At the end of last year I developed a pathological aversion to going to my local supermarket, owing to a garish sign in the window counting down the number of ‘sleeps’ until Christmas. The twee Americanism was grating enough, but I had another reason to feel queasy: I was heavily pregnant with my first baby and my due date was Christmas Day.
Of course, my husband and I were longing to meet our much-wanted son. But as the day drew inexorably closer and I dived ever deeper into the ubiquitous ‘exposés’ on early motherhood, I began to feel afraid. Is it any wonder? To read pretty much any book, magazine or internet forum about becoming a mum in 2025 is to be told that it is an ordeal to be dreaded. If you are lucky enough to escape your body and soul being torn apart by a horrific birth, the fate awaiting you is the total erasure of your ‘pre-baby self’ through the drudgery and isolation of caring for a newborn.
Well, if any pregnant women are reading this, let me write what I dearly wish I could have read last December. Early motherhood is brilliant.
At this point, tradition dictates that I should backpedal and caveat that sentence with some ghoulish stories about bleeding nipples or months of sleep deprivation-induced delirium. But I won’t. In part because women know that having a baby isn’t a walk in the park, and it’s patronising to assume we don’t understand what we’ve signed up for.
But also because, truthfully, that hasn’t been my experience. Once, women who had a terrible time with birth and early motherhood felt unable to talk about it. That taboo, thankfully, has lifted. But the pendulum has now swung too far the other way. Afraid of seeming smug – or perhaps simply out of a fear of boring a society determined to bash parenthood – women who’ve had an easier, or even enjoyable, ride on the motherhood rollercoaster stay silent.
Of course, there have been moments of stress and embarrassment. I had to break off writing this piece because my darling son had an epic screaming tantrum, ending in him passing out semi-naked in my arms like a tiny drunk after a huge pub session. Just yesterday, he mastered the art of rolling over – which would have been cause for celebration, had he not mastered it directly onto another baby in our mum-and-baby group – and proceeded to throw up all over her beautifully smocked dress.
But in the round, unfashionably earnest as it is to say so, Wilfred has made both my husband and me happier than we’ve ever been. There are the obvious joys: the glorious gummy smiles, the gurgling giggles or the fun of dressing him up in silly outfits (he made a very fetching Easter chick).
Wilfred has made both my husband and me happier than we’ve ever been
Then there are the pleasures no one really mentioned. Yes, being a new mum makes you vulnerable – that classic image of a harassed young woman apologising while trying to feed or change a wailing infant in public holds water. But when you’re in that moment, you see another, wonderful side to friends, neighbours and strangers.
There was the older woman in a café who told me I was doing a brilliant job, even while a three-week-old Wilfie attempted to burst her eardrum. And the waiter who, on seeing me breastfeed alone, cut my meal into bite-size chunks I could eat with one hand. I’ve even made friends with my next-door neighbour but one – a lovely mum of two whose name I didn’t even know until this year.
Increasingly, we seem to be a society which sees value only in independence. The most vociferous proponents of the assisted dying bill argue, for example, that feeling like one is a burden is a good enough reason to end one’s life. But having a baby has made me realise that independence isn’t the be-all and end-all, and that being vulnerable and needing help opens the door to the sort of everyday kindnesses.
Or at the very least, a screaming baby in urgent need of a feed is a great excuse to nip into the nearest pub. So, little Wilfie, I hope you’re enjoying your time as an only child. Because I have a funny feeling it won’t last long.
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