My phone vibrates itself awake, disturbing my baby, who has only just dropped off after an hour of my shushing in the hazy, sepia-toned dark of the early hours. It’s a WhatsApp message from a mum friend. Another buzz signals another message. And then another one. Everyone is up. Everyone – and every baby – is sleepless. Everyone is typing.
My own baby cries as I turn over in bed to soothe him, flicking open my messages to catch up on the gossip as I do so. One mum is asking about the right Calpol dosage for a teething nine-month-old, while another wants to know what time we’re meeting tomorrow. Someone else has forwarded a syrupy-sweet Instagram reel about motherhood and the power of women, and her friend has replied with a supportive: “We can do this, mamas!” But I don’t feel powerful and, right now, I really can’t do this. It’s 3.07am. I’m tired, overwhelmed and, thanks to the glaring blue light of my phone and the adrenaline galloping through my body, wide awake.
