I've not had my own children, but I've spent time with grandchildren and other families with small children. I've learned that having a coherent conversation, or a train of thought that actually reaches the caboose is much more challenging when little people are in the room, in your space, in your face. I've never read a book that captures that experience quite like this one; the overwhelming and relentless energy suck that parenting creates.
Our protagonist loves her children, but she misses the opportunity for quiet contemplation and the academic world she lived in before becoming a parent, where life is measured in thoughtful rumination or a friendly debate of big ideas rather than how many minutes of sleep she gets or what unanswerable questions she must answer or what that sticky residue is on her blouse.
"Moving to a global scale, what would I pawn for sleep? Would I, given the choice, have peace for Palestine or twelve hours in bed? Clean water for the children of Africa or a week off motherhood? The advent of carbon-neutral industrial processes or a month's unbroken nights? It's a good thing Satan doesn't come and chat to the mothers of sleepless toddlers in the middle of the night."
The cost of parenthood/motherhood can be steep, eating away at who you thought you were and what you wanted to be. It comes with trade-offs, to your own life and sometimes to a marriage. One learns to pick one's battles more carefully. One acquiesces in ways previously unheard of, making us hide all the books on parenting that appear to have no relevance to actual lived reality.
"Would I do it again, understanding as I do now and didn't then, that failure at motherhood is for life and beyond, that everything that happens to my children and my children's children is my fault? That my meanness and bad temper are going to trickle into the future like nuclear waste into the Irish sea? No. Not because I don't love my children--everyone loves their children, child abusers love their children--but because I don't like motherhood and you don't find that out until it's too late. Love is not enough, when it comes to children."
"I went back into the kitchen and sacrificed a private hoard of chocolate biscuits against the moment Moth, who had used most of his breakfast to paint the table, recognized that hill-walking in heavy rain is a violation of the toddler's charter."
All the angst is rendered in both eloquent and laugh-out-loud terms. I giggled with recognition and comradery. I admired the honesty.
We are immersed in Anna's world, juggling the needs of a toddler, an anxious seven-year old and a largely preoccupied and unhelpful husband as she discovers a buried baby skeleton in their yard, and takes on visitors in a refurbished rental unit nearby (a family bringing their own relational challenges to the mix). The story toggles between these characters and their "doings" and letters outlining historical events on the island, which adds to the mystery of the discovery. The reader is also treated to more academic sharing regarding child rearing and development practices, as Anna is researching and writing a paper on this topic for her work. The flow is a bit unusual but seems to work to expose and blend the nature of parenting, with all its uncertainties and pitfalls and winds together nicely by the end.
Years ago, I experienced a long car ride with a six year old grandson. By the third hour of relentless questions, I explained that my ears needed a nap for 15 minutes. After this book, my brain needs a nap, perhaps for far longer. But, the ride was worth it.