Weathered hands hold lifetime of memories

From today's Briefing:

Every now and then, I glance at my hands in alarm. Where did all these veins and ligaments come from? Why didn’t that scar from Christmas 2009 heal? For real, are these actually my hands?

Yes, these are my 43-year-old freckled, slightly lined hands. And oh, the stories they could tell.

Tales of calluses from the monkey bars and from those uneven bars on 1970s playgrounds — the kind from which girls would flip and hang like opossums.

Tales of learning to type on a manual typewriter, the kind that required superhuman strength from the pinky fingers to force the number 1 and the letter P to strike.

Tales of holding my babies for the first time, of swaddling and diapering, bathing and feeding, cradling and snuggling.

Those babies keep getting bigger, and though my hands are still required, the jobs have evolved.

Right now, my hands are a little beaten up from my amateur sewing skills. Katie, who has never fully embraced store-bought costumes, has designed for Halloween this year an out-of-this-world ensemble. She is a cow in space.

This bovine space traveler getup consists of white sweatpants and sweatshirt covered in black spots and a black cap sporting a host of wires that support painted Styrofoam planets and the sun.

Katie did most of the work — planning, painting, cutting, pinning. She’s not yet comfortable with sewing by hand, so that work belongs to me and my now-needle-worn fingers. The final effect — Holstein meets the Milky Way — is totally worth it.

My weathered hands will come in handy again Saturday as I follow my cosmic calf through the neighborhood. Inevitably during trick-or- treating, a handmade accessory pops off, and a quick rescue is required. (Last year’s narwhal tusk necessitated frequent adjustments.)

I’m not complaining one iota about the sewing or the anticipation of on-the-spot fixes. In fact, I’m soaking it up in light of another turn of events: My older child is, for the first time ever, not dressing up at all.

I remember my teenager as a wiggly bear, a toddling crab, a speedy Buzz Lightyear, a magical Harry Potter, a disarming mummy, a bearded wizard, a spindly scarecrow, an alarmingly overgrown monkey.

I recall holding Cooper’s dimpled hand as we walked house to house, reminding him to say “please” and “thank you,” urging him to take only one or two pieces. I remember swiping a fun-size Snickers bar or two from his overflowing pumpkin pail.

This year he’s just one of us, planning to visit with friends, hand out candy to pint-sized ninjas and princesses, maybe swipe a Snickers or two from his sister’s bounty. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you’re 6-2 and closer to college than elementary school. You’re not exactly grown up, and you’re definitely not a little kid.

His hands are still smooth, though.

Those hands have their own tales. Of practicing clarinet, pitching tents and kayaking the Atchafalaya Basin. Of texting, cycling and lighting candles on the church altar.

For a couple of years, predictably and understandably, he wouldn’t let me hold his hand in public. Yet somewhere in the transition from little kid to teen, he started offering his hand again.

His hand wrapped around mine — that’s worth celebrating, no matter how stark the contrast, no matter how foreign my aging hand looks. We’ve both got a whole slew of stories left to discover and tell. I’ll accept every wrinkle and imperfection along the way.

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

Parent-teacher conferences are no reason to fret

From Saturday's Briefing:

Nestled between the anticipation of the first day of school and the joy of Thanksgiving break is a less celebrated phenomenon: parent- teacher conference season.

I’ve been attending such conferences since Cooper was a baby and his child care center summoned me to review a checklist of age-appropriate behavior. Now, as an elementary school teacher in my third year, I’m also conducting such meetings. It’s not easy for either side.

As a parent, it’s difficult to sit before another adult, the one who sees your child more often than you do most days, and hear strengths and weaknesses boiled down to a few phrases. It’s hard to see the essence of your child, the person you worry about and care about and love most of all, boiled down to a reading level and a math assessment and a couple of quotes.

As a teacher, it’s difficult to truly know a student after only seven weeks of school. At the same time, it’s difficult to fully describe the child in only 15 or 20 minutes.

During Cooper’s first-ever conference, more than 13 years ago, the teacher told me she was concerned that my son had no fear of strangers. “He will smile at everyone,” she intoned. “He will wave at everyone.”

Her stoic pause and intense eye contact told me that I, too, should be worried, but I couldn’t understand why. I was on edge the rest of the meeting, unable to focus on all the boxes with checkmarks, instead internally fretting over my firstborn’s lack of discernment.

It’s been like that ever since — well-meaning teachers, excellent teachers, reporting data that attempt to define my children.

Can they sit on their pockets during calendar time? Can they sit in a chair for a lesson? Can they stand in line without talking?

Can they identify letters and sounds? Write letters? Write a complete sentence? Write a complete paragraph? Can they count? Add one-digit numbers? Subtract? Solve multistep word problems? Solve division problems using area models?

It’s all important, yes, but it doesn’t add up to the total child. All that data doesn’t reflect the heart and spirit of a person. It doesn’t necessarily reveal resiliency or a delightful sense of humor or a healthy dose of whimsy. A 20-minute conference can’t begin to capture the soul.

Knowing all of that makes it even more challenging to be the one responsible for collecting data and anecdotal notes, for reporting the academic, social and emotional essence of a child.

When I see a mom wrestling her fingers or biting the inside of her lip, I want to reach across the desk and hold her hands. I want to say, “Let go of your worries. Nothing I can say about how your child performs at school changes who you are as a mom or how fiercely you love that baby. I’m offering only a tiny window into your whole child’s world.”

I don’t say all that. Instead, I say things like, “I love having your child in my class,” and, “Your child is a valuable member of our classroom family.” And then we look at reading data and writing goals and math assessments — because that’s what school is about.

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

Before church this morning

Working yourself out of the mom job

From today's Briefing:

Sometimes you’re so entrenched in the work of parenting that you forget you’re working yourself out of the job.

I’ll always be a mom, of course, but every night that I tuck in my children, I’m one night closer to being out of the raising-children business. With my babies now 339 months and 124 months (otherwise known as 14 and 10), I’m well past the midpoint of the heavy lifting of child rearing.

It’s been years since I stocked no-tears shampoo in the bathroom cabinet. Sippy cups are long gone. I have no idea about the latest technology in disposable diapers or baby wipe warmers (are those even still popular?) or jogging strollers.

Yet I’m still firmly rooted in the business of raising my children, so much so that it’s easy to forget that the days are waning.

Most schooldays, Cooper beats me home. He rides his bike from school and settles in to his homework routine. By the time I walk in the back door, he’s at the kitchen table, studying classical civilizations or irregular Spanish verbs or mitochondria.

Before I can even set my purse on the barstool, he asks, “Momma, how was your day?”

Not, “Momma, I’m hungry.” Or, “Hey, I need to tell you something.” Nope, he welcomes me home with maturity that sometimes takes me off guard — until I remember he’s four years from college. My time as his everyday mentor is running low. We’ve got more — so much more — to cover, but that daily greeting reminds me he’s moving in the right direction.

Now there’s evidence that he’s starting to realize what exactly he’s moving toward. He’s increasingly aware of the world beyond our sheltered home.

I’ve had a little hip pain — nothing serious but enough to make me grumble a couple of times.

“Why don’t you go to the doctor?” my reasonable son asked this week.

I think it’s muscular, I answered, and I want to work on some stretches on my own before I go to the doctor and incur who-knows-how-much in expenses.

“Don’t we have insurance?” Cooper asked.

Yes, I explained, but we have a high deductible, which means I pay 100 percent of costs for everything until we hit a certain amount, and then we pay a percentage of the costs.

“And we don’t want to hit the deductible,” I told him, “because that means one of us has had an accident or needs surgery or something catastrophic has happened.”

I told him how much premiums cost each month and how many hours I work to earn that money, and then I threw in a few estimates for office visits and diagnostic tests. I explained that we, of course, seek treatment when we need it, but it’s also important to be a wise consumer.

He was silent for a moment. Then he crossed the room, wrapped his arms around me and said, “It’s hard to be an adult.”

I hugged him right back, silently agreeing and soaking up the gesture of empathy.

He broke free and looked me in the eye. “So, how long can I stay on your insurance?”

Wise question, young man. You’ve got another 12 years if you need it. Soak it up. That time’s guaranteed to fly by.

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

Before church this morning

Climb that tree, baby bear

From Saturday's Briefing:

A line of children and their people wiggles around the museum building. We’re all waiting for the doors to open for a wildly popular temporary exhibit in Washington, D.C.

Cooper, Katie and I find our spot behind a mom and her two sons. Her boys spy nearby trees, ask permission to climb and sprint away.

Katie watches the scene unfold. She sees the boys kick off their Crocs, peel off their socks and scramble up the trunk like bear cubs. She pleads, “Can I go climb a tree?”

“Well, no, you’re not, um, exactly known for your tree-climbing skills,” I answer apologetically, suspecting that I am crushing her spirit even as the words come out of my mouth.

What I was really thinking: I’m afraid you’ll scrape your knee or your elbows. I’m afraid you’ll fall and break a bone. We have a flight back home in six hours, and we have school tomorrow. I don’t want to risk it.

Hope drains from Katie’s face. Her shoulders slump. She asks again, using only one word. “Please?”

I look at the bear cubs, one nestled in the crook of a branch, the other climbing still higher. I look at their momma bear, who is so casual about her climbers that she’s not even looking in their direction.

She’s checking her watch, perhaps wondering how much longer she’ll have to stand in line next to an overprotective mom.

In those next seconds, I consider the tension that’s present every single day in the life of a parent: balancing the instinct to protect with the necessity to let go. I consider the actual likelihood of my 10-year-old requiring a trip to the emergency room.

I relent.

“Go climb,” I say. “Be careful!”

Katie zooms to the far corner of the museum grounds. She’s chosen the tree with the lowest branches, the one she’s most likely to conquer.

I keep our place in line and crane my neck to watch my own wannabe cub.

Her sneakers are too slick to offer traction on the trunk, so she kicks them off. Socks are next.

She tries again. And again. And again. Other children leave the line and start trying to climb, too.
There’s an ad hoc meeting under the branches, with lots of motioning and examining and pointing. They’re hatching strategy.

At last, Katie looks close. She’s wrapped her arms around the bottom branch. Her feet have found footing on the bark. But she lacks the upper-body strength to move any more. She hangs from the branch like a sloth — a freckled, bespectacled, giggly sloth.

She drops to the ground. She walks around the tree. She returns to the branch. She tries again. She resumes the sloth position.

Cooper tries to boost her up. She still struggles. She shoos him away. She settles back into sloth mode.

The line awakens. Parents begin to wave their children back and hoist bags on shoulders. The doors will open soon.

Katie abandons her sloth tree and runs barefoot across the lawn. She sits on the square of concrete at my feet to put on socks and shoes. I notice a few minor scratches on her knees. Her hair is disheveled. There’s some dirt on her shirt.

“I almost did it!” she gushes. “I almost climbed that tree!”

She stands up just in time to shuffle into the museum, wearing the most joyful smile — a reminder that I need to resist my predilection for worst-case scenarios.

I need to embrace acceptable risks more often. I need to keep in check my overprotective tendencies — a difficult task for this momma bear.

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

Before church this morning

Before church this morning

My promises to you before high school

From Saturday's Briefing:

Dear child starting high school on Monday,

Though I don’t know how it’s possible, as I still remember exactly what you were wearing the day you started kindergarten, I have a few promises to make.

I will not to compare you to others.

You’re entering a world in which your value seems determined by measurement against peers.

Your class rank will be calculated twice a year until you graduate. The number is significant to universities. It may affect some scholarship applications. But your number, whatever it may be, doesn’t define you.

You will compete for a ranked chair in band. Your chair may dictate which part you play and where you physically sit, but that number, whatever it may be, doesn’t define you. Your value is exponentially greater than can be calculated by your grades or your ability to play clarinet or how fast you run. Institutions and strangers may base their opinion of you on numbers and rank, but my love for you will never rise or fall based on points.

I expect you to do your best.

You are your greatest competitor. I won’t compare you to your peers, but I do expect you to work hard, to be kind, to push yourself. I expect you to steadily improve and to seek innovation.

Compete with yourself, dear child. Check your work. Don’t skimp when studying for an exam. Try to write every essay a little better than the last.

I will help you less often than I think you need and more often than you think you need.

I’ve spent the past 14 years helping you become independent. You are capable of preparing meals, cleaning the kitchen and transforming dirty laundry into clean, dry, folded clothes. You can change light bulbs, repair small electronics and follow written instructions for any number of systems. The more often you practice those skills at home, the more confidently you’ll handle real-life duties in college and beyond.

Yet, despite your good intentions, and in light of occasionally misplaced bravado, you still need my help. We still have four years before you leave, and I’ll keep teaching and supervising and gradually releasing until then.

I will ask questions.

Who are you texting? Who are you meeting? Who are you eating lunch with? Where are you going? When will you be home? How did you make this decision? Have you finished your homework? Did you review your notes? Are you prepared for tomorrow?

How are you feeling? How can I help?

The questions won’t stop, and I look forward to your answers.

I will give you space.

I don’t want to smother or hover. You need space to plan, to make decisions, to deliver on promises — and then celebrate your successes and learn from your mistakes.

You need to advocate for yourself. You need to solve problems by yourself.

You need to know that I believe in you and that you are capable. Healthy space gives you room to stretch and grow.

I will maintain boundaries and enforce consequences.

You’re on the road to adulthood, but you’re not there yet. I’m your mom first and your friend second.

When you break a rule, you’ll experience the natural consequences plus whatever additional discipline I decide is appropriate. I promise to be fair and consistent.

I will forgive. You are 14. You are human. You are going to make mistakes.

I will forgive lapses in judgment and rough manners. I will forgive broken curfews and messy rooms. I will forgive forgotten chores and unwarranted sulking.

I am 43. I am human. I am going to make mistakes.

I hope you’ll forgive mine, as well.

Love, Momma

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

Before church this morning