I had been a mother for seventeen days when I learned that crying in public feels different from crying at home. At home, the walls know you. The kettle knows you. The same muslin cloth over your shoulder has seen everything and does not judge. But on a wet Tuesday afternoon in Dublin, standing near the entrance of the Jervis Luas stop with a pram, a leaking nappy bag, and a baby who had discovered a new, furious pitch to her voice, I felt like the entire city had turned its face towards me.
I had only gone into town because I thought it would make me feel normal. Before my daughter was born, I used to love wandering from Henry Street down towards the Liffey, buying a coffee I could not afford and pretending I had all the time in the world. That day, I had timed the outing around a feed, a nap, and what I believed was a generous window of calm. I was wrong. She woke as soon as the Luas doors opened, red-faced and trembling with rage, and by the time we reached Jervis, I was sweating under my coat and whispering, “Please, please, please,” like a prayer.
I stepped off to get air, but air did not help. The rain had turned sideways. People were moving around me with umbrellas and shopping bags, and I could not get the rain cover back over the pram because my hands were shaking. My daughter was screaming so hard she kept forgetting to breathe properly between cries. I remember fumbling for her soother and dropping it onto the wet pavement. That was the moment I started crying too. Not elegant crying. Not a single tear. It was the ugly kind, the kind that comes from sleep deprivation and stitches and fear and love so big it feels like panic.
I was convinced everyone was annoyed with me. A man stepped around the front wheel of the pram with a sigh. Two teenagers glanced over and looked away quickly. I could feel myself apologising without saying the words, shrinking smaller in my own body. I wanted my mother, who lived in Mayo. I wanted my husband, who was in a meeting he could not leave. I wanted to be the capable woman I had imagined I would become the second they placed my baby on my chest. Instead, I was a drenched stranger blocking foot traffic with a tiny person I loved more than life and did not know how to soothe.
Then a woman appeared beside me. She was maybe in her sixties, with silver hair tucked into a navy hood and a canvas bag from Marks & Spencer hanging from one arm. She did not ask me if I was okay, which was lucky, because I would not have been able to answer. She did not offer advice. She did not tell me babies cry or that it would pass or that I should enjoy every minute. She simply placed her umbrella over the pram and over me, taking the rain on her own shoulder.
With her free hand, she pointed gently towards a bench under the shelter. Not bossy, not hurried. Just a small movement, as if she was saying, “Over there.” I nodded and followed. She held the umbrella while I lifted my daughter out, and when the blanket slipped, she caught it before it hit the ground. Still not a word. She reached into her bag and pulled out a little packet of tissues, opened it, and handed me one. Then another. Then she picked up the fallen soother with a tissue, wrapped it, and placed it carefully into the side pocket of the nappy bag, as if this tiny act deserved dignity.
I sat on the bench with my baby against my chest, bouncing and shushing badly. The woman stood beside us, holding the umbrella like a roof. There was something about her silence that gave me permission to stop performing. If she had praised me, I might have collapsed. If she had pitied me, I might have felt ashamed. But she just stayed. My daughter’s cries slowed from siren to sob, then to little hiccups against my collarbone. The city kept going around us. Luas bells rang. Shoes splashed through puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly into a phone. And under that umbrella, for five minutes, I felt hidden in the kindest way.
When my daughter finally settled, the woman reached into her bag again and offered me an unopened bottle of water. I shook my head at first out of politeness, then took it because I was desperate. She smiled then, only slightly, and touched
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
