An ode to my mothers in arms
Having a baby has changed my life more profoundly than anything else I’ve ever done. That might seem obvious, and although I knew what I was getting myself into on paper, the actual experience is something else entirely. It’s all consuming in both good and less-good ways. It’s like floating happily in a swimming pool but knowing you can’t ever really get out. Some days you’re in the shallow end and some days you’re in the deep end. It’s cool because you love swimming more than anything, but sometimes you do worry a bit about drowning. Fortunately, if you will allow me to string out this metaphor even further, you’re usually not the only one in the pool.
It began before he was born. Upon learning I was pregnant, other mothers would offer (welcome) advice or support. There were words of reassurance or encouragement. There were hugs and earnest congratulations with the words ‘welcome to the best club ever’. There was a solidarity, like being ushered into a new and unknown world by the kindly souls who’d trod the path before you.
I joined NCT and all of us said during the first meeting that we were looking for a support network. We were strangers with one thing in common but soon we were seven new mothers (and fathers and babies). They were and are a gift. If you’ve ever doubted the value of antenatal classes, know that you are not just learning about epidurals and episiotomies – you are meeting the people most likely to understand what you’re going through when you’re going through it. Babies change so quickly and you forget things so fast but if you’ve got friends – any friends – whose babies are close in age, you will always have someone who understands.
My own mother was there when my baby was born. She stayed for ten days, taking care of all three of us in this new world we found ourselves living in. She helped me learn to be a mother. She was the third person to hold my son. Hers was one of the first voices he knew. She helped me believe I could do it during labour, in the days that followed, and in the months since.
My friends with babies – from NCT, from Instagram, from years gone by, from friends of friends, from fleeting breakfasts in Waterloo four years ago – are the people I speak to most often on a daily basis. While the real world carries on going to work, popping to the cinema, enjoying bottomless brunches, eating hot dinners, and nipping out without 10kg of baby paraphernalia, there are those of us on maternity leave living in an entirely different bubble.
When I have felt lonely, I have been for walks and coffees with fellow mums. When I’ve been worried, it is other mums who have replied to me in the middle of the night. When my baby does something new, it is the mums I tell first. When I need advice, it is mothers (my own mother, my sister, my friends) who I turn to. Every slightly forlorn Instagram story is met with mothers reaching out to check in with me; every achievement (mine or the baby’s) is met with celebration and kind words. Mothers I hardly know and mothers I’ve loved for many years have reached out and held me up, lifted me on the difficult days, and laughed with me in between.
This isn’t to say that my friends who are not mothers are not also incredible sources of love and support. Nor is my husband absent in any way. I’m incredibly lucky to be surrounded by excellent friends and amazing family who mean more to me than I can put into words. But these things are not mutually exclusive and I wanted to express how much other mothers have meant to me since becoming one myself.
For every pervy man who has stared while I’ve fed my son in public, there has generally been a nod or a smile from another mum. For every sourpuss who gives you a dirty look during a public crying fit, I have usually found eye contact and sympathy in the face of a mum nearby. When I’ve been wrestling with my baby in the parents’ room in John Lewis, there is often a kind word or a wry exchange between mamas in the same boat. When maternity leave feels lonely or you feel like you’re screwing up, there are mothers to stand close and tell you you’re doing well.
They say parents – particularly mothers – are born when their children arrive. I think this is beautiful way to look at it. Becoming a mother has rewritten parts of me down to my very bones and to go through such a metamorphosis without friends seems like an impossible feat.
So this is an ode to my mothers in arms. A thank you to everyone who’s offered kind words, or told me I’m doing well, or just given me a “I feel your pain!” at 3am on a time stamped insta story. A mother needs mothers around her and I’m so glad and grateful to be held afloat on the shoulders of the mamas I call home.
