Here is a book that, though clearly an all-encompassing and visceral read, was one I read whilst metaphorically hiding from it behind the sofa. It brought back almost fifty year old memories of the early days of motherhood. The overwhelming love for that new life brought into the world: but also the endless, utterly debilitating exhaustion, guilt, loneliness, confusion. The realisation that your partner is not, as you had believed, your equal partner, but someone who escapes every day- perhaps to an office, where normal life ensues. All-consuming love, combined with unremitting drudgery is woven through the book. As is the husband of the narrator ('Soldier' to her son's 'Sailor') who fails to understand, to help, to be truly involved with his son's welfare. He's resentful of the little he does, forgetful of simple but important baby-related tasks - but remember, this is Soldier's tiredness-sodden perspective. She is an unreliable narrator, but one who reliably conjures up early motherhood. We stay with Soldier as very early motherhood ends, but the all-consuming love does not. A devastating book. ( )