I was one week into parenthood, and in the worst physical condition of my life: greasy, bleeding, exhausted, with a swollen, purple wound across my abdomen. I was tired to the point of dissociation, but also performing a new role with impressive conviction. Smiling at my baby, moving him assuredly towards my nipple: I was playing the part of a mother who knows what she is doing and is loving it.

There was love, or at least a disorienting swell of emotion. It was all so very blurry. Tears streamed from my eyes in satisfying gushes, as I discovered the “smile” a newborn makes after drinking milk. I was happy – these were _happy tears_. Could I just have a moment to take all of this in? Could someone take the baby for a few days while I recover? No?

I started posting drawings to my Instagram account, often depicting the dizzying gulf between expectation and reality. What having a new baby looks like (two parents smiling adoringly at their child) versus what it feels like (the baby tormentor riding on the backs of the haggard parents). New mum from a distance versus new mum close up.



“I share the bits that have mostly been hidden away. The bits that are taboo: boredom, rage, insecurity, frustration, doubt”

“So glad it’s not just me,” someone would comment. “This is me.” “THIS.” It was a relief to connect with other frazzled parents online. We had so much in common. We adored our children, but were highly critical of the conditions of modern parenting. We had all crash-landed into the same harsh reality, in which supportive communities have crumbled, childcare is unaffordable and our children are unsafe and unwelcome almost everywhere we go. It was very, very funny – when we weren’t crying about it.

Transforming into a parent is not a dainty, discreet thing to do. It’s messy and primal, involving a lot of body fluids, screaming and nudity. I actually loved a lot about this. It was a refreshing change from the repressive, grey monotony of office life. But you do feel shocking. From pulling out your breasts on the bus to carrying a screaming five-year-old out of a party, people are staring at you, and you’re doing something you’ve never done before, on two hours’ sleep.

My book is not a baby manual. There isn’t a five-step routine that will make having a baby in a country that lacks adequate parental support any easier. What I would like other new parents to know, on a deep, cellular level, is that if you are struggling, it is not your fault. As parents in the 21st century, we are set up to fail. So much has gone wrong with the way we care for each other, and this is true for babies, children, parents, those with disabilities and elderly people. We need to do things differently. We are still waiting for leaders with a radical vision for a better world.

My kids are five and seven now, and the prophecy from older parents has come true: it has got a little bit easier. Every now and again, the kids both sleep through. My husband and I will high-five each other when we go out for chips in the pub and nobody pushes a table over or sprays squash on the ceiling. On Friday nights we cook together and play games. There are moments that are exactly as I hoped they would be. And then someone will throw a massive wobbly from hunger or exhaustion, and it could be the kids or one of us, and I’ll think, “Help! We can’t do this!” And we can’t really, but we do.

_Cry When the Baby Cries_ by Becky Barnicoat is published by Jonathan Cape on 13 March at £25. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at . Delivery charges may apply.
```