Are We Really This Miserable?

Recently I read a couple of books by Amy Sohn, Prospect Park West and its somewhat-sequel,
Motherland. I was told that they were smart, sexy novels that told the truth about parenthood,
or something like that. I can’t remember; all I know is that they were on my TBR (to-be-read, for
those who haven’t had a spare moment to read in the last several years, and I know that’s most
moms reading this) list, and so I put them on hold at the library, and then one day they arrived
and I read them. I place a priority on reading for myself as well as Cookie, but that doesn’t mean
there’s any real logic to what I read.

Anyhow, I found these novels to be fascinating on many levels. They present a witty and spot-
on view of parenthood in many respects, but they’re also heartbreaking, or at least for me they
were. No one is happy! The parents are miserable or deluded or bored or medicated. They’re
middle class or upper middle class or Hollywood royalty but relentlessly unsatisfied with their
social and real estate positions. They’re untrusting of and hostile to their partners and fellow
parents. They’re sexually and professionally unsatisfied. Their children are afterthoughts, yet
their lives are now defined by them. In the second book, some find a measure of happiness, but
at substantial costs, and a long way from the idealistic view of family life they started out with.

Sound familiar? I hope not, but I’m sure there are some things that aren’t far off.

Reading these, I started to think about my own life as a mother. Sure, I’m frequently bored by
the daily grind of parenting and worried about my relationship with my husband and preoccupied
with my identity and scared of other mothers, but am I miserable and unsatisfied? Are the
mothers I know this secretly unhappy, the fathers this desperate for escape? Do we have to
change everything we know and worked for, everything that society expects of us, just to be
happy? Of course not, and that’s the luxury of fiction, to take these assumptions as far as
possible, but one of the purposes of fiction is to turn a critical eye to society — in this case the
ridiculousness of being wholly absorbed by $800 strollers and playground etiquette and organic
snacks — and open our eyes to other possibilities. I didn’t learn a lot about myself or my fellow
parents from these books — they are for entertainment, after all — but I was reminded that most
parents out there are just as insecure and uncomfortable as I am. It’s ridiculous to be scared of
the scowly moms at the playground, since they’re only scowling because they’re just as afraid of
the judgment and negativity we heap on each other.

I also learned that blurbs and reviews can be misleading when the topic hits too close to home.
The books were described as “the perfect beach book,” “hilarious and juicy,” and a “look at
the private lives of hip, urban parents.” Part of the point is that the parents of this particular
neighbourhood in Brooklyn are for the most part unhip — they may have once been, but in
becoming parents they’ve turned into rundown, child-obsessed granola moms. Although fun, I
didn’t find the books hilarious or fluffy enough for beach reads. They were too believable (for the
most part) to be laugh-out-loud funny, and I became too involved in the characters’ lives to revel
in their situations — which is remarkable, considering most of the characters were reasonably
unlikeable. And too familiar, enough that you recognize bits of yourself in all of them and cringe.

But I did enjoy them and would recommend them for anyone who has the time. They reminded
me of the comically bleak picture of parenthood Updike created in the seventies, with their
small-town malaise and competitive parenting and random adultery. These books are a
thoughtful and clever send-up of our own parenting era. And they’re smart and sexy and fun, so
that’s okay too.


-East End Mama