In an astonishing development, I'm months late to the party on this book. (Close your mouth, dear! You look like a codfish.) "This book," being, of course,
I Don't Know How She Does It, by Allison Pearson.
Although many of my online chicas finished it and discussed it ages ago, I just got around to reading it. And here's my take:
Although there's something not-quite-comforting in reading the innermost thoughts of a fictional someone that almost exactly mirror your own, my heart ACHED for this woman, who was feeling the same "shit-I-just-missed-the-trapeze-and-ohmigod-where's-the-motherfucking-net" panic that has become a permanent fixture in my psyche.
The endless list-making. The total decompartmentalization of your life. The judge in your head constantly ruling against you. I knew it all, and far too well.
I recognized the "why am *I* the only one who realizes the importance of the Christmas gift for the woman who takes care of my children?" frustration. I identified whole-heartedly with the angst of being the primary breadwinner, allowing your husband the freedom to follow his bliss, even though you seem to have parted company with your OWN bliss sometime around the fifth month of pregnancy. I keenly felt the wracking guilt of realizing that, even though you've only managed to see your child for twenty minutes in the past 48 hours, if you have to bear one more minute with her you will lose. Your. Mind.
And, I'm ashamed to admit, I knew the allure of finding someone who sees you as more than A Wife or A Mother or An Employee; who finds you fascinating as a person in your own right, and makes you feel as though you are Your Best Self, instead of the slapdash, Never-Quite-Good-Enough Self that you fear is the best that you can actually manage in real life.
So much of this book was an expression of my deepest fears and insecurities. Neglected children. Professional derision. Husband weary of trying to make it work. At last, I thought. Somebody GETS it.
And then? Fucking Allison Pearson had to go wrap the whole thing up in a pretty goddamn bow.
Yes, I suppose I should just quit my job in a grand gesture, pare down my life, and move into a ramshackle house in a quaint little town. Just like Kate Motherfucking Reddy. Because, I need to FIGHT for my marriage and my family. And because I obviously HAVE all of those options, being one of those go-getting professional woman.
But that's not exactly how it works in the real world.
There wasn't one single thing Kate had to trade off to get her dream life. Not one. Her marriage was magically renewed. She got to spend more time with her children. She got off the corporate merry-go-round but STILL was able to find meaningful, challenging, and potentially lucrative work. Her relationship with her extended family improved. Those who had slighted her received their comeuppance.
I realize this is a work of fiction, but come ON, Allison. Did it never occur to you that this bullshit fairytale scenario is just a slap in the face to all of us real-life Kate Reddys who DON'T have these options? Who CAN'T just sell our shabby-yet-ridiculously-overvalued house and uproot our family? Who have to make MEANINGFUL sacrifices every day of our lives, whether that be our own ambitions, or time with our children, or relationships with our dearest friends?
There is no neat little ending to my story. I'll soldier on in my short-sheeted existence, trying to pull the blanket over whatever body part is most in need of warming at the moment. I'll compromise with my husband, and settle for a less-luminous career path, and continue to miss a bunch of my kid's "firsts," and console myself with the fact that I'm trying as hard as I can and it's the best I can do. Even in the face of the world's Allison Pearsons, who are telling me that I should be doing better, and it's so easy, and see this pretty little example?
I, for one, DO know how Kate Reddy does it. The bitch cheats.
