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 Dalai Mama DishesJoin Catherine as she crams meals into Ben, 8, and Birdy, 5, and tries to understand why she feels like a better person when they eat.
There is not much that makes me feel more happily maternal than baking a small cake on a weeknight. And now I'm starting a new paragraph, because that sentence really needs to be left all alone up there. Maybe some of my hundreds of UC Santa Cruz feminist theory students circa 1992-1999 will come upon this, and they'll remember my motorcycle boots and my hockey skates and my badass politics, and they'll be all What the? They'll be all, Hello Professor Mrs. Brady. But I swear, I'm still that exact same person (minus boots and skates). It's just that there's something so delightful about welcoming my family to the table when there's a cake on a plate. The children always oooh and aaah like orphans peeping in a bakery window, and I could kiss those rosy urchin cheeks. And do. Read moreAs always, I don't know how to thank you. Thank you. And even if I kind of imagined doing this forever ("Ben got his first armpit hair!" "Birdy was fitted for an IUD!"), I can't, of course. I have never written about the children — not really. I have written about myself as a parent with respect to them. And yet, in that writing, I have actually written a great deal about children, and as they get older there are fewer and fewer stories that are mine to tell. And so I don't tell them. And now the not telling has accumulated into a kind of giant tarp-covered mound of unspokenness between me and this column. And I can't do it that way any more, or don't want to. I had imagined writing, too, that I don't need it as much now — that I'm less panicky, less impatient, less uncertain as I grow up as a parent. But then a day like today and I think, oy, I need it. I do. Read moreWe were in Boston over the weekend, and, yes, we ascended all 294 steps of the Bunker Hill monument, skipped along the Freedom Trail, stood, sober, at the site of the Boston massacre, thought long and hard about life, liberty, and — as the vodka billboard put it — the pursuit of happy hour. But the highlight of our trip? The aquarium. Or, to be more specific, the aquarium's mammal tank in which we watched a seal doing what seals are at liberty to do. Which is defecate. Read more
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