Happy birthday to me, a 46-year-old teacher just now learning about Drake

From Saturday's Briefing:

I turn 46 this week, yet I'm still waiting to feel middle-aged.

Well, that's not entirely true. I only recently learned who Drake is, which flummoxed my children and made me feel a little old. In my defense, neither NPR nor my one go-to satellite radio station plays much rap.

And this week, one of my sixth-graders was seeking clarification on life during the Civil War, innocently implying that I would be a good primary source. I gasped and reminded her that the war was fought from 1861 to 1865.

"Oh! That's right," she said. "I meant, can you tell me about World War I?"

Again, no.

At last she remembered that I could tell her about living during the Cold War — and only part of it, I might add.

In the last two decades of the 20th century, my grandparents lived in a cozy house in a tiny community on Belton Lake in Central Texas. Across the lake lies the massive Fort Hood. There were days in the early 1980s when the air would boom and the ground would rumble, reminders of the artillery practice taking place nearby.

"Reagan's mad at the (bleep) Russians again," Grandpa would mutter on days when the reverberations didn't stop.

My students also like to hear about life before cellphones and the Internet, when research projects required the use of a card catalog, stacks of reference books and access to a microfiche reader. That also meant hours at the public library, where friends gathered most every day for homework, group projects and good-natured foolishness.

When it was time to go home, we needed a quarter to use the pay phone to call home. You hoped there would be no busy signal.

They are fascinated by the idea of television shows that had to be watched right that moment — or else you'd have to wait for a rerun. They struggle to imagine that people were forced to view movies on someone else's schedule, not on demand.

They are confused by a time in which anyone could walk to airport gates to say goodbye or to greet family members and friends as they walked off an airplane.

I'm happy to share my age and stories with my students, even when they confuse the 19th century with the 20th. I've learned that the gift of a new year can't be taken for granted, and I'm thankful for the experiences — positive and negative — that I've piled up since 1972.

After surviving so many loved ones, I've learned to never complain about a birthday, a day that isn't promised to any of us. I've gained perspective on what's a true crisis, what's worth grumbling over and what we can let go. (Most of it we can let go.) I've tried to more often share appreciation for acts of kindness and more freely say, "I love you."

Though I'm thankful for technological advances in my lifetime and the immediacy and convenience they offer, I'm even more grateful for enduring friendships, wisdom found in classic literature and the universal benevolence of people, no matter the time period. Yet I'm eagerly awaiting the next waves of innovation, excited to see how younger generations affect change.

Perhaps that's what defines my middle-agedness — straddling two centuries, looking back and looking forward while aiming to enjoy today.

Just a few days shy of 46

Or, in the words of Drake, "I'm living life right now ... this what I'mma do till it's over."

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

In 36 hours, I was reminded of the power of young people to create hope

My column from Saturday's Briefing:

The past couple of weeks have weighed more than most.

There have been a few parenting struggles. There have been significantly more work and household duties than there are hours in the day.

Two friends have been diagnosed with cancer. A dear family friend passed away after enduring years of health struggles.

Ongoing political turmoil and global unease continue to build, and I worry about short-term problems and long-term implications.

The weight of it all can feel crushing.

Yet we don't have to look far to find people who lighten the load. In the span of 36 hours, in fact, I was reminded of the power of people — young people, especially — to create hope.

A few Frisco students spoke last Saturday about their dreams for the future, as part of TEDxYouth event hosted at a middle school. The lineup included five of my sixth-graders, who spent weeks researching, writing, revising and rehearsing on a topic of their choice.

One student implored us to conserve water and reduce the use of disposable bottles. Another made an impassioned case for space exploration and the potential of finding life in faraway galaxies. Another spoke about inspiration for wild ideas, emphasizing the importance of creativity and no-holds-barred brainstorming that might lead to something life-changing or life-saving.

These 12-year-olds speak with confidence and poise. Their enthusiasm is contagious. They see no limits.

Those students lighten the load.

Yet we don't have to look far to find people who lighten the load. In the span of 36 hours, in fact, I was reminded of the power of people — young people, especially — to create hope.

A few Frisco students spoke last Saturday about their dreams for the future, as part of TEDxYouth event hosted at a middle school. The lineup included five of my sixth-graders, who spent weeks researching, writing, revising and rehearsing on a topic of their choice.

One student implored us to conserve water and reduce the use of disposable bottles. Another made an impassioned case for space exploration and the potential of finding life in faraway galaxies. Another spoke about inspiration for wild ideas, emphasizing the importance of creativity and no-holds-barred brainstorming that might lead to something life-changing or life-saving.

These 12-year-olds speak with confidence and poise. Their enthusiasm is contagious. They see no limits.

Those students lighten the load.

Sunday afternoon I attended an Eagle Scout ceremony for a young man I've watched grow up. Baylen's a quietly courageous leader, a gentleman who loves his family and who never draws attention to himself.

His dad told gathered friends and family about a recent dinner out. A nearby patron started to choke. Baylen, relying on Boy Scout training, left his seat, performed the Heimlich maneuver and saved the stranger's life.

Baylen lightens the load.

Later that evening, I arrived at church a little early to pick up Katie from youth group. I stood in the back of the room, visiting with a volunteer and enjoying a peek into student-led worship.

A high school student delivered the night's homily. Haley spoke about the importance of a life led by love. She spoke about letting go of material worries and focusing on how to positively influence the lives of others. She encouraged the teens around her to choose love as motivation and to live with purpose.

Then the youth band performed a final song, and all the kids sang and danced (or at least performed hand motions). We gathered in a wide circle, held hands, recited a blessing and pledged to take light into the world.

Haley and the youth band and kids in worship lighten the load.

Some Americans today are frustrated that teens are speaking out against gun violence and asking for regulations on gun ownership. Others are embracing the young voices, joining them at protests and marches, applauding their activism.

I find hope in those voices. They are less cynical, less strident, less entitled than many of older voices. They have shrugged aside apathy, something adults have asked young people to do for generations.

The students who are speaking up lighten the load because they are taking interest in civics and the political process, because they are poised to register to vote -- good for our democracy no matter which party they choose, because they feel the weight of the world and want to do something about it.

Hope lies in rejoicing in the light of the world, in honoring heroes of all ages, in listening to impassioned pleas for change and in considering how we will respond.

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

Youth group, March 25, 2018

I'm traveling lighter as kids get older, but it's a bittersweet celebration

Cooper and Katie, Wrightsville Beach, March 2018

From Saturday's Briefing:

Rain was falling. The sky was darkening. I had 25 minutes to pick up disparate items across a giant Target store before it was time to pick up Katie from youth group.

Another mom in the parking lot looked rushed, too, but her burden was heavier. She had a tiny infant in a stroller and a spirited 2-year-old (is there any other kind?) pulling on an arm.

I kept a socially acceptable distance, nodded hello and asked, "Do you need any help?"

The mom laughed and said no, that she just needed to pick up one item — one item only — for her daughter's eczema. No one else was at home just then to watch the baby or the toddler, so she had no choice but to bring them with her in the chilly rain.

"I remember those days," I told her as we navigated puddles to the automatic doors. "They can be tough."

She asked how old mine were.

"Sixteen and 12. I'm sure you've heard it before, but time goes so quickly when you're a mom."

I grabbed a cart — not a single one dry — and wished the mom good luck as she steered her babies toward the pharmacy.

I zigzagged from section to section, easily grabbing what I needed, no one asking for something to eat or a spin through the Star Wars toy aisle. It's the freedom that moms of young children dream of. It's the reward of raising children who become independent — one at church, the other at home toiling on a 5,000-word research paper on the implications of small nuclear reactors in a community setting. It's also bittersweet, like so much of this parenting journey.

Cooper, Katie and I traveled to North Carolina over spring break, fitting in another college visit and a couple of days at the beach. We've been traveling as a trio for almost a decade now, and both children have matured into self-sufficient and helpful partners.

I no longer look over my shoulder constantly, making sure that we're all together. We stick together by instinct. I no longer lug more than my portion. We each carry our own bags and jackets and boarding passes. There's no squabbling over who gets the window seat. Cooper and Katie keep track. I'm no longer a one-stop entertainment shop with books, notebooks, stickers, crayons, stuffed animals and snacks. We each pack our own carry-on bag.

The journey here wasn't always smooth. We've endured lost items and meltdowns and miscommunication. You don't stop being a parent when you're on vacation, and sometimes the role is heightened, on high alert for different kinds of choices — and dangers — than at home.

I've placed a priority on our little jaunts because there's so much of the world we haven't seen, because we create special memories when we're away from home and because I'm trying to prepare my people for life on their own.

As we walked the campus of North Carolina State University, I tried to imagine Cooper there without me. Could he navigate from one building to another without my guidance? Could he solve problems on his own? Could he find help if he needed it? 

Absolutely.

He's got a few more weeks of junior year, one more year of high school, then he'll be forging adventures without me, wherever he lands. It's what we've been working toward his whole childhood.

This is cause for celebration, of course, and the root of a tiny heartache that feels more profound when I see babies in strollers and toddlers hanging on their mommas. I remember those days, rough in the moment yet sacred for what they represent — the foundation of lives to be launched, much faster than you ever expected.

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

Cooper and Katie, Wrightsville Beach, March 2018

I'm a teacher, not a police officer, and I won't carry a gun in class

My column from Saturday's Briefing:

The list of what I will do for my students — what most every teacher will do for her students — is long.

That list includes but is not limited to:

1. Repeat instructions as many times as necessary.

2. Explain one concept in three, four, five different ways.

3. Perform an impromptu interpretive dance of short prairie grass to illustrate a cause of the Dust Bowl.

4. Write a recommendation letter for private school admission.

5. Check forehead for possible fever.

6. Email mom with an important message that absolutely cannot wait until after school.

7. Help look for a retainer in the trashcan.

8. Open a locker that is impossibly jammed.

9. Cover an oozy wound with a bandage.

10. Read stories aloud with silly voices.

11. Methodically search a backpack for an essential item that is inexplicably missing.

12. Stay up late grading essays.

13. Stay up late double-checking plans for a new lesson.

14. Stay up late reading a student's favorite novel for a promised book talk.

15. Stay up late watching a student's favorite TV show because he relates all life experiences to that series.

16. Try to understand the demands of competitive cheer, dance, gymnastics, martial arts, hockey, wrestling and lacrosse.

17. Listen without speaking.

18. Offer hugs and high fives freely.

19. Walk a child to counselor's office while diverting attention so peers don't witness a breakdown in progress.

20. Workshop how to tell parents potentially disappointing news.

21. Model conflict management.

22. Make up a story about quotation marks protecting commas from birds of prey because students keep forgetting to place punctuation marks in the correct order.

23. Brainstorm ways to study for a quiz when every other way isn't working.

24. Research books and authors to find a title for the most reluctant of readers.

25. Reassure every child during an emergency drill that it's just practice in case of the unlikely event of fire, tornado or an intruder.

What I will never do: Carry a gun into my classroom.

I do not believe that the answer to gun violence is more guns.

I do not believe that my students will be safer if I am in possession of a firearm.

I do not believe that part of my professional development should be how to operate a firearm.

I chose teaching as my second profession because I am passionate about literacy, children and the health of my community. I'm finishing my fifth year now — far from a veteran — and have no regrets about my decision.

Yet there's no denying that teaching is emotionally exhausting work that never gets left behind. We worry about our current students and the babies from previous years. We consider how to reach each one individually, how to motivate them, how to offer effective feedback, how to push them without being too pushy, how to help them set goals and then reach them.

I'm 100 percent on board with that job description.

In the event that an intruder with bad intentions entered our sacred hallways, I would do everything possible to protect my students and all the students in the building. I would hide them, shush them, shield them. I would stand between any threat and those children.

I will not sacrifice my values — the same values that serve as a foundation for the culture of my classroom — and take up arms against another human.

We are right to hold teachers to a high standard. We are wrong to expect teachers — even a small portion of them — to become law enforcement officials as well.

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

God is too big to be left out

I've noticed this week an increase in the number of social media posts that bemoan the absence of God in public schools. I think that we are all trying to make sense of the continued violence that plagues our country, especially in the sacred hallways and classrooms of our nation's schools.

Yet God could never be left out of our schools.

Our schools are populated by the children of God. Every child and adult is a beloved soul. We carry God's light with us and within us. When students and teachers walk through the doors, they don't leave behind that light.

Our libraries are filled with beautiful prose and poetry, a reflection of gifts from God. Our hallways are filled with student-created art. Surely God is present in those places.

I understand that there are people who believe that our country began to disintegrate when the Supreme Court ruled in 1962 that school-sponsored prayer violates the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.

Yet no court decision dictates when an individual can petition God. Nothing gets in the way of a silent prayer between a human and God.

My classroom is filled with children from multiple faith traditions -- and in some cases, none at all. I never want a single child in my room to feel belittled or maligned because of their family's religious or spiritual beliefs. Why do we think that forcing a specific religion on a spiritually diverse population is going to solve a single problem? 

During our daily moment of silence, I have no idea what's on their hearts and minds. I know what's on mine. Sometimes it's, "I need to record third-period attendance now, before I forget." Sometimes it's, "I'm proud of these sixth-graders for standing silently."

Sometimes I take a small moment to thank God that a student has returned after suffering from the flu or that a student who has been struggling is showing signs of improvement or that Cooper drove safely to high school that morning.

Sometimes I seek specific favor, asking for patience with a child or clarity with a problem or wisdom before sending an email.

Sometimes I ask forgiveness for an edge in my voice or a conversation that lacked sufficient grace.

Sometimes I ask for safety for those children in my room and all the students on our campus and all the adults who take seriously the job of protecting them.

God may not be reflected exactly the way some would prefer in our schools, but there is no doubt that God is present wherever humans are gathered. God is too big to be left out.

He said, "My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest."

-- Exodus 33:14

Parenting is preparing children for their real lives right now, not just adulthood

My column from Saturday's Briefing:

Parenting often feels like a tenuous balance between coordinating daily events and preparing these children for their adult future.

Right now: It's time to get up. Your alarm went off 20 minutes ago. You have to be ready to leave in half an hour.

Future: You need to figure out how to wake up reliably because one day you'll be on your own, and I won't be there to see if you hit snooze too many times.

Right now: Make sure you have all your clothes laid out for tomorrow. You need running clothes, school clothes and your concert uniform.

Future: When you're in college, you might not have time to do laundry every other day. You'll need to plan ahead to make sure you have what you need for at least a week.

Right now: Where is your agenda for the week? What assignments are due tomorrow? How many hours do you need to set aside to study for that test?

Future: You need to find a system that works for you to help you organize deadlines independently.

Parenting is also preparing these children for their real lives right now — not just the logistical gymnastics but the moments that sharpen and reveal character.

We adults tend to divide a lifetime into two easy segments: childhood and adulthood. We sometimes forget that children are fully engaged right now, listening to what we say, mimicking what we do. Their lives don't magically launch when they graduate high school or college. They're entrenched in the real world today.

My 12-year-old is in the middle of seventh grade, learning how to calculate the area of a circle, how to write a short-answer response with embedded quotations and how to play increasingly difficult melodies on the oboe. She's picked up a few other skills, too.

This week she was in a small group of young people. A boy began to make racist comments.

"You have to stop," Katie told him. "That's not OK, whatsoever."

He insulted her. She didn't back down. He insulted her again. She held her ground.

Katie,
yesterday after church

She summoned courage and relied on strong conviction to speak truth. She moved beyond self-advocacy, a skill we've been working on for years, to advocate for others.

Katie isn't practicing for real life. She's in the middle of it.

We talk through all kinds of scenarios at home. What would you do if you see someone being bullied? What would you do if someone offers you drugs? What would you do if someone texts you, asking for a nude photo? What would you do if you're at a party and you're not comfortable with what's going on around you?

I think in some ways I've considered these conversations sort of good luck charms. If we talk about the possibilities enough and prepare for them, they won't actually ever happen.

Instead, I'm realizing, there's no way to anticipate every possible conversation. Because I've never once asked my children, "What would you do if someone starts maligning an entire group of people based solely on race or gender or religion?"

We can't provide our children a script for every possible encounter or event. We can't inoculate them from trouble. We can't expect that they'll behave with grace or common sense every single time, either. That's not because they're children — but because they're human.

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

We have a problem.

We have a problem, Americans.

There is absolutely nothing normal about human beings being murdered in classrooms or in hallways or on sidewalks.

Or in churches.

Or at outdoor concerts.

Or in airports.

Or at dance clubs.

What puzzles me about it all is that we Americans are, by nature, problem-solvers. Solving problems is part of our heritage.

This problem, though -- we can't even seem have a conversation about this problem.

There's a lot of shouting and pandering and name-calling. It's not the guns. It's mental health. It's education. It's poor parenting. We're over-medicated. It's lack of a collective backbone in Congress. It's deregulation. Laws would only punish law-abiding citizens. We have the right, guaranteed by the Second Amendment, to bear arms. More people are killed by (fill in the blank) than by guns. The NRA controls Congress. The NRA is an innocent rights-advocacy group. This could never happen here. This could happen anywhere. It's too soon to talk about solutions. Thoughts and prayers are empty gestures. We can't allow gun rights to erode. We need stronger gun legislation. Look at Chicago -- gun laws have done nothing there. Americans have the right to defend ourselves.

I've hesitated for years to express in public an opinion on the gun violence problem in our country. I don't want to insult my friends who are pro-gun rights, and I don't fully understand every aspect of the issue.

I'm no longer comfortable remaining silent.

I don't know how many more school shootings our collective hearts can bear.

I don't know how many more stories we can read about teachers who shield their students, who are willing to die to protect those babies from bullets sprayed from an assault rifle.

This is a heavy burden to bear, friends. We are responsible because we refuse to collaborate and compromise. We refuse to acknowledge that rights must be placed in priority, that not everyone can "win," but a whole host of people are losing while we do absolutely nothing.

God did not create us to hunt one another down. God did not create us to sit idle, to allow evil in whatever forms it presents itself to rule over our hearts and cloud our judgment.

God created us to live in community. God created us to care for one another.

God created us to love -- to love God and to love one another.

We're doing a really awful job. This is not heaven on earth. This is not even close.

We deserve better. Our children deserve better. We have a problem, but, glory be, we can solve problems. It's way past time that we unite to name this problem and then step by step work toward solving it.

We need to fix a common parent problem: Showing our kids we're proud even when they fail

From Saturday's Briefing:

When I received word that my beloved grandmother died 13 years ago, I was on deadline in the middle of the newsroom. One of my editors, a dear friend, was by my side immediately.

I'm certain that Sharon shared a deep well of comforting words, but the only ones I remember are those that helped to sustain me through the next few hours: Your grandmother was proud of you.

I've returned to that phrase countless times since.

I was thankful in the moment for someone who recognized my profound loss and offered words that I didn't even realize I needed to hear.

As a mom, I've thought many times since of how my grandmother's love never wavered, despite actions and words that surely disappointed her.

When I'm struggling with a creative endeavor, I think of Gramma's belief in me. She was a poet and a dreamer and a problem-solver, and though I can't hear her Alabama-bred voice anymore, I stored up enough of her musings and snippets of verse to last a lifetime.

When I see one of my students struggling with self-confidence, I wonder who whispers words of pride to that child at home.

When one of my own children makes a poor choice, I wonder if I've shared "I'm proud of you" often enough.

Maybe all those children — yours and mine — aren't always listening. Or perhaps we adults aren't always skilled at expressing love and pride while at the same time correcting and guiding.

My love for Cooper and Katie doesn't change based on a test score or report card, a solo performance or a 5K time. And though I'm proud of them when they work hard and proud of them when they perform better than the last time, my pride doesn't falter when they have a bad day or a bad week.

I cherish and value these children entrusted in my care, and I want them to believe in themselves as much as I do.

Yet there are moments when I question every parenting decision I've ever made, when I wonder, "Who are these creatures and what have they done with my actual children?"

In those moments, they may not be aware of the full depth of my pride.

One of my goals this year is to be more deliberate about expressing my unabashed pride and devotion, even in the middle of one of the inevitable lectures necessary in the raising of young people.

I have a similar goal with my students, that each of them know I'm one of their biggest fans — even when they turn in assignments late or forget to study for a quiz or spend more time talking than working.

Imagine a world in which every single child knows without question that a whole crowd believes in them, cherishes them, loves them — even in the middle of apathy or poor judgment or turmoil.

It's the kind of world I dream about, a legacy from that poetic grandmother of mine.

Some days, for no discernible reason, a couple of lines will pop into my head. They're from a poem Gramma Kathryn wrote about me when I was tiny:

A package full of dynamite,
A bundle full of charm,
It takes a lot of dousing
For a fire that's five-alarm

That's how she saw me — spunky, engaging, determined. Those words, penned in the 1970s, have shored my confidence on rough days ever since.

Each of us has the same power, to offer words that echo warmth and comfort and love, long after we're gone. It's a gift we should lavish with abandon.

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

Why I can't wait to stop procrastinating on my taxes

From Saturday's Briefing:

February goal: Gather 2017 tax documents

As January wanes, mailboxes will begin to fill with all kinds of documents for the 2017 tax season. I will dutifully place each important document in my special tax pile and vow to make this year different.

This will be the year I file taxes on time.

Now, I'm not a scofflaw. Every year that I file late, I'm within federal parameters. The extension is filed. Estimated taxes owed, if any, are paid. I always meet the final Oct. 15 deadline.

And I'm always exasperated with myself. Why did I put off what could have been done earlier? Why can't I sort through that pile of documents in February or March like most Americans?

Some tasks feel so dreadful that we procrastinate until the last moment, and then, when we actually finish, we wonder: What was I so afraid of?

I take solace that I'm not alone.

I see similar behavior with some of my middle-school students, the ones who struggle to meet interim deadlines, who stay up late the night before a project is due, who struggle to learn their lesson from the previous project.

I recognize the panic in their eyes as a due date nears — and I celebrate when they reach their goal. Procrastination is a heavy burden to carry, and there's blessed relief when that burden is set down.

We need a reminder during the process — and especially before — that we can do hard things.

Those students who struggle with major project deadlines turn in most assignments on time. They offer creative solutions to problems. They read multiple genres with passion and curiosity.

They've got all the potential in place to tackle an overwhelming project, manage their time and turn it in on time, without losing sleep.

Me, too.

There are many tasks I accomplish that are much more difficult than gathering paperwork and totaling expenses in time for April 15 (or a few weeks earlier, to give my long-suffering accountant ample time).

I meet deadlines every day, both in the classroom and at home. I've learned to troubleshoot and repair all kinds of problems — broken garbage disposal, misbehaving wireless router, jammed photocopier. When I want to learn something new or understand an issue better or just find solace, I seek articles or books (or YouTube videos) written by experts.

My role as a single working mom has pushed me to limits I never expected. I make mistakes all over the place, but I also wrestle challenges every day of the week.

This week alone, I juggled a full-time job, some smaller jobs on the side, a child with flu and multiple phone calls and appointments. I have no excuse for late taxes.

Last October, after I arrived home from my final accountant meeting of the year, I told Cooper and Katie that I was weary of my late filing ways. I explained that the year after Daddy's death, there was just too much to take care of by myself to get taxes filed on time. That single year of filing an extension somehow turned into eight.

"It's not difficult, though, and I feel so accomplished when it's finished," I told my children. I asked for their help for this year.

"Remind me, starting in January, that making the April deadline won't be that difficult."

Maybe as I fix my errant ways, my children will also learn what to do — and not do — when their time comes.

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

Having awkward talks could prevent trouble down the road

From Saturday's Briefing:

A parent's résumé is ever evolving, and there's absolutely no way to contain it to a single page.

Basic duties include and are certainly not limited to: carrying, shepherding, cooking, cleaning, driving, purchasing, managing, demanding, negotiating, delivering, teaching, guiding, reading, corralling, worrying, rejoicing, clarifying, listening, speaking, convincing, cajoling and deciding.

Speaking subtopics are added as time continues and circumstances change:

• Modeling basic language skills.
• Repeating "I love you" multiple times daily.
• Saying "no" with varying degrees of intensity.
• Establishing critical rules about safety.
• Offering advice for social scenarios.
• Repeating cautionary tales.
• Explaining current events.
• Discussing uncomfortable yet crucial topics.

I'm thankful for the natural progression of humans from infant to teen, which allows us parents time to practice before we get to the really tough conversations. We get to smooth out our technique with discussions about taking turns and sharing, giving us confidence and courage to tackle the heavy stuff.

All that practice — more than 16 years of parenting so far — convinces me that difficult conversations become less difficult the more often you have them.

So this week, when I stumbled on a study out of Northwestern University about girls being overwhelmed by sexting requests, I had no qualms about broaching the subject with my two children.

They've heard it all before.

Don't ask anyone, ever, to send you a nude photo via smartphone.

If anyone asks you to send a photo, report it to a trusted adult immediately.

If anyone sends you an unsolicited nude photo, report it to a trusted adult immediately.

If one of your friends confides in you that they have sent a nude photo, do not gossip about it. Find a way to help your friend talk to an adult.

If you make a mistake when navigating all of this, please let me know so we can work through it together.

I haven't always been prepared to have these kinds of discussions. Honestly, I'm much more comfortable in the parenting stage that focuses on how to greet a new friend at the playground or how to politely ask for seconds at the dinner table.
As our children grow up, though, we are obligated to prepare them for the mature decisions they face — no matter how awkward or uncomfortable those conversations make us feel.
The Northwestern research, written by Sara Thomas and published in the journal Sexuality Research and Social Policy, analyzed anecdotes from teen girls who had been asked by boys to share nude or semi-nude photos.
"In addition to sending photographs in the hope of gaining a relationship, young women also reported sending photographs as a result of coercion by male counterparts in the form of persistent requests, anger, and threats," Thomas writes. "Young women attempted to navigate young men's coercive behaviors yet frequently resorted to compliance. ... Alternative tactics were largely absent from young women's stories, indicating that young women do not have tools to successfully navigate the challenges they face."
I'm not completely surprised that teens don't have the tools they need. This group of young people faces challenges that my generation never imagined. When I was in junior high and high school, I communicated via handwritten notes and our house phone, the kind attached to the kitchen wall. Photos were taken sparingly; film and developing cost money.
I'm thankful that I grew up without selfies and social media and constant contact with huge groups of friends (and pseudo-friends), and I'm often mournful for the ready access and choices that bombard my children.That wistfulness can't excuse naivety, though. If children feel lost and burdened, it's our responsibility to step in, guide them and lighten the load. We can't shirk our duties — that exhaustingly long list of duties tackled daily with fierce love — because we're uncomfortable or in denial.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.