Working mothers' lives are an open book

by Beth Teitell
Thursday, October 17, 2002

Like hemlines and hairstyles, complaints go in and out of style, and this fall the famous single-gal lament ``There are no good men'' has been out-buzzed by a new gripe. Now it's the working moms who are getting their day in the sun.

Or maybe it's the rain.

The hottest novel out of London this season, ``I Don't Know How She Does It'' (Knopf, $23), tells the story of a very frazzled Kate Reddy, a hedge fund manager with a ball-breaking job in the City (the Wall Street of London) and two children she loves but seldom sees.

``Kate counts seconds the way other women count calories,'' author Allison Pearon explains. ``In Kate's life, Everything Goes Perfectly as long as Everything Goes Perfectly.''

Kate lies to her own mother about how much time she spends with her children, fakes homemade pies for school parties and practices pelvic squeezes in the boardroom.

Pearson, a star columnist at the London Evening Standard, got the idea for the novel after reading a survey in Good Housekeeping magazine that said half of all working mothers were worried their relationship with their husband was suffering because of a terrible ``time famine.''

Two-thirds were too exhausted to have sex, the survey found. Three-quarters felt they never had time to do things properly (but, of course, that didn't stop them from trying).

``And what did these poor demented creatures want for Mother's Day?'' Pearson asks. ``Flowers, chocolates? No. A little bit of time to themselves.''

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Pearson's novel is not its Edith Wharton-quality social observations, or the way it captures the self-recrimination of working mothers, the comic deceptions and the exhaustion, but that its target audience actually has made time to read it.

Pearson, the mother of two young children, was in Boston on Tuesday to kick off her U.S. book tour, and a few hours before her first reading, at Wordsworth in Harvard Square, she was worrying no one would show.

As they say, where there's a will - or a last-call sale at Neiman's - there's a way. Although the upstairs reading room wasn't packed (hey, not everyone can get a babysitter on a Tuesday night) the 30 or so women (and one man, there on behalf of his wife, who was said to be holding down the fort in London and in great need of a book like this) met their guru.

As Pearson explained in a charming phone interview before the reading (she's the kind of woman who can seem like your best friend within minutes): ``People say to me: `This is my life.'

``I think one of the reasons it struck this chord is people think they are alone with this situation. There's a kind of shame attached to it. Anything to do with motherhood where you don't feel you are hitting 10 out of 10 is a very anxious subject.

``When I first wrote about it,'' she said, ``it was like opening the door to a secret parallel world. Millions live in it, but the feelings go unacknowledged. When you articulate it, people gasp - others are screwing up as well. It's not just me who got my kid the wrong shoes!''

As if sent by the Knopf public relations department, moments before the reading started a 45-year-old health care executive - with three kids at home and a babysitter waiting to leave - rushed at Pearson.

``I'm a living stereotype,'' she said, speaking like someone with 17 minutes of oxygen left in her tank (or, in this case, an au pair with Other Plans).

``I have to go, but when I heard you were here I had to come. Would you mind signing this?''

After the reading, Pearson noticed a pregnant woman waiting to have her book signed. ``This is very exciting,'' the author said.

``I don't know,'' the expectant mom responded, looking down at her belly. ``After listening to you, I'm not sure.''

To which there came a big chorus of ``No, no, no, it's great'' from Pearson and all the mothers in the room - the ones who'd been laughing and tearing up about their plight only moments earlier.