I would never call Beverly Donofrio the most lovable of writers that I've read, but there is a definite honesty in her work that I'm sure a lot of women can identify with. There's a plucky scrappiness to her anecdotes that make me both admire and fear her. And I think I have to give big snaps to any woman that pulls herself up by her bootstraps like she did. And even though I would describe myself as a very different kind of mother than her, I do relate to her partnership/friendship type relationship with her son. Even with my son's disability, I do feel that.
I remember not liking the 2001 film adaptation of this book. But now that I'm older and a mother myself and have actually read the memoir, I can see where both have their merits. At its heart, this memoir and film are about motherhood, womanhood and ultimately survival. And even as disagreeable as some of her choices may be, which of us women can't benefit from that?

