living in our mostly affluent community. I'm thankful for access to new technology at new campuses, clean streets and responsive police. I'm grateful for the opportunities my children have in a school district that offers academic and career and technology classes that read more like college courses. I'm in awe — and even slightly embarrassed — that our football team plays games at the Dallas Cowboys' indoor practice facility. (When I'm at normal high school stadiums, I find myself wondering, "Where is the giant video board for replays?" and "Why is there no air-conditioning out here?")

We live in a modest home not far from much newer, more extravagant houses. I drive a 10-year-old minivan (keep on, trusty Odyssey!), while many of the cars around town have Bluetooth technology and touch screens.

Some families ski every spring break and spend at least a week of summer along Highway 30A in Florida — that is, when they can fit in vacations around select sports travel schedules.

I begrudge them nothing. These same families work hard, volunteer all over town, make wise decisions and share generously.

Our bubble isn't representative of the nation, though, or even our Denton County. Our community's affluence is an anomaly. Most people don't live in magazine-ready homes. Most children don't attend classes in brand-new buildings. There are school districts all around us in which the majority of students qualify for free or reduced lunch.

Not all children — despite what mine see — have access to braces. Many families would prefer to buy organic produce but simply can't justify the extra expense from their meager food budgets.

So, what is our responsibility in the middle of — or on the edges of — affluence?

At the Damm house, we're working on an awareness of both what we have and what others lack, plus responsible use of the resources we have — including donations when we can. We talk about how difficult it is to work out of poverty, and we consider historical and current policies that make life more difficult for low-income families.

When necessary, I remind my people that double reeds and private oboe lessons aren't free and that I won't replace lost or broken items that you can live without.

A few weeks ago, we were driving to meet family for dinner at Legacy West, one of the many swanky restaurant districts within 7 miles of our neighborhood. Cooper, who is months from graduating high school and moving on to college, was staring out the window and remarked, "Wherever I go to school, there probably won't be anyplace as fancy as this."

"Nope," I answered. "I'm thankful you realize that now."

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

Lincoln, MLK and our hope for the future

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln, 1863

On Friday afternoon, a large group of young men encircled, taunted, mocked and harassed a Native American and Vietnam veteran.

Also on Friday, a group of young people sat in a circle and discussed the importance of the Gettysburg Address as well as parallel themes found in Lincoln's text and the classic novel A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

I'm disheartened and disgusted by the actions of those teens in Washington, D.C. -- actions that were recorded and shared millions of times. I'm praying that they each have a change of heart, that they take ownership for their individual actions in a mob setting, that the adults in their lives examine why those boys thought it was OK to display blatant racism.

It's important to remember that those young men in Washington, on a field trip from Kentucky, do not speak for all young people in the United States.

I find solace in the words of my sixth-graders, who spoke eloquently Friday about courage and freedom, faith and love, unity and civil rights. 

A student in my morning class pointed to the nonviolent leadership of Gandhi. A student in my afternoon class quoted John 3:16 as an example of sacrificial love. Students in both classes asked questions based on research, listened to one another and sometimes even disagreed, but always with civility.

These are 11- and 12-year-olds who together represent most every major world religion. Many speak a second or even third language at home. Their parents subscribe to varying worldviews. 

Yet they are able to come together with common goals -- to learn, to show what they've learned and to learn even more from one another.

My heart is heavy when I watch the video of the boys who surrounded Nathan Phillips. Yet I know that love is stronger than fear or hate or selfishness. I continue to place my faith in God, Christ and the Holy Spirit while respecting and honoring that not everyone does the same. 

I continue to pray that all of God's children acknowledge that we are not required to look alike, think alike, sound alike, pray alike or worship alike. We are called to love one another and protect one another without qualification.

My hope lies in the children who, regardless of and because of their differences, are able to share, listen and consider new points of view.

My morning class, discussing the Gettysburg Address and A Wrinkle in Time

The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that recognizes the dignity and worth of all of God’s children. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that allows judgment to run down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy of brotherhood, the normalcy of true peace, the normalcy of justice.

Martin Luther King Jr., 1965

I'm guided by possibility in the new year

From Saturday's Briefing:

I've never been successful with new year's resolutions. They feel so heavy, and I'm disappointed come late January, early February, when I haven't met my expectations.

Instead, I've found more peace by focusing on interim goals regardless of the calendar. Plus, every year since 2013, I've adopted a guiding word, inspired by Jon Gordon's book One Word That Will Change Your Life.

Joy. Content. Embrace. Each year the word changes, and I try to live with it as a clarifying reminder of what's most important.

As 2018 was waning, though, I was struggling to find my new word. I kept a running list, discarding more than accepting, never feeling devoted or committed to a single option.

In the midst of this silent search, I was reminded of both the miracle and fragility of life. Within just a few days, I celebrated an infant baptism and mourned an unexpected loss.

In a church sanctuary, a group of family members and friends gathered around baby Jude, praying for his future and vowing to lead by example. We sang hymns together and reaffirmed our own faith. We took turns cuddling him. We marveled at his tininess and good-naturedness. We celebrated the promise of a joyful life.

And then another group of family members and friends gathered before a casket holding the body of Kumar, giving thanks for his life. We hugged his wife and two children. We placed rose petals in his casket. We listened to loved ones recall endearing qualities — pride in his adopted United States, devotion to healthy habits, passion for education. We wept over a life cut short.

Jude and Kumar. Two souls from different centuries, from different continents, from different religions. Both pillars of light, both loved from the very beginning. One with a lifetime to explore and a community to build, the other with a journey complete and a community left behind.

How could I frame the new year to reflect my values with both Jude and Kumar in mind? I was still unsure, until New Year's Day, when I opened my new calendar and read the quote for January, from Emily Dickinson: I dwell in Possibility.

Possibility.

Of course.

Jude's options are staggering, almost overwhelming. Kumar's have already been realized.

Mine are somewhere in between.

Each day offers new possibility. Books to read, ideas to explore, prayers to voice. Recipes to try, music to sing, paths to walk. Hugs to give, laughs to share, friendship to receive.

I like to think that I don't need reminders to embrace each day as a gift, to revel in every single sunrise. And yet there are days when I spend more time worrying than being thankful, when I fall into routine without thinking, when I leave possibilities unexplored.

So for this Year of Possibility, I'm thinking of Jude and the hope he represents, and I'm thinking of Kumar and the impact he's left. I'm singing, "Early in the morning, our song shall rise to thee," and I'm envisioning red, white and pink petals scattered with respect.

How fortunate we are to embrace babies — and how fortunate we are to wake up each morning — even as we say goodbye to friends who leave too soon. Welcome, 2019, and all of your potential.

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

A middle-school teacher's greatest gifts during the holiday season

From Saturday's Briefing:

Toward the end of my third-grade year, I noticed that peers were giving gifts to our teacher, and in return, later that day, she would give them a handwritten thank-you note on scented paper.

I wanted in on that action.

We were living with my grandparents at the time, my mom down on her luck, and I didn't want to ask an adult to take me shopping to spend money we didn't have.

So, I swiped a magnet from Gramma's refrigerator, wrapped it in tissue paper and delivered it to my teacher. At the end of that day, I received the coveted thank-you note.

Of course, petty theft and dishonesty are no way to show someone you care, but I didn't quite grasp that dichotomy at the time. I also didn't understand — and didn't fully realize until I was a teacher myself — that the best gifts of teaching aren't wrapped, can't be placed on a desk or under the Christmas tree. The best gifts, and sometimes the most unexpected, are received daily, the byproduct of interacting with children.

Some days those gifts include high-fives, smiles, light-bulb moments and deep conversation. Every day with children offers the opportunity to learn something new.

Teaching is the kind of career that engenders constant discovery — and not just because of the content we're delivering. (Though I am fortunate to have a job that requires a working knowledge of Greek mythology, time travel theories and the roots of machismo.) Teachers constantly learn from their students.

How else would I know about PewDiePie? He's the ridiculously nicknamed YouTuber from Sweden who was born the same year I graduated high school and has more than 77 million online subscribers.

In fact, how else would I know what a "YouTuber" is? It wasn't until I started teaching that I learned it is one of the most coveted future careers of the adolescent set. (I always advise my wannabe YouTubers to have a backup plan in place.)

These children teach me how our world is changing. At the end of our persuasive writing unit, my seventh-graders wrote letters to be mailed the old-fashioned way. Almost none of them knew how to address an envelope — or were even certain where to place the stamp. They didn't understand the difference between a street address and a P.O. box. They were fuzzy on the necessity of a ZIP code.

They've never known life without email, a concept that fascinates me and forces me to consider which customs and behaviors will eventually disappear altogether.

Their reliance on technology doesn't preclude their humanity, though. These young people have earnest concerns about the world's problems. This school year, my students have identified and defined societal challenges — racism, famine, poverty, lack of education for girls worldwide, gender inequality, endangered animals, cancer, drug use, climate change — and brainstormed solutions.

When they write about themselves and their world — our world — they are sharing the kind of intangible gifts that make working with children so rewarding. Our young people are paying attention, and they're not waiting until they're grown up to tackle tough issues.

Lovely (and delicious!) cookie
from a student this year

The families I serve are thoughtful and generous. I am thankful for every single box of chocolate, gift card and coffee mug that I received from students before winter break. When I count my blessings as a teacher, though, it's those students themselves that I place at the top of my list.

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

Here's what Christmas really means as I get older

From Saturday's Briefing:

As we age, our perceptions and expectations of Christmas — at least the secular Christmas — change.

I'm decades beyond making a list and judging the holiday's success based on how closely my actual gifts match the list.

I've moved past the idea of creating a picture-perfect Christmas, as defined by magazines and social media as an expertly decked-out house, exquisitely decorated (and homemade, of course) cookies, children in coordinating clothes every day of December, and annual visits to at least one parade, one performance of The Nutcracker, one breakfast with Santa and one nighttime tour of a fabulous neighborhood.

I'm still attempting to make Christmas magic happen for my children, though they themselves are less consumed by the magic and more interested in time with friends and family, hot cocoa as often as possible and Christmas movies in the family room.

I have officially reached the stage where Christmas means community.

Two days after Thanksgiving, my sister's family and my family jumped into the holiday season with a free outdoor concert in McKinney. Ray Benson and his stalwart band, Asleep at the Wheel, crooned Christmas songs and some favorite Western swing tunes. The crowd sang along, with rousing renditions of "Route 66" and "Miles and Miles of Texas."

Most of the fans were strangers, but we felt like a community, joined together by admiration for the same artists, singing the same lyrics, creating similar memories to pile atop our own individual memories of live music and Christmas festivals and cool nights under the stars.

A couple of weeks later, Cooper, Katie and I attended the Christmas Spectacular at the Star, a glitzy outdoor show at the Ford Center in Frisco, repeated every Friday and Saturday night this month. This production wasn't exactly my style, with synthesized music, dancing Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, fireworks and animated lights creating images on the towering Christmas tree.

But the crowd loved it.

The appeal for me was not so much the over-the-top production but instead folks gathering to celebrate and children looking in awe in every direction — a gathered community of neighbors near and far.

The next night we gathered in our church sanctuary, singing carols and listening to meaningful arrangements from choirs and instrumentalists.

The service ended with "Silent Night," the quintessential Christmas hymn that celebrates 200 years this season. The sanctuary lights dimmed, and each of us held a candle, lit by our neighbor, and sang the cherished lyrics with hushed wonder.

We were surrounded by our chosen community.

Those candles in the darkness, lit by one flame and then spread among hundreds, offer hope. It's the kind of comfort I'm especially seeking these days, following the suicide of a young man in our neighborhood, a senior in high school and classmate of my son.

He played in the orchestra.

He was loved and adored by family members, friends and teachers.

He was a member of a community that misses him dearly.

On the last Monday night in November, about 200 people huddled in a park pavilion to remember him. We heard stories about his life, we listened to his favorite classic rock song, and we lit candles in his memory.

We were reminded that each of us are a light in the darkness.

That we need one another.

That we are never alone.

My Christmas wish is that everyone takes stock and gives thanks for the community that they have — and that everyone reaches out to someone who feels like they have no one.

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

As we await admission decisions, I already miss my college-bound son

From Saturday's Briefing:

It's application season for high school seniors with college plans, which means my son has written his autobiography, 150 to 600 words at a time, for universities across the United States.

Cooper has shared the origins of his career aspirations (nuclear engineering because he's passionate about clean energy sources), ability to overcome adversity (two learning disabilities), how a belief system was challenged (unanswered prayers and questions about God in the wake of his father dying), appreciation for diversity (captured, in part, by his cafeteria table group), what makes him a solid investment (ability to design and complete a large project, as illustrated by his Eagle Scout rank in Boy Scouts), an activity he intends to continue pursuing (running) and his favorite color (not really, but it's blue).

And now, with all the admissions applications and most of the scholarship applications turned in, we wait for other people to make decisions before he can make his.

So far, Cooper has been accepted at one of the four schools he's applied to. The second school feels like a sure bet. The third is a little iffy, and the fourth is a huge reach.

I'm not worried about where he'll go. He's acquired resilience and a strong work ethic. He advocates for himself. Wherever he lands, he has skills to be successful.

If he's rejected by some of the schools, I'm fine with that, too. As a teacher who works with students identified as gifted and talented, I've seen the results of young people placed in the wrong program. If you're able to eke your way in to a curriculum that's not designed for you, you're likely to struggle from the first day, and it's often difficult to catch up. A veto based on data is usually what's best for both parties.

Still, there's a bit of tension in the waiting. At this point, there's nothing more Cooper can do to influence decisions. Four years of academic work plus extracurricular choices, test scores, essays and recommendation letters have been submitted. How those admissions folks piece together a freshman class now — well, it's a bit of a mystery and not in our control.

No matter if he calls Raleigh or Ann Arbor, Houston or Auburn home this time next year, his sister and I are mostly concerned with how we'll fare when he's gone.

At 6-foot-4, he's my go-to child for fetching items from the attic and changing light bulbs. He's the household tech expert. He runs errands without complaint.

He's more than a reliable helper, of course.

If given the choice between riding with me or riding with Cooper, Katie chooses her brother every time. He plays his music loudly, he sings a little bit louder, he dances at stoplights. He makes her laugh nonstop.

He discusses politics and pop culture, sports and Scripture with ease. He is slightly mischievous, usually in a manner that causes no harm.

Every morning when he walks into the kitchen, he asks, "Momma, how did you sleep?" And every afternoon when he comes from school, he asks, "Momma, how was your day?"

It's going to be tough to let this child go.

In her new autobiography, Becoming, Michelle Obama writes of her own mother: "Her goal was to push us out into the world. 'I'm not raising babies,' she'd tell us. 'I'm raising adults.'"

Those words are a poignant reminder for me, as Cooper is poised for the world beyond Frisco. We've been working toward these days for more than 17 years. My son's story has a strong foundation, and there are countless more chapters to come. No matter the setting, adventure awaits.

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

One more campus tour, November 2018

Tree and ornaments, crying and laughing

Thanksgiving Day, just before decorating

One of the best days of the year is when we decorate our Christmas tree.

Unpacking the ornaments is unpacking our lives. Each ornament has a story:

• Handmade Santa band from Grandma Irene
• Pasta angel handmade from my mom
• Clay Santa that Steve made
• Wooden school bus from Grandma and Papa's trip to Germany
• Bavarian egg from our friend Sarah
• Silver angel from our friend Sharon
• Tiny gingerbread house from the year we moved to Frisco in 2002
• Wooden frog from Aunt Karen to remember my mom 

For Cooper's first Christmas, Steve and I started a tradition that I've continued -- an ornament that represents something special about each child for that year. When we pack away the tree in early January, I write a note about the new ornaments. Then in November, when we put up the tree again, we unpack the special ornaments and read the notes -- Buzz Lightyear for the year that Cooper was obsessed, Elmo for that Katie was obsessed, a bicycle for the year that Cooper competed in triathlons, a violin for the first year Katie took lessons.

The idea is that when each child leaves the house for their own home, they'll be able to take a ready-made collection of personal ornaments for their own tree. 

Yesterday, after the tree was assembled and we'd fluffed all the branches, we started hanging ornaments. Cooper gets to place his ornaments and Katie hers. I handed Cooper his cowboy (from summer 2010, when we spent a week at a Colorado dude ranch) and asked, "Cooper, will you take all of your ornaments next year to college?" 

At about the word "take" I started to tear up. 

About that time, Katie walked into the entry with hot chocolate for Cooper. She saw him holding the lone cowboy, and without even looking in my direction, started to cry.

Poor Cooper. Stuck between two trying-to-hold-it-together Damm women who are excited about his future but have trouble imagining the house without him.

He hung the ornament on the tree, hugged us both and said he would probably leave the ornaments at home while he's in college.

No one stays sad for long while decorating a tree. We continued, unpacking ornaments, singing to Christmas music (and skipping the songs no one likes, such as "Baby It's Cold Outside"), drinking cocoa.

Katie complimented Cooper for helping with something (his height is a great advantage for decorating), when he told us, "I'll make a great husband one day. I mean, my future wife has no idea."

We laughed for a while. His random immodest claims always make us giggle. There's no specific ornament for all the laughter (or the tears), but we've got all kinds of memories.

Our finished tree