Ten weeks after my son was born, I took him to visit my parents in Canberra. My intention had been to save Mum and Dad another trip down the highway to Melbourne. But being proud, newly minted grandparents, they insisted on driving all the way to me just so they could turn around and accompany us back to their home.

That evening my son woke up crying at two, three and four AM, the loneliest hours of the night. This was what I had struggled with most during those anxious, early weeks of motherhood – waking up in the darkness to feed and feeling like we were the only people left in the world.

“I knew Dad was worried about me. I knew it in the same way I knew he would pick me up from parties I hadn’t told him about as a teenager.”

I don’t like saying the early months of motherhood were unpleasant because it feels awkward and ungracious, as if I am insulting the nine-year-old boy who has since become the centre of my world and the person whose company I enjoy most. But as a little crying lump of a thing at 2½ months old, he wasn’t much fun.

In the depths of a Canberra winter, I cradled my son in my arms. I felt the........

© The Age