Who knew labor could be so hilarious?

It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita by Heather B. Armstrong (2009)

I have finally finished this glorious book. It took me several weeks, because I was consumed by reading other things where plot was much more the focus, rather than this one that lives on HILARITY, but I’m glad I let it last so long. A little bit each day did a lot for my moods. I feel bad, because I’m sure my neighbor could hear me laughing late into the night from my cozy bed.

Heather Armstrong, the creator of what is supposedly the most popular personal blog on the internet, dooce.com (also hilarious, check it out), put together a captivating memoir of her pregnancy and first nine months with her first daughter, Leta. What  resulted for the reader was a strange collision of excellent birth-control (I NEVER want to experience hemorrhoids!) and an enormous desire to have a baby RIGHT NOW (how else am I going to smell that sweet baby smell?).

Although it’s obvious how much she loves little Leta, Armstrong doesn’t gloss over the not-so-pleasant points of pregnancy and new-motherhood. In fact, she is quite blunt with all the struggles she encounters. With a history of clinical depression, Armstrong is forced to lay off anti-depressants during her pregnancy and nursing period, which almost (literally) causes the death of her. She ends up spending some time in a treatment facility, getting back on drugs, and as a result becomes a much happier person, wife, and mother. Through the roller-coaster 18 months, and punctuated with a letter to Baby Leta each month (a tradition she still continues in her blog, 72 months later) the reader gets a glimpse of what being a mother really means.

With capitalization to emphasize her truly hilarious points and chapter titles like “Labor to the Tune of Janet Jackson’s Nipple” and “You Have to Feed the Baby…Through Your Boobs,” Armstrong keeps you laughing till the very end, a rare and incredible talent.

Three stars, absolutely.

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