When we arrived home from the hospital with our first baby, I was genuinely shocked by the level of my exhaustion and the extent of my injuries following a caesarean; I was dizzy, noises were too loud and I was in pain. My mum and sister helped us settle, then I told them to go. My husband and I could manage a newborn on our own. How hard could it be?

Very hard doesn’t do it justice. My beautiful baby would not sleep anywhere except my arms or breast. Morning dawned on my third day as a mother and with it came a realisation that made me prickle with fear: we were completely alone. We lived 250 miles from any of my newborn son’s grandparents, and only my sister – who had a full-time job – lived nearby. By now, I hadn’t slept for 48 hours. I felt brittle with exhaustion. My husband worked flat out to help with the baby, feeding me toast and washing mountains of sick-soaked babygrows. But the house became wild and unruly: dust bunnies swarmed menacingly in the corners and crumbs built up to levels of geological significance in the kitchen. “How can we do this on no sleep?” I squawked at my husband, pacing the room with my crying newborn, naked except for an enormous pair of knickers and a blood-soaked maternity pad. “When do I sleep?”

As my son’s first year wore on, we became more and more burnt out. Our formerly loving relationship was overshadowed by constant bickering. Life was a Groundhog Day-like grind: cooking, cleaning, eating, feeding, rocking, working, cleaning, cooking, eating, cleaning, rocking, bellowing at the other one for leaving a mess, crying and exhaling very, very loudly. One question repeatedly filled my mind in the quiet moments: is this really how we are meant to parent?

When family and friends came to stay, I could feel the mood throughout the house improve quickly. My sister-in-law, experienced after three children, would pluck the baby from my arms, tilt him confidently forwards in her hands and burp him. “So that’s how you burp a baby!” I thought. No one had ever shown me.

When we had overnight guests, we all shared the cooking, cleaning and caring. Our baby giggled happily with his cousins, and I realised that he needed this as much as I did: other people to learn from, with the bonus that it gave us all a break.

At this point, I started to have a strange but persistent fantasy about living in a commune. And I’ll be completely honest with you: the idea of a commune had never appealed to me before. Yes, we’ve all joked with our friends about buying a big house and moving in together to live in idealistic bliss: the sun shining on the communal allotment, washing gently billowing outside, while we all play a big game of Twister. But I knew the reality would be very different. Because the fact is, I’m lazy! I didn’t want to be guilt-tripped by the group for not mucking in. I didn’t want to share a bathroom or a fridge. I am at least 60% introvert, and therefore I treasure my alone time and the luxury of being selfish.

But then I had a baby, and being selfish was no longer an option.

I suddenly saw the hedonistic pleasure of my 20s – when I did what I wanted with no responsibility – in a completely different way, and I realised that it came at a terrible price. Our society, in which we live atomised lives cut off from caring groups, only works when you are healthy and have no one depending on you. As soon as you become a carer (eg a parent) or need to be cared for you’re… well, you’re fucked.

Having a baby connected me with a primal part of myself. I felt things in my bones, and in my gut, more keenly than before. I felt in my bones that we are not meant to raise children in isolated pairs or alone. I craved community: aunties, uncles, cousins, grannies, grandpas, friends and other children. And I’m convinced my baby needed it too. When it was just the two of us together at home, he would grizzle and become restless. With my husband at work, I wasn’t enough for him. Meanwhile, I couldn’t give him the attention he needed because I had an endless list of pressing demands and the choice was to feed him or play with him – and one was a matter of survival.

Sadly, I don’t think I’ll be starting the commune I still dream of. A full-time job, two kids and a house to manage haven’t left me with enough time to launch a social revolution. But the question that persisted in my head in those early years has brought about bigger life changes than I expected it to. No, I don’t live in a communal house, but we have moved from the city to live next to my parents – bringing our family ‘village’ much closer to home. And more than that, where we live now I feel the warmth of community that I was so deeply missing before. I know whole generations of families here. We love other people’s children and they love ours. Somehow that symbiosis has lifted the weight of loneliness I didn’t know I’d been carrying, and that feels good.

Cry When The Baby Cries by Becky Barnicoat is out on 13th March. Available for pre-order now.

Images: Getty