There’s an African proverb that goes: “It takes a village to raise a child.” And ain’t that the truth!

It’s quite astonishing totting up the number of helping hands that have already aided Sproglette.

From sonographers, yoga instructors, and midwifes in utero, to the army of masked crusaders that helped her into the world at the JR.

Then the health visitors, the lactation consultants, the physiotherapist, the cranial osteopath, the swimming instructor, the choir leader, the childcare professionals at the crèche, and so the list goes on, and that’s before we think about the numerous friends and family members, and all of the cultural influences, who are all doing their bit.

When I flew the nest I don’t think either my mother or I ever thought I’d need or want to lean on her or other family members again.

She’d brought me up to be independent, and I am; or at least I was.

Since becoming a mother myself echoes of my young self bawling: “I want my muuuuuuuuuuum” have resounded in my head.

There I was, in a densely populated city with all kinds of help on hand and a little companion 24/7, feeling more alone than I have ever felt in my life.

Similarly, the sobering effect of reflecting upon Christmas struck a friend recently.

She told me what a lovely festive season she, her partner and their 18-month-old child had enjoyed surrounded by friends and family.

She gleefully remarked that she’d managed to read a book (started, not finished – but still!), go for a run, and go to the cinema with her partner.

She’d slept in on a few occasions, she’d met up with old friends, and she’d taken great joy from observing her child play and interact with others of all ages.

She felt energised, and refreshed, yet fearful about returning to “normal” life. The daily grind.

When you think about it, there’s a lot of talk in the media about the breakdown of communities and transient populations, and populations don’t get much more transient than in university towns.

There’s a lot of talk in the media about people living longer and how we ought to be looking out for elderly neighbours.

There’s also a lot of talk in the media about postnatal depression.

However, I haven’t come across any talk in the media about looking out for mums amidst these transient populations.

I’m not suggesting we leave the elderly to rot and look exclusively to new life.

On the contrary, more that we take a love thy neighbours... all thy neighbours approach, as it appears to me that it really does take a village to raise a child.

All those different perspectives, years of wisdom, collective experiences, areas of expertise, but most importantly perhaps, all those open doors and open arms.

We talk about the importance of skin to skin contact with babies, and forget to take hold of one another’s hands.

Perhaps the conditioned stiff-upper lip of pride is partly to blame.

We daren’t declare that we’re vulnerable, put a hand out, or ask for help.

Glossy magazines would have us believe that motherhood is a well-coiffured piece of cake that can be juggled whilst horse riding through crashing waves in the Caribbean with a hot husband in a wet white shirt clinging to his six-pack (chest, not beverages).

However, recent stories in the media about abandoned babies and suicides tell a very different story about the incredible struggles of early motherhood, and by all accounts those struggles don’t end after a few months.

In short, I truly believe that all members of society could profit from one another if only we took a bit of time out to look out for one another – each and every one of us.

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