Writing Is Stupid.

Why is writing such a painful endeavor? Why do people do it? Why do I do it as both a profession and a hobby? Is it because I'm a masochist? But then sometimes we say we love writing. It's our greatest passion. So which one is it? Is it torture or sex?

It's a little bit of both, I suppose. There are moments when you get so lost in writing that it's like you've become one with your god. You've merged with the universe and there is no more "you." But those moments are more fleeting than the moments of you staring at the screen like the empty husk of the damned, wishing you'd chosen some other career or hobby. Anything. Play an instrument. Paint a picture. But pull words out of my ass? What was I thinking?

Anyway, this is just to say I'm procrastinating. I'm supposed to be writing something else entirely. See, look at that. I'm so far gone, I'm writing while procrastinating from writing.

Send help.

Working Mom. Or "How to Suck at Being a Mom."

Ready for school.

My daughter just started preschool and it's triggering a mother lode of guilt. 

Read all about it at my Buddha Mama Sans Drama blog.

Dear Ego: I Just Can't Quit You. Love, Mandy.

Here's a meditation on my enormous ego. Just kidding. It's more of a medium-sized ego. Or is that egotistical of me to say? Buddhists have a lot to say about the ego, or Self, and some folks freak out over the concept of No Self. Here are my thoughts on Self and No Self. And also some thoughts on how socially awkward I am when I see my therapist in public. It's amazing I'm allowed out in public at all.

Ego: The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves.

A Little Something About Big Emotions

Do forgive the paucity of posts. I scrounged around and found an old draft I'd never posted on my Buddha Mama Sans Drama blog. Wrote it a couple of months ago and it felt too raw at the time to share.

I've been writing but not posting a lot lately. Probably means what I'm writing is pretty damned close to my heart. I'll eventually post them as I feel a little less tender and less vulnerable. So here is one now, close to my heart but not quite so close in proximity.

Clouds in the Sky.

More, Por Favor.

My husband and I are at the mercy of a hostile two-year-old girl. She is demanding. She is cranky. She speaks Spanish and we don't. She also speaks some sort of mispronounced toddler talk that all toddlers speak, but when you add in the foreign language, our mystification goes into overdrive. We don't know what the hell she's talking about.

"Más!" she yells from her high chair, banging her bowl on her tray.

"More, please," we say. Because we are patient, older parents we don't El Strangle her.

"Más PAYAYOO!" she hollers and bangs the bowl harder.

"What is she saying?" my husband asks, looking tired and bewildered.

"She said 'Más, por favor."

"'Payayoo' is por favor?"

"Si," I say and hand him another bowl of Lucky Charms. Or "Amaletos de la Suerte."

The reason our daughter speaks a language that neither one of us speaks is because my friend watches Grace while I'm at work. My friend is half-Colombian and she read that children who are bilingual have gigantic, bi-functioning brains which basically turns them into a race of super humans who will take over the world. So my friend speaks to my daughter in Spanish. It has resulted in the trilingual toddler we have today — and much confusion.

When we walk Grace to the park, she is happy to yell, "HOLA!" to the people we pass by on the sidewalk. When she sees the sky she points up at it and yells, "AZUL!" The grass, "VERDE!" And if a red bike happens to speed past us, she is sure to announce, "ROJO!"

When I'm at the park, I am somewhat embarrassed when the other parents hear my tiny dictator yelling, "MAS SWINGS! MAS SWINGS!" or when she points at their child who is wearing a blue shirt and says, "AZUL!" Which actually sounds more like, "ASSHULE!"

"Yes, that IS a BLUE shirt, Grace! Such a nice BLUE SHIRT!" I say and smile weakly at the offended parent, who clearly hates me.

I can never tell if the parent is more put off by the fact that my tiny dictator just called their golden-haired angel an asshole, or that I'm such a pretentious asshole that I'm teaching my child Spanish. They probably think I'm like those parents on The Real Housewives of New York, the couple who spoke to their kids in French and named them something like Jean Jacques and Francois.

Oh my god. People think my husband and I are Simon and Alex!

¡Ay, caramba! 

In addition to Spanish language, Grace is also learning about the Hispanic culture. For instance, one day when I came to pick her up I noticed she was drinking some sort of tan substance in her sippy cup.

"What is that?" I asked my friend. "Is she drinking chocolate milk?" I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes.

"Oh, that!" my friend laughed. "She saw me drinking coffee and she wanted some! She kept trying to drink it out of my cup. So cute! So I gave her some of her own."

"I...uh...she...I'm sorry, what?" I stammered, my mouth hanging open.

"Oh, don't worry! It's decaf!" my friend said, laughing and waving me off with a Colombian flick of the wrist.

Apparently it's normal in Columbia to serve babies shots of espresso. I now expect to pick up my daughter and find her sitting at her tiny table and chairs. Perhaps she'll have a tiny cup of café in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"Hola, Mami," she'll say and continue speaking in Spanish to her dolls and stuffed animals. The doll is a refugee from Columbia who left her lover there in the hands of a notorious drug cartel. The bear is an ex-pat from France. He writes short stories and freelances for the New York Times. Hello Kitty is here on a study abroad program from Tokyo. She likes the electronic music festival in Detroit and finds the shopping superb.

They all turn and look at me like the rube I am.

"¿Quieres un café, mamá?" she'll ask.

Well, at least she's learning some manners, I'll think as I sit down to have a cup with her friends.

Hitting the Jackpotty.

I've been researching "best potty chairs" for my two-year-old daughter. I'm aware that I may be taking this whole "Things I need to Google" business too far, but whatever. I will not settle for a sub par potty for my baby. She has a delicate constitution.

I thought I'd go with the tasteful, mod lines of an all white Baby Bjorn potty chair. It would give our bathroom the pseudo-European flair that most parents with too much money and not enough quality time covet.

Or I could stick with my heritage. I could respect the long-held values and traditions of my Scottish mother's genes. This family heritage reminds me to value what's most important in life: a biting sense of humor, a deep-held irreverence, an inability to hold liquor, a complete disregard for restraint and good taste, and an unholy love of slot machines.

The Jack Potty from Safety 1st rewards your little gambler for making a "deposit" with bright lights and enthusiastic sounds. Not unlike the the siren call of Vegas, your child will be inexplicably drawn the bathroom over and over again. Because who among us isn't motivated to take a dump beneath flashing lights and a triumphant jubilee.

I can just see us opening the bathroom door and finding little Grace perched on the Jack Potty, cocktail in hand, cigarette dangling from her pouty lip, perhaps a National Enquirer resting on her lap.

Yes, baby. You're a big girl now.

What's in a Name?

My daughter Grace with the Buddha.

I have a new post on my Buddhism blog, Buddha Mama Sans Drama. In it, I discuss the Precept-Taking Ceremony at my temple and the giving of Buddhist names. Just as I was posting this here, it dawned on me that we have two aptly named people in the photograph. 

The Buddha's name means "One who is awake." And we have a child named "Grace." It might seem odd that a Buddhist would name her child Grace, but I've always been attracted to the concept. I love the idea that the gift of love is given to us whether we deserve it or not. This seems a universal and beautiful idea to me, not specific to any religion or lack thereof.

When I was pregnant with my son, I listened to Sinead O'Connor's "Amazing Grace" almost every day in my car. Frequently, I was bawling. I was scared. I wasn't married and wasn't sure I could do this on my own potentially. There were some people in my life who didn't think keeping the baby was the right decision. But my gut told me that it was. 

I did feel as though I had been "lost" for much of my life and the certainty I discovered in my child was home. I had been "found." I could clearly see that this child was a gift. It was also clear to me that grace is love bestowed on all living creatures regardless of their circumstances, their morality, or anything else you might happen to think about them. We are all blessed with love. It is the human condition. 

This is what I believe. This is my faith. And I know that both of my children are the greatest gifts I ever received. Though I never felt I deserved them, I am grateful to have them. Amazing grace, you see.

Together they are Max and Grace. And I think of them as Maximum Grace. That is what they are to me.

Well, this link to another blog turned into a post itself. Read about the Precept-Taking Ceremony I saw this weekend here: What's in a (Buddhist) Name?