Celebrate your child's love of learning

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Dalai Mama Weekly Blog

Ever wonder what Catherine sounds like? Listen to her read this blog entry.

You'd think I could Google the world's most ridiculous word, which by the way is "pigyata," without ending up in tears, right? But you'd be wrong. Michael and I were sitting on the kitchen couch the way we often do after the kids fall asleep. You always have big plans — squeezing in a little extra work, maybe, returning some emails, or tackling the pantry cupboard that has somehow become a volcano of bean cans that erupts onto the tender top of your bare foot every time you open it. But instead you just sit there quietly together, holding hands, like an old couple in their front-porch rockers. Or at least that's how it is for us. The hot-air balloon piñata we were making for Ben's birthday was sitting, half-finished, on its side, and Michael said lazily, "That shape would make a really good pig." I said something in my classic riveted way, like, "Mmm." And then a minute later, Michael said, "Pigyata — wouldn't that be awesome?" And then we made a bet about what you'd find if you Googled it. I'm much more of a Googler than Michael, and so I rightly knew that we would be far from the first people to discover such an excellent porky pun — in fact, I even predicted (correctly) that it would be the name of a garage band.

And a minute later, Ha, there it is! We were laughing and clicking and then suddenly we were on the Website of a beautiful little Australian boy with a pigyata — and a brain tumor — and Michael was saying, "Oh, honey, don't." And I was saying, "No, I think I kind of have to," because I have this superstition about turning away from other people's pain. And an hour later I had read the entire devastating account of this family's journey through life to death, from joy to grief.

I don't know what to say about this — the way I incline towards sadness, latch on to it as it floats past, ride up into its currents. But it keeps me grounded somehow, however paradoxical that may sound. Just recently I had actually caught myself fantasizing about having a terminal illness. It was one of those exhausted and overwhelming days, where the list of things to get done before bedtime unrolls in front of you like an infinite carpet. And then suddenly, in a daydream, I was elegantly languishing, pink cheeked and tragic, while editors compassionately waived my deadlines, and hordes of visitors bent down to comment on my great, if somewhat vague, heroism. Maybe I was also snacking languidly on nachos or cheese popcorn. There was no feeling utterly rotten, of course, no fear or grieving children or the actual bleak nothingness of death — in fact, in my fantasy, it was more like a cross between a spa vacation and people writing in my yearbook at the senior prom, a perfect blend of laziness and narcissism.

And this coming from me — me with friends and family dealing with actual horrendous illnesses, who knows way better than to glamorize suffering. I was properly ashamed.

Looking into the face of loss is like a bell of mindfulness for me. This very heart that pounds sometimes with anxiety — this heart is beating! These very noisy children who make me want to fill my ears with rubber cement — they are vibrantly alive! This very full-to-bursting life — well, it's life, life itself. There is nothing more to want. I put on warm socks on a chilly evening or walk through the twilit parking lot with a small, skipping person beside me, a small hand in my own; we listen to the crickets, the guitar, the geese; the house smells like brown rice and oranges; laughter erupts from the bathroom. There is nothing more to want.

I'm still lazy, of course. But today I'm the contented kind of lazy, where you consent to play make-believe only if the children consent to make believe they're putting you down for a nap. For a bedtime story, Ben reads from his Lego catalogue with a heavy German accent. Birdy massages my stomach and legs with a hard plastic-fingered implement, shushes me sternly when it tickles and I laugh. They argue about who gets to stroke my hair. They kiss me on my cheeks, forehead, and lips, and press "play" for my lullaby music: George Winston's December, the CD we played every single night while we put our babies to sleep. Birdy is serious suddenly, stopping to listen to the swell of the piano. "Oh, Mom," she says, "doesn't it just make you want to cry?" Mom instead of Mama — this baby so grown up, so lovely. And I say, "It really does."

Editor's Note:
You can also find Catherine's column on Family.com, where you can post comments and she can join the conversation, too.