SheSaid SheSaid: Under her crusty exterior, Haddayr Copley-Woods is a softie
by Haddayr Copley-Woods
Call me 'The Complainer'
Especially concerning parents, it takes all kinds to make a world.
As the mom of an autistic, tic-ridden, obsessive-compulsive child, I have been exposed to an enormous range of parenting styles (as there are so many people in the general vicinity who like to advise and, um, encourage me to follow their own excellent example). I've made a bit of a hobby of categorizing these types, like a field biologist: The Disciplinarian. The Attachment Fundie. The Alarmist. The Cool Cat. The Accessorizer.
Myself? I'm The Complainer.
I established myself as this type of parent early on-pretty much as soon as morning sickness hit. I complained vociferously and at great length to all unlucky enough to be within earshot of everything: nausea, tenderness, ligament pain, gas, acid reflux, waddling and the constant and vicious movement of my offspring.
At the hospital during ...iden's birth, one nurse hissed to another who was trying to get my flailing, shrieking self to fill out paperwork upon admittance: "She's scaring the other patients! Just get her into a room and shut the door!"
After that, I complained of recovery; I informed all and sundry of the blistered and bruised state of my nipples and the leakage associated forthwith, and I glared openly at misty-eyed older parents who remembered the times with their newborn as special nurturing bonding: reminding them of the sleep deprivation, the lack of ability to so much as pee by yourself, and the phone calls and visits from eager relatives at all hours of the day and night.
It was only in secret, in the darkness of my room for a 3 a.m. feeding, that I allowed myself the luxury of bending to sniff a nursing boy's head, to revel in the bit of milk he leaked from the side of his mouth, to whisper unspeakably romantic Gaelic phrases into his tiny ears, to marvel at his minuscule fingernails and his unbearably perfect cupid's bow mouth.
I find Proud Parents who do things like this in public, or who report on cute developments in their children's lives right out loud in the office or on the street, to be alarming. And if the Proud Parent says something to me like: "Oh my goodness, Arie is so smart," I'll snarl: "Oh, he's smart all right, smart like a fox. Why just yesterday he destroyed our stereo with nothing but a screwdriver," and glare malevolently at him. Or: "Well, sure ...iden is sharing now; we absolutely insist on sharing at least annually in this family," if someone compliments his sweetness. I make sure to roll my eyes: audibly, if I can.
The Complaining Mom. The one who obviously never read the reams of information about how carefully we must protect and nurture our children's self esteem: that fragile element of their psyches which can, at the slightest word or gesture from their mothers, be utterly destroyed forever, leaving the child a homeless meth addict living in the gutter, chewing forlornly on dead rats.
In truth, I am merely following and extending on an old Irish tradition my family has been observing for generations: In old Ireland, to protect babies and small children from abduction by the Good Folk, or sídhe, grandmothers would crowd around the crib of a healthy and beautiful baby, clucking sympathetically. Oh, the poor creature, they would say, shaking their heads sadly. Is that a cleft palate I see? Or: Ah, what a shame she's got the wall eye, or: Skinnier than a poor baby bird and ugly as a goat-'tis a pity, dear Brigid, a pity.
This attitude (and perhaps our general level of orneriness) has protected my people from unseen forces for generations. So if I meet you and, upon hearing that your adorable offspring is 3 years old, I express my sympathy and remark in a conspiratorial fashion what horribly unpleasant people 3-year-olds are, I am really saying this: Your kid seems remarkably interesting. I think I'm going to like her.
And, Arie and ...iden-if you stumble across this column in about 10 years, know this: When someone says: "Oh my what a handsome boy you have there," and you hear me say: "The handsomest pain in the ass this side of the Mississippi," what I'm really saying is: "I love that boy so much sometimes I can scarcely breathe."
Because I do. Just don't tell the sídhe. Keep it moving, folks. Nothing to see here; nothing to see here.
Haddayr Copley-Woods is a mom and writer who is sure that no one would want to substitute a changeling for a little boy who kicks his teacher and spits in her eyes.
Reader Comments
Posted: Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Article comment by:
Jason
Lovely story. One of my favorites so far. Laughing out loud in the morning for me is a rare and wonderful thing. Thank you.
Posted: Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Article comment by:
Liz Jones
Your columns always crack me up and I can really relate as a mom. My son is almost 17 now.
