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.

“I started to fantasise about living in a commune”: how motherhood changed one woman’s view on the parenting village