A MOTHER'S STORY
By PAUL RUDNICK The New Yorker | 2005-05-16 http://www.newyorker.com/shouts/content/?050523sh_shouts Parents would certainly deny it, but Canadian researchers have made a startling assertion: parents take better care of pretty children than they do ugly ones. �The Times. Until I saw the article in the Times, I'd felt so utterly alone. Was I the only one? The sole parent on earth who knew the anguish, the heart-shattering despair of� All right, I'll just say it, right out loud. I am the mother of an ugly child. She's not deformed or handicapped or odd; she's unattractive. Even during my pregnancy, I'd had my suspicions. I remember peering at the ultrasound screen as my obstetrician told me, "Look, it's a brand-new life," and all I could say was "Fine, but why are we watching the Discovery Channel?" And then, after I gave birth, a nurse placed something on my chest and cooed, "Here's your little miracle," and I glanced down, bewildered, and asked, "Who ordered the veal scaloppine?" For the next few years, when guests would drop by, I'd pretend that Lisa, as we'd named her, was a Duraflame log. As she grew older, I referred to her as our new cocker spaniel, although no one really believed this, because, of course, cocker spaniels are adorable. I did, however, begin to read to Lisa, and the titles included "The Four Little Pigs" and "The Little Engine That Settled." When Lisa turned five, I was faced with an agonizing decision: where could we send her to school? Shockingly, there are no facilities in this country specifically designed for the education of ugly children, except for a few fringe programs dedicated to computers. So we were eventually forced to send her to school in England, where she was extremely popular. But I remained torn� she was an American child, and sooner or later, at least on vacations, she'd have to return home. The solution became obvious: a large box. I'd have the headmistress simply FedEx Lisa to our address, although whenever the package arrived there'd always be that terrible moment when my heart leaped, because I'd think, Someone's sent me a gift! Perhaps it's a fully outfitted wicker picnic basket, or a case of champagne! But then I'd hear that sound�the breathing. I tried to be a generous, loving parent; whenever Lisa clawed at her paper bag I'd murmur, "Oh, but sweetheart, it's from Herm�s." Still, there were those mornings when she'd want to leave the house in just jeans and a T-shirt, so I'd improvise. I'd say, "When we're in the park, let's play a wonderful game. Let's pretend that I'm a beautiful princess and you're a bench." And if strangers stared at us and asked, "Why are you sitting on that poor child and enjoying your lunch?," I'd defend Lisa, proudly declaring, "She's not poor!" Our favorite holiday was, naturally, Halloween. I'd get all gussied up as a lovely ballerina, and Lisa would be my pancreas. We also liked to take long autumn drives through the countryside, to see the leaves change; whenever I'd spot a particularly vibrant red maple or a blaze of yellow, I'd cry, "Look!," and pause to listen for her delighted knock from the trunk. Malls and other public spaces could still be a challenge, but this was handily solved when I learned to play the concertina and bought Lisa a little felt hat and lederhosen. Still, perhaps it was Lisa's older sister, Renee, who suffered the most. Renee was stunningly gorgeous, and she always felt the most profound tenderness for the sibling she called her little brother. As a lesson in compassion, I'd say, "Who does Mummy love the most?," and Renee and Lisa would giddily shriek, "Me! Me!" And then I'd ask, "And who does Mummy pity?" Despite all of this joy, this infinite maternal concern, I always knew that a dreaded era loomed: puberty. How could I make Lisa understand that, although she was a brilliant, vivacious young lady and the balm of my soul, dating would be impossible, even underwater? But then I hit upon a remedy. For Lisa's first formal dance, I arranged for her to be escorted by Bobo, an adolescent male grizzly bear. "It's just like Noah's ark!" I trilled, as I snapped their photo; Lisa was a bit apprehensive at first, until I pointed out that the arrangement was for only one night, and that they would both be muzzled. I'm pleased to report that the evening was a huge success, thanks to a few open garbage cans, a dab of lard behind Lisa's ear, and the fact that no one will ever know that I slipped Bobo five hundred dollars and got him drunk. Blessedly, today Lisa is well over thirty and happily married to Jorge, our houseboy, who now has his green card, a Chelsea duplex, and one of Lisa's kidneys. And just the other day Lisa said to me, "Mom, it's really inner beauty that counts, isn't it? Isn't that what life's all about?" I took her face in my hands and I replied, "Yes, of course it is, my darling." And I smiled, because, thankfully, it's true�ugly kids will believe anything ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~--> What would our lives be like without music, dance, and theater? Donate or volunteer in the arts today at Network for Good! http://us.click.yahoo.com/pkgkPB/SOnJAA/Zx0JAA/uTGrlB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> -- This is ZESTGlobal. Post articles on international affairs to [email protected] If you got this mail as a forward, subscribe to ZESTGlobal by sending a blank mail to [EMAIL PROTECTED] OR, if you have a Yahoo! ID, by visiting http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ZESTGlobal/join/ Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ZESTGlobal/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: [EMAIL PROTECTED] <*> Your use of Yahoo! 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