A Life's Work: On Becoming a Mother

Rachel Cusk

Perhaps reading this book at around the time our daughter was placed with us wasn't such a good idea after all. What Rachel Cusk has to say about parenting is frequently interesting, thoughtful and profound. Equally often the author comes across as deeply irritating and not a little spoilt. When you're in the middle of the adoption process, exposure - even in book form - to others moaning about the trials of being a parent is problematic to say the least.

The author's theme, as I knew from the reviews, is (and I'm paraphrasing here) how frightful it is most of the time to be a new mother and how wonderful it was before her children came along. Certainly the arrival of a child involves a huge loss of sovereignty and Rachel Cusk describes rather beautifully (if rather bleakly) the enormity of the adjustment. She also writes well on such subjects as being patronised by the medical professionals, on child-free friends failing to understand your social life has suddenly become more complicated and on lack of sleep. Though I have to say we haven't suffered quite as badly as the author in any of those regards.

If only she didn't reveal herself to be quite so foolish and snobbish. The notion that before having children we were all free to pop out to coffee shops with friends for long natters made me wince. What about the vast majority of us, men and women, who have jobs (normal jobs, that is, not freelance writing) prior to becoming parents? Even sillier is the chapter describing the family's brief spell outside London. It doesn't last long. Clearly, to Rachel Cusk, the only thing more ghastly, it turns out, than being a new mum is being a new mum out in the provinces. She hastily retreats back to London with its all night shopping, thriving cultural scene and functioning public transport, all apparently essential to the survival of the human when rearing its young. Which was news to me.

These weren't the only problems I had with the book. It's a work of no little literary pretension, peppered as it is with cosy references to the classics. And yet at least one common (yet still annoying) spelling mistake is repeated on several pages. In my irritation I choose to blame the author rather than the editors. Furthermore, the book is based on a whopping lie. The emotial energy, rawness and bravery (yes, I concede it's brave for a mum to write like this - it breaks all the unwritten rules) are attractive only so long as you can believe in it as an honest memoir. But careful reading of the first few pages (plus the fact that she never mentions her daughter by name) reveal that her account, the whole book in fact, is an amalgamation of two separate spells of parenting. She has two daughters, some years apart.

I only score this book so highly because every time I threw it across the room in exasperation I rushed and picked it straight up again so eagerly was I turning the pages. It enraged me and engaged me almost in equal measure.