Being not yet a parent myself, I humbly beg your indulgence to comment on a subject that is all about self-indulgence. I speak of the vogue for the wised-up, exhibitionist parenting memoir that chronicles the sickly-sweet misadventures of the Hipster Dad, or the Bad Mommy, for either of whom every Prospect Park walkup pleases, and only junior himself is vile. Actually, the curious little bundle inspires a mixture of competitive emotions, ranging from joy to fear to anxiety to infanticidal loathing, all of which can only gain coherence and catharsis, we are led to believe, in the narrative form.
Yes, they fuck you up, your mum and dad, and they only mean to these days because the advances are so big. Ann Hulbert at Slate surveys the latest crop of look-at-me parenting books, and concludes (more or less) that the fathers' are funny and insightful while the mothers' are all over the place:
These are not diaries of mad housewives, furious at men and eager to fly the coop [Good to get that cleared up at the start. --ed]. They are diaries of medicated mothers, professionally diagnosed with "badness"—bipolar disorder in Waldman's case and postpartum depression in Armstrong's—yet doing their endlessly guilty, giddy best to deal in the down-and-dirty trenches and share it with the rest of us, all without betraying a hint of humorlessness. And, ideally, without hurting the kids: "I always share what I'm writing with them," Waldman tells us. "I check in to make sure they're not uncomfortable and don't feel exposed." Armstrong slips in Hallmark-style notes to baby Leta as she develops—"What a great month, little one. We are having so much fun together. …" Years from now, it seems safe to say that big Leta and Waldman's brood, looking back, won't feel particularly violated. But I can't imagine they'll consider their mothers liberated, either.
Maimonides had it that giving to charity was no act of beneficence if you sought or took credit for it. A working single mother without a blog or timely child support payments makes the kind of sacrifice these mommies at once mistrust and envy in their self-consciousness. With all this meta-parenting, one wonders when the real thing gets done. And can you really raise a child without a "hint of humorlessness" without expecting the result to be John Wayne Gacy?
"I always share what I'm writing with them." That's nice, but they didn't ask to be your editors (or your children, for that matter), and I doubt even sensitive Michael Chabon has enough authorial empathy to want to know every maternal or anti-maternal thought that passes through your head. ("If we were on safari, and a lion was bearing down on Michael, which of the brood would I toss the beast's way to spare my sultry husband?")
"The babe that weeps the rod beneath," sang Blake, "Writes Revenge! in realms of death." I know of no innocence augured by this latest fashion for disgorging everything there possibly is to know about a fetus's progression into young adulthood, but as for the babe that will someday read about his every case of diaper rash and the existential turmoil that ensued, his supple revenge will likely be a memoir of his very own. Won't that be fun.
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