When I was asked to write this piece, I hesitated. Loneliness and motherhood are not two words that go together naturally. They’re not what people expect to hear. That’s not the way it’s “supposed to be”. And I was more than slightly afraid of other people’s reactions.

Delighted. Radiant. Over the moon. They’re all the words one associates with new mothers. Loneliness is definitely not one of them. We have a certain expectation, and everyone, not least of all the mother herself, feels a little uncomfortable when “Mammy Nua” doesn’t quite live up to the mark. “Mother and Baby are doing well” is the socially accepted norm. Not “Mother and Baby are just about managing, one having recently been ejected from a nice, warm happy place; the other still recovering from said exit.”

And yet, when I think back to those early few weeks, of all the myriad of emotions I was experiencing at the time – worry about my abilities, fear of the unknown, panic about everything seeming so out of control, and somehow, at the same time, overwhelming love for this little bundle – loneliness is definitely one of the clearest feelings I remember.

Why would you be lonely?

In many ways, that doesn’t make any sense. For how, at such a time, when you have just brought a much-longed-for baby into this world, could you possibly feel lonely?

That little being will be your buddy, your shadow, your other half for many years to come. So why on earth, having just made such a lifelong connection, would you feel lonely?

I recently met a good friend with her newborn baby. It was a while since I’d been around a newborn, and I was struck by how little they actually do. How little meaningful interaction there is with them. I mean, as much as my pair (now aged two and four) may be a handful, at least there’s a bit of personality to them.

They are inherently sociable beings who want to chat with you, play with you, even fight with you. They are actual company. In many ways, if I was to choose anyone’s company these days, it would generally be theirs. Time with them is rewarding.

Whereas a newborn does, well, nothing, really; they’re not “company” in the practical sense. And I think, that day, as I watched my friend’s newborn, just, well, sit there, the penny dropped: Four years on, I realised why I felt as lonely as I did during the first few months of my firstborn’s life. I mean, aren’t we all inherently social beings? Who thrive (and to some extent survive) off the company of others? Some more than others, obviously, but certainly for many, being plucked out of their working environment and planted at home alone all day with a newborn can be as challenging a situation as any.

It’s only when you are suddenly starved of the company of others that you realise how heavily you depend upon it. For some, being at home all day, day in, day out, can feel a little like Robinson Crusoe.

The dead of night

My first was born around the time of President Obama’s visit. We recorded the whole thing on RTÉ, all six or seven hours of it. And I vividly recall being up in the dead of the night that first week home, dragging myself around, breastfeeding for hours on end and living off iced doughnuts.

I always made sure that I had that coverage on in the background. I don’t think I was even really watching it but it was company; it was a window into the outside world; it was a connection, however remote; and it meant that I was not entirely alone in that sittingroom with that teeny tiny baby I was so scared of breaking.

The days weren’t too bad, as you still lived in the real world. But at night, the mounting fatigue, together with the sense that at the end of the day you were essentially in this on your own, was, at times overwhelming. Breastfeeding is fantastic, but it is also, by definition, a one-woman show. And with that sense of mounting isolation, I benefited from another body in the room with me.

Any body, for company, for reassurance that the outside world was still out there somewhere, beyond the relentless merry-go-round of feeds, nappies, and punishing schedules. And Charlie Bird broadcasting from a damp field in Offaly somewhere, waffling on about Obama geneaology, was just what the doctor ordered. Particularly in the pitch black and isolation of the dreaded 4am feed, when you feel as if you are the only person on the planet who is awake.

You’re sold this idea that you and your baby will be kindred spirits, peas in a pod, ying and yang. All the books talk about “rooming in”, “bonding with your baby”, “connecting” with them. Which is all well and good and absolutely necessary, but not at the expense of connecting with the outside world.

Any theories based on the idea that a newborn can be an adequate and healthy substitution for adult company, day in, day out, are fundamentally flawed. I loved my baby. But I also loved my own life. And suddenly I felt as if I was in danger of losing my connection with the latter, in order to care for the former. I quickly felt the Four Walls closing in.

I reacted by clinging desperately to the bits of the outside world I was still allowed. I refused to hide away during feeds. I lugged the baby around to places I probably shouldn’t. I ignored the dirty looks in restaurants, and brazened my way through awkward moments with friends and family when I arrived, and, “Oh, and baby’s coming too!”

I craved civilisation, and did my damndest to remain within it, even with a newborn in tow.

I suppose I craved company, pathetic and all as that sounds. After your baby is born, you suddenly realise that you will never again be alone, and that is a simultaneously wonderful, and yet terrifying thought. I needed some gentle direction about what I was supposed to do next.

A listening ear to help get my head around all that had changed. An occasional pat on the back. Some quiet reassurance and positive feedback. The odd comforting word every now and again, along with a heavily sweetened cup of tea. Just something to help sustain me.

Intruding

But people, understandably, felt it would be inconsiderate to “intrude”. So instead they sent elaborate overpriced flower arrangements that looked so incongruous among the mounting stack of dirty dishes and laundry. Or oversized greeting cards that deafened me with “Congratulations”. Or, worse, the more tasteful variety that assaulted my already fragile confidence with yet more images of motherhood as it should be, all black and white and rosy all over.

People were so generous and elated and eager to celebrate the new arrival, and why wouldn’t they be? She was a beautiful bouncing baby girl and I knew I was so very blessed to have her. I really, really did.

The difficulty was that somehow during that brief stint in Holles Street, something or someone had stolen my ability to delight in this beautiful new baby girl and somehow left me like this, feeling scared and alone. And the cruel irony of it was that the things that people genuinely thought helped and were “appropriate” and celebrated this wonderful event, served only to highlight to me my own inadequacies and unavoidable absence of delight.

Don’t get me wrong. Family and friends were ready, able and willing to help but I quite simply didn’t know how to ask. They were reluctant to offer and risk treading on the new, and slightly tetchy, mother’s toes. And Mummy was fearful that asking for help would serve only to broadcast to the world that she really had no idea what she was doing.

Mummy wasn’t quite ready to go public with that particular revelation as yet.

Second baby

When my son was born, things were very different. I was prepared. I knew what to expect and, more importantly, what I needed to be able to cope. I already had the company of a two-year-old, which helped me.

Her babble and chatter were a constant presence, her needs a therapeutic distraction to my own thoughts while home alone. I was less stressed, less neurotic, and more focused on maintaining some normality in my own life, rather than focusing entirely on his.

I actively sought out the company and help of others, and was shameless in so doing. I made it abundantly clear to all and sundry that no one need ever worry about “intruding”, and that company would be always welcome (as long as they were willing to hold one or other baby occasionally, while I did the needful with the other).

I struck up conversations with random strangers: the butcher, the postman: in fact, anyone who wasn’t wearing a nappy. And mothers in particular.

I made a conscious effort to go to every mother and baby group going. More importantly, while I was there I reached out whenever I could, to whomever I could. And others reached back in return, in spades. Because by number two I had realised that there is no shame in feeling home alone.

Every mother does, in one way or another. It’s just that only some of us are willing to broadcast the fact. It was rare that a mum would refuse an invitation to come back for a cuppa. As it turns out, despite appearances, many of us were in the same boat.

Pushing a swing on a damp Monday morning can feel like the loneliest place in the world. Where possible, try not to push it alone.