Words by Catherine McMaster
Three weeks postpartum, and I am exhausted, deflated, and broken. I push my pram into a busy café, find a table and sit down. I resist the urge to weep. My daughter is finally asleep – a rare feat, as she has so far fought it. I should be resting too, but I needed a change of scene. I needed to wear something other than pyjamas.
I have only just entered the fourth trimester, and, so far, it has been a rough first chapter. I look a mess: unbrushed, unruly hair, dark circles, leaking breasts, and a third-degree tear that still makes sitting painful.
I take a zealous bite into my brioche, delicious, warm and flaky. I close my eyes and enjoy a rare quiet moment, but I am suddenly jolted when a stylish signora taps me on my shoulder.
‘Scusi’, she says.
‘Questa bimba dovrebbe indossare un capello.’ This baby should be wearing a hat.
I swallow my zesty comeback, smile and blink away an exhausted tear.
I am in Italy. Everyone has an opinion about children.
And everyone feels the need to share it.
All. The. Time.
……
I never envisioned becoming a first-time mum so far away from home. I was born and raised in Australia, studied at Sydney University, and eventually found my way to Europe. I met my Milanese husband during those university years, when we were both working—ironically—at the Giorgio Armani Sydney store, one of Milan’s most iconic brands. Later, after I secured a scholarship for a Master’s at the University of Westminster, we took the leap and moved to London together. But after Covid, the city lost its spark, and, still wanting to be in Europe but ready for a change, we made the move to Milan.
When I discovered I was pregnant, I immediately panicked. My husband and I had discussed starting a family – we had been together for eight years, after all – but we had not yet fully committed to the idea, and nor were we prepared. I didn’t have a doctor, nor did I know how to navigate the Italian healthcare system. I spoke the language, but medical terminology could be tricky.
I didn’t want to be ignored, overlooked, or patronised, and whilst I trusted the Italians would look after me well (this is the country of the Madonna, where motherhood is revered above everything and everyone else), it was still not…. home. How would I navigate? How would I cope?
The truth? Surprisingly well, but not without its pitfalls, troughs and difficulties. I chose to give in a country in which motherhood and children are revered, celebrated and respected. The importance of family is a vein that runs permanently deep in Italian society, and there is no greater role in Italy than that of the mother. Italy may struggle from a slight hangover of stuffy generational and historical patriarchy, but this is also a country which is firmly run and controlled by women. Or to be more exact, mothers. We have priority everywhere – supermarkets, hospitals, public transport, pharmacies, post office, banks, parking – we are celebrated, and everyone is all too willing to coo and cluck around my blonde-haired baby, and she – a classic Gemini – is all too happy to play along. In a country struggling with an aging population and a declining birthrate, every new mother and baby is valued.
Despite this maternal reverence, Italy couldn’t shield me from the deep loneliness of raising a baby far from home. I underestimated the isolation and rage of postpartum life. The cultural differences weren’t just quirky anecdotes — they became vortexes, pulling me deeper into loneliness and frustration.
It wasn’t just the signora at the café; the judgement was everywhere. While motherhood is revered, so is unsolicited parenting advice. Everyone has an opinion and no hesitation in sharing it.
I’ve been stopped on the street many times and told my child needed an extra blanket. I was chastised for venturing outdoors when it was deemed ‘too cold’ (it was late spring). The cobbled Milanese streets were awkward to navigate with a stroller. Cafes offered a welcome distraction, though the charm often came with a catch – most patrons preferred their coffee with a strong Marlborough. It was almost impossible to sit outside without being engulfed by smoke.
We often underestimate just how child-friendly Australia really is – full of baby-friendly spaces and an effortless openness toward children and nursing mothers that’s hard to find in most European cities.
That said, I was grateful for how seamlessly children were included in daily life in Milan. Children were part of the tapestry: in bars, restaurants, and shops. It wasn’t uncommon to see elegant couples at aperitivo hour pushing their strollers between spritzes.
Yet, I still felt out of place and alone. I didn’t have any friends, and I didn’t know any first-time mothers. It didn’t help that I had given birth in late spring, and by late-June, most of the fashionable Milanese had escaped the heat of the city for two months.
Luckily, come autumn, I discovered an Italian mothers’ group and joined eagerly. These women become my lifeline. They helped me navigate not just the emotional rollercoaster of early motherhood, but also the cultural differences and unexpected similarities. Soon after, I also found a second group, this one made up of expat mothers.
I had finally found my tribe, women who were culturally diverse but emotionally aligned. The honesty in those circles was profound. We cried, laughed, and raged. We spoke of our lost identities, depression, sleep deprivation, marital issues, anxiety and fears. We were from different corners of the globe, but the emotional terrain of early motherhood made us feel remarkably the same.
I am now one year postpartum and a very different woman – and mother – than I was in those first fragile, chaotic months. I am still in Milan, raising a child who is a harmonious blend of Australian ease and Italian spirit. I still receive unsolicited advice from well-meaning, but direct Milanese signoras, but I have learnt to lean into this new cultural milieu, with all its quirks and contradictions.
If there is one thing I have learnt about raising a child in a foreign city, it is this: you must find your people. You cannot hide behind creature comforts or familiar surroundings – motherhood abroad demands connection. I have formed deep, lasting friendships with a cross section of women and mothers, both Italian and from abroad. Now, our babies play together and converse in a mixture of foreign languages and baby talk. I am proud that my daughter is exposed to such a range of cultures and vernaculars. What a gift to be so stimulated at such a young age.
One year later, I returned to the same café. Once again, an elegant signora stops me. The signora coos over Sofia, clearly besotted. We talk about motherhood, and she tells me – with unmistakable passion – that in Italy, ‘the umbilical cord is never cut.’ That primal connection, she says, is never truly lost.
She then glances down at Sofia’s bare feet and arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
‘Ma signora, questa bimba deve indossare le scape.’ But Signora, this baby must wear shoes.
I smile and nod. Unsolicited maternal advice is a rite of passage in Italy. Everyone has an opinion on motherhood and children, and their opinion, no matter how direct or eccentric, is always right.
