Have you ever considered that motherhood might not be all it’s cracked up to be? That a woman who had previously had a career she was passionate about, and free time to pursue her own creative pursuits and ambitions, might find taking care of an infant unfulfilling? Oh, and that the fact that motherhood wasn’t a joyous experience might fill the woman with doubt and anxiety, especially as she compares herself to the other mothers she encounters, who seem to be handling everything much better than she is, has that ever crossed your mind?
If not, then Nightbitch will feel fresh and exciting. If, however, you’ve read any of the countless novels, stories, memoirs, and personal essays about how hard it is to be a mom, I suspect you will feel as I did. You will wonder why anyone would spend so much of their very short novel on stuff that could easily have been taken word for word from a hundred other sources.
The answer, or course, is that there is something else going on here. The nameless narrator, a stay-at-home mother whose burden is increased exponentially by the fact that her husband travels for work practically every week, is clearly snapping under the strain of providing around-the-clock childcare for her young son. While she acknowledges the privileges she has in having a husband with a good income, a nice house to live in, and the option to stay home, none of that makes up, in her mind, for the constant assault on her attentions by her son. In response, she has become convinced that she is turning into a dog.
Yes, the bitch in the title is not entirely metaphorical. The narrator is convinced that she has patches of fur growing on her skin, that her canine teeth are getting sharper, even that she has a tail growing in. Her husband, whose practical nature (he’s an engineer of some sort) drives her crazy, sees no evidence and insists his wife should see a doctor. You know, in that annoying way men have of giving good advice that should absolutely be followed. The jerks.
But the narrator finds her new canine nature freeing, and leans into it when her husband is away. She even gets her son involved in the act, allowing him to play as a doggy with her. Their animated play, consisting of chasing each other around the park and occasionally barking at each other, may make other mothers and their children nervous, but it seems to draw the two of them closer together and make the narrator a better mom. It’s too bad that her nasty husband is so disapproving of his son eating raw meat and sleeping in a kennel. I know, right?
There’s not really much else to the plot. The narrator befriends another mom, liberated from caring about her approval by the self-confidence she apparently derives from being a dog. She tries to reconnect with some former co-workers who are now working mothers, but they can’t relate to each other anymore, dog or no dog. That’s really about it. I’d say, at least the book is short, but honestly, I wish it were shorter. I wish it didn’t exist.
Sorry, I’m being mean I guess. I just really hated every minute I spent reading this book and, for reasons not even I can understand, forced myself to finish it.