I wanted to like this book, I really did. It was my first book on pregnancy and I wanted to go for the “girlfriend’s” point-of-view. By that I mean I wanted to know what it’s like to be pregnant from someone who’s been there, not from a male doctor who studies the female anatomy all day and then tells women what they can expect. Not that they don’t know what they’re talking about and aren’t a good resource, but I felt that this book would tell me the untold truth – what it’s really like to be with child.
Well, it told me what it’s like alright. A little too much info, quite honestly. The first few pages and even chapters were good. The author was funny and witty, even if she was brutally honest. But after about the third chapter or so, her humor began to wear on me. Jokes about fat pregnant ladies with sore breasts quickly got old. In fact, I began to be depressed. Surely it’s not that bad, I thought. Is it really possible that you become this person that you don’t recognize, who cries all the time and who has chronic gas? I mean who would willingly put themselves through all that?
That was my line of thinking when I finally stopped reading. In a fit of despair, I emailed my mother and told her I was contemplating changing my mind. Her emphatic words were: “Put that book down right now!!” She then proceeded to tell me how great her five pregnancies were and how I come from good genes (relief) and how she hardly got sick and hardly gained any weight (double relief). I began to feel better already. Then I went home and burned that book.
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