Insofar as this reminds me of my time with Swann's Way, I'm tempted to summarize it as 'What if Proust had to deal with motherhood, too?'
I can appreciate the writing craft in the construction, the reproduction of a believable inner monologue: jumping from thought to thought, thinking about the past and future, anxieties of all kinds, dreams, old movies, bumping into conservative views of where they're now living; 1/?