And someone would come over and clean your house if you rang and said you'd had a rough night. The baby is teething and you just can't stop crying.
And the mothers would come and they'd make you a good, strong tea. And they'd put you to sleep and take the kids for a walk.
And they say we don't have that anymore. That life is too fast now. It's too complex. We don't have villages. We don't look out for each other.
There are so many column inches talking about the mummy wars and how we labelled and separated ourselves from each other.
Not like back then when mothers were just mothers. And living next door was enough to build a friendship on nothing but the fact that the baby has a wail louder than a siren.
And they taught each other to feed their babies. And life was easy. It was different.
But we don't have that now, they say.
It's strange. I hear this but I am writing from within the village.
We didn't build a village with bricks.
We didn't lean over the back fence and say - would you like a cuppa?
We reached out and into a virtual world when we realised we were all going through the same thing.
We built a village. Not from mortar but from from tweets and fuzzy words on a forum titled "Why won't my baby sleep?"
We built friendships on nothing but the fact that the baby cries with such ferocity that it makes our heads spin.
We taught each other that we were enough, no matter what anybody else said. It wasn't always easy. It was different.
We know it takes a village. As our children play we laugh with friends no less real because we happen to chat online. We make plans by instant message and catch-ups at a park because we built this village through tapping out SOS on a keyboard.
And the call was answered even across the seas and our village is wide and open.
We talk about everything and nothing and we have connection.
Our babies grow together but apart and we lean on each other as they learn to walk.
Life might not always feel simple but we simply know that whatever happens we will have a kind word lighting up a page when we turn to our phones.
No matter the time. Or our location. We have this village.
We can call on each other and we rally. We create more villages where there weren't any before.
We use labels to identify needs to ensure support.
This place a home for the mums who wait by hospital beds for babies that might not get better.
This place a home for mums whose children struggle with social interaction or whose minds never stop racing.
This place is a home for the mums who feel so anxious so much of the time that we make sure we cheer the achievement of just leaving the house.
This place is a home for the mums who never felt comfortable calling themselves mums.
This place is a home for the mums who have grief raw and ragged at the surface. This place is a home for the mums who feel they're never quite good enough.
This is a safe village where there's a place for everyone.
And someone will start a thread where they will share a bank account number so they can start collecting for the mum who needs her car fixed. She lost her job on parental leave and her partner left. They're a message away when you have a rough night. The baby is teething and you just can't stop crying.
And the mothers will come and they'll tell you that you need a good, strong tea. And they'll say I can't be with you to hold you tight but I can promise you from here that you'll be OK, Mama.
And they say we don't have that anymore. That life is too fast now. It's too complex.
We don't have villages. We don't look out for each other.
But I'm writing this from a village.
Where we always look out for each other.
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