The Book of Jacob

When I was well into my pregnancy, bearing my rotund bump in front of me like a loudspeaker declaring to all who saw me that I’d had unprotected sex, my massage therapist, Cathy, invited me to the book launch of another of her clients. I wasn’t all that keen to go, to be honest, as I’d reached that stage in my pregnancy where my eyes would glaze over at any information dolled out to me by the “I’m-an-experienced-mum” set. If you’ve ever been pregnant, you know them. They fall into three major categories. Mum No. 1 is the I had a cesear/water birth/birthed my baby hanging from a tree branch in Mozambique during a flood and there is no other way to have a baby, I guarantee it, mum. The moment they know you have a bun in the oven, they’ll corner you and harangue you with their birthing stories, sparing none of the gory details. They’ll ask you about your birth choices while sneering down their nose and tell you, with evangelical certainty, that you’ll never, ever, ever have a baby like thaaat.  And just when you think you’ve found a gap in which to make your escape, Mum No. 2 steps in and blocks your route. She can advise you on everything from the best products to use for stretch marks to perineum massage techniques to squat positions and insists you tan your nipples to toughen them up for breast feeding. But it is Mum No. 3 that is my personal favourite. She’s been standing nearby, listening to Mum No.1 and 2, waiting for her turn to fill your weary ears with the horror stories of every complication she’s ever heard about, read about or seen on Gray’s Anatomy, and will even post pictures on your Facebook wall of babies suffering from Congential Rubella Syndrome.

Being the last person in my circle of friends to have had a baby, I’d felt I’d swallowed more than my fair share of well-intended (but serioulsy, you can shove it) advice, so I wasn’t that keen to go the book launch of a parenting memoir. On the other hand, I’d been in Cape Town for almost three years and not managed to meet too many (read no) other writer’s and Cathy’s offer to introduce me to Lisa Lazarus and Greg Fried, the authors, was too tempting to give up just because I was sick of advice.

As it turns out, I never got to meet them at the launch. The Book Lounge was jam packed and I had an attack of shyness. I didn’t even buy the book that night, but there was something about Lisa Lazarus’ brand of dark neurotic humour that resonated with me, so the next day I returned and got myself a copy.

One review describes The Book of Jacob as “a courageous, sometimes achingly honest work.” The first time I read it, I wasn’t ready for achingly honest. I still believed that because I ate only organic, did yoga twice a week, took my vitamins religiously and played devotional music to my fetus, I would have a perfect baby. She would only mewl (not cry) when she needed something, which would be seldom because I had done the Mama Bamba Natural Birthing Course  and the Connecting with the Unborn Child Meditation and I had a deep spiritual understanding of the being inside me. Also, despite all the evidence to the contrary (i.e. the exploding population) I felt like the first woman who’d ever been pregnant, I mean really, truly pregnant. The Book of Jacob shocked me. I couldn’t allow myself to believe that having a child would be anything other than the deluded bubble of joyousness I imagined it to be. If Lisa Lazarus and Greg Fried couldn’t cope with being parents, it was because they were unprepared, neurotic and hadn’t eaten their brussel sprouts. And I intended to write to Lisa and tell her as much.

Oh, irony is a vengeful mistress. I can’t say I read The Book of Jacob the second time when Amber-Jane was just a few weeks old, screaming all day and all of the night. I didn’t have the time or the energy to read, but I kept it next to my bed and clung to it like the survivor of a shipwreck to a piece of flotsam. It became a banner to which to pin my hope and my sanity. I had very little support. Julian was writing his Part 1 exams and sleeping in the spare room, my mother and most of my friends were in Johannesburg or London, and the only friends I had in Cape Town had families of their own. Every night was the same. I would pace the passage for hours with Amber-Jane ensconsed (screaming) in a sling, my shoulders aching, exhaustion my only companion. Then, one morning, somewhere between the 3am and dawn, I began to talk to Lisa. I apologized for judging her so harshly and explained that, even though we’d never met, I felt like she was the only person who knew what I was going through. She became my imaginary friend and her wry comments, leaking from my memory of the book, kept me going. Then, one day, I sat down and wrote her an email, explaining how I’d felt upon reading her book and how wrong I’d been. She responded almost immediately and so began our friendship.

Skip ahead a few months. Amber-Jane’s colic had finally settled and I picked up The Book of Jacob and read it again. This time I laughed so hard it hurt. The Book of Jacob is honest above and beyond the call of duty. It reveals those personal little secrets most of us try to hide, those cringe moments we’d never tell another soul, not even our closest friends. And to top it all, the writing is beautifully crafted. I am not an avid re-reader, but I have read The Book of Jacob cover to cover four times. It’s not a parenting manual, it offers no advice (it won’t tell you how to change a nappy or sterilize a bottle) but it’s worth a read even if you have no children. If you’re a new parent, struggling to cope with the atomic bomb that has just landed on your life, it could save your sanity.