Anne Enright, one of Ireland's most remarkable writers, has just had two babies: a girl and a boy. Making Babies, is the intimate, engaging, and very funny record of the journey from early pregnancy to age two. Written in dispatches, typed with a sleeping baby in the room, it has the rush of good news - full of the mess, the glory, and the raw shock of it all. An antidote to the high-minded, polemical 'How-to' baby manuals, Making Babies also bears a visceral and dreamlike witness to the first years of parenthood. Anne Enright wrote the truth of it as it happened, because, for these months and years, it is impossible for a woman to lie.
In Enright s only work of nonfiction, the Man Booker Prize winning Irish author (The Gathering) describes what it s like to become a mother at 37, 18 years into her marriage. The narrative veers from the hilarious ( Martin looks at me over the back of his chair. He gives me a thumbs-up, as if to say, Isn t this a blast? And there s football on the telly!" At 9.35 and 20 seconds I am, for the first time, in serious pain ) to the brutally honest ( I never liked being around nursing women there was always too much love, too much need in the room ) to pure wonder not so much at the miracle of the baby itself (although that is certainly present), but that she is a mother. And that she isn t half bad at it. In fact, she s good at it. The reader might wonder why she s so surprised at all this until the last chapter. And then we realize that this book, above all, is about the redemptive power of having children: by the end of the memoir, she is finally completely happy.