I found the early weeks and months of motherhood hard. Perhaps more than others, perhaps less. I have no accurate measuring stick for it because I am still unsure of what is ‘normal’. I was among the first of my friends to have a baby and, even though I had a few family members telling me a bit about what to expect, I just didn’t feel prepared in any way for the reality of it. I was well prepared for the birth, despite it not going how I hoped, but I had no training for what came after. I guess the Hypnobirthing was kind of useful for the sense of panic I had, but that was it really.
A dear friend of mine, Jenni, had a baby six months before me and she called me when I was three weeks postpartum to say (I’m massively paraphrasing and it probably had more swears): ‘I know where you are and it’s OK, you’ll get through this, it’s only temporary. Everyone feels like this and, despite what you’re probably thinking, you are a good mum.’ It was such a relief to hear. I was full of hormones, exhausted from the birth and sleep deprivation, and I was utterly overwhelmed and completely convinced I was not cut out for being mum to this tiny creature.
I often wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t called. Would I have spiralled more? Ever since, I’ve tried to do the same for friends. It feels like something that is needed. Even if you have the most angelic baby who sleeps through from early on, those initial few weeks can be incredibly tough. And yet we expect parents to just get on with it, with no official, structured support. No acknowledgement that maybe it would be helpful to provide some help. I think about the phrase ‘It takes a village’ and tales of grandparents living next door and cultures where women stay in bed for three months feeding their baby while everyone around them looks after them, and I wonder how we’ve ended up with the current state of things.
It often feels very sticky asking this kind of question. I find it’s sometimes met with a response like ‘well you decided to have kids’ or ‘you should have thought about that before you had him’. Or you just get a sympathy nod and solidarity from someone who went through the same, or worse, and you agree it should be better but no one has any real solutions. Unless we start living in villages again with our families and friends then what else can we do? And then if you add in trying to have a career…
I’m one of the ‘lucky’ ones. I have a supportive partner who takes an active role in parenting and has a steady job. I have a mum and in-laws who, although they live hundreds of miles away, will come and help if I’m completely stuck. I can call on friends if I need to. But what of those that can’t? How do we support them? How do they return to work when childcare is so expensive? When working hours can be so inflexible? When the trauma and exhaustion of birthing and parenting a baby has left you feeling utterly depleted, depressed and very, very anxious. How do we acknowledge all this in a practical way? That really helps?
I think we need to start with better investment in postpartum mental health services. I think we need to pump money into community hubs where you can go and get advice on everything from breastfeeding to nappy changing and you can talk to other parents and share information. Where you can get a cup of tea and a massage. Where someone will hold your baby while you do a poo. Where a nurse is present to answer questions about your body and the changes it’s gone through. Hell, could it even have sleep pods?
When I think of all the things that could have really helped in the early days, I would also be well up for state-funded cleaners and cooks who swoop in and take over while you try to get to grips with keeping your baby alive. And what we absolutely need for the years that follow, without a doubt, is universal free childcare. This single thing would benefit everyone, even people who are child-free. Businesses would thrive, people could work how and when they need and children would benefit from not having panicked, over-worked, underpaid parents trying to make ends meet. And if you’ve also helped support their mental health from the very moment they became pregnant and beyond birth… well, just imagine the difference that would make!
As I said, I have no real idea of what ‘normal’ is and my version of it all will be very different to the next parent. No two babies are the same, no two parents. I found those early months so full-on that I think I’m still processing them nine years on. It’s why I wrote a play about it. I just needed to make some sense of it all, and I’m not even sure I’ve managed that! But I do hope that it becomes part of a wider conversation about how we treat new parents and how society views them. And, if you have a buddy who has recently given birth, give them a call. Reassure them, listen to them, make sure they’re ok. Then pop round, run them a bath and hold the baby for a couple of hours. Sometimes that’s all they will need.
‘Mum’ a new play by Olivier award-winning playwright Morgan Lloyd Malcolm examines the pressures and complex emotions many women experience when they have a baby. This provocative and unflinching portrayal of early motherhood runs at Theatre Royal Plymouth from 30 September – 16 October and Soho Theatre London from 20 October - 20 November
