I always feel like cringing when I read or watch a scene of parental overwhelm. I was reminded of this while listening to the Rage Against the Minivan in audiobook format. Kristen Howerton describes a scene wherein her son accidentally rides his bike through dog poop on the way to the beach and how things devolve from there in a “this, then this, then this” reminiscent of Uma Thurman in the movie Motherhood.

I don’t know why this type of story makes me want to hide. Is it because I can always imagine worse? Is it because a feeling of compulsive organization creeps up on me and finds the ways in which the particular situation could have been averted, or rectified? Is it because the scenes are so typically framed within narrow cultural biases? Is it because the elements of the scene are too similar to sarcastic humour in that they are a kind of race to the bottom, where one mom tries to outdo another in what are very personal catastrophes?

Maybe it’s a writing problem, because when I think of the particular challenges of parenthood and how they are depicted, I think of Karl Ove Knausgard. His writing in My Struggle Book 2 for example is so searing that I don’t think of what the events are, but instead feel exactly the emotion it elicits. The fact that he is a male author makes no difference because of the trueness of the description.

I don’t want to criticize Howerton’s book because it undoubtedly fits an appreciative niche audience. After all, her description of visiting a therapist and finding out that her conflicting desire to parent lovingly and her own need for quiet was not a flaw but a feature of being an introvert, made me nod in self-recognition. I’m with you there! Now can we have more fun?