If you read Dooce.com, then you are familiar with Heather Armstrong and her deeply sarcastic, somewhat sardonic sense of humor. Armstrong regularly pumps out wit faster than MacDonald’s pumps out Big Macs, often amusing many, and enraging the odd wing nut.
At her blog, she talks about life the way we only wish we could; all of this after clearly expressing that she is exerting extreme restraint after getting fired for blogging about her boss and pissing off a few Mormons. Before blogging was even a commonly used term, someone gave the girl a laptop, a wireless Internet connection and a way with words, and for that us sarcasm-aholics are grateful. To put it plainly, she’s as funny as I wish I was. Even her ridiculously excessive use of caps lock can’t make her less funny.
So, when I got my hands on a copy of It Sucked and Then I Cried I knew I had to read it. Even though the subject matter is of absolutely no interest to me (I’m not a baby person), I couldn’t put it down. This, I think, is the true testament of an excellent writer; the ability to make even calculus sound riveting. From her blog Armstrong writes of the book;
A few weeks ago when my publisher sent me several copies of my book in its final incarnation, I opened the box very slowly while Leta sat on a stool at the counter next to me. She was terribly excited because she thought it was a present from Santa Claus, and I assured her it was EVEN BETTER THAN THAT. Because look! It was a book I had written about her! Called It Sucked and then I Cried! HA HA! GET IT? GET IT? YOUR THERAPIST IS GOING TO LOVE ME! (Source).
Even when I got to the part about the dreaded evil episiotomy, I kept right on reading, because it really does take a lot of comedic talent to make that sound funny. Her narrative of her pregnancy and the months following is honest, and you feel like you are riding the same see-saw of emotions she describes; wavering between extreme satisfaction and frustration. You get a sense of what the pressure is really like, what people are really thinking, and how far they are willing to go to be better. These more intense moments are nicely punctuated by letters to her daughter, Leta, in which she continues her sarcastic style, but is assertive about her deep love for the child and moments of sincere love for Leta’s father, that made me want to hug my husband.
As someone who is, and shall stay childless, and deeply skeptical of the Cult of Children, I wasn’t sure what I was getting into with this read, but Heather Armstrong delivers more than just babies. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves children, hates children, or is having or thinking of having a child.