Sometimes I wish we lived in simpler times.

Now that I’m in the third trimester, I’ve begun thinking about my upcoming labor and what I’m sure will be a difficult transition when we bring home our new daughter. I remember the early days with Cordelia. My mother stopped in a few days that first week, but otherwise, it was just Aaron and I trying to figure out our new roles as parents.

In earlier times, and still in many cultures today, childbirth was more of a family and community event. A woman’s mother, aunts, sisters, female cousins, and female friends would be there to help her while she labored, with the experienced mothers taking charge to keep the new mom’s spirits up. The women would keep cool cloths on her forehead, bring her water, rub her back, encourage her and help her be as comfortable as possible.

Once the baby was born, the other women helped clean the mother up, make her comfortable, and offer advice on breastfeeding and childcare. Generally, a few of the women would remain for several days, doing the housework and cooking for the new mother, assisting with older children, bringing the baby to her for feedings, and making sure she got the rest she needed. Women helping women: a sisterhood held together by the common bond of motherhood.

The average, isolated, American nuclear family of today often does not have the full benefit of this sisterhood. For one, families are not as large, and what extended family we do have is often spread across the country. And childbirth is now primarily left to the medical professionals in hospitals, many of which have rules and regulations limiting the number of visitors allowed in the labor and delivery room. Our isolation leaves many couples on their own when they become parents, unsure of their abilities and, for the mother, still healing from the rigors of childbirth yet needing to get back to normal life as soon as possible.

When Cordy was born, my mother was able to come up for the day, but only because I had a scheduled c-section. Had I gone through a normal labor, my mom’s presence would have depended on when labor started and if she had to work that day. My mother was the only relative who could possibly offer any help with childbirth: I have no sisters, my aunts are childless, and it’s been far too long since my grandmother gave birth for her to remember. (And my grandmother’s birth experiences involved being put into a “twilight sleep” and waking to find a new baby.) Aaron’s family offered little help, also: his immediate family are all men.

While the hospital staff were helpful, they had no emotional investment in my well-being. I remember the first morning after my c-section clearly. Aaron had to leave for the morning for a performance he was contractually obligated to be at, and my mom wasn’t coming until later in the day. At that point, I was still connected to an IV and a catheter, with tubes going everywhere, I had inflation cuffs on both legs to prevent blood clots, and my ab muscles were shredded from my incision, making it nearly impossible to move. Cordy was next to my bed in her plastic hospital crib, and she started crying.

Even though she was right next to me, I couldn’t get to her because of the various implements chaining me to the bed. I finally managed to lean over far enough to pick her up, only to then place her between my legs and wonder what I should do next. Did she need changed? If so, I couldn’t get to the supplies. Was she hungry? Breastfeeding was still not working, and there wasn’t a lactation consultant available until later in the morning. I was thirsty, also, but my water bottle was empty. I pressed the call button for the nurse, and was told she was with other patients and would be there as soon as she could. I remember feeling helpless and alone, crying at my inexperience and wishing someone was with me to tell me it was OK, and that I wasn’t already failing at being a mother. I needed help. I couldn’t do this alone.

Remembering that makes me nervous about my upcoming labor. This time I know my mom will not be there. If she is available, she will be at our house watching Cordy, since children are not allowed in labor and delivery. Aaron will be there, and I am thankful for that, but if this one isn’t a c-section (and I’m really hoping for a VBAC), he will be just as new at this as I will be. I’m considering hiring a doula as a next-best-thing substitute for that familial sisterhood I lack, although I’ve been facing a lot of pressure from family who think the extra cost is a waste of money we can’t afford to waste.

One enormous weight off my shoulders is that Aaron will get paternity leave this time. At his old job, he had no leave available, and took the four days of sick/vacation available to him before he had to be back to work. This time, he will get six weeks, two weeks completely at home, and four weeks working part-time. My mom hopes to come up once or twice a week, too. I have some wonderful mom friends who will probably visit when they can, too, even though they live hours away. But for the majority of the time, it will be Aaron and I on our own.

I wish our culture still placed a high value on family and community. This could be the reason so many moms are finding blogs and message boards and other online communities to fill in this need for camaraderie and sisterhood. We need someone to tell us we’re not alone: we’re not the only ones to forget the diaper bag when going out, we’re not the only ones to feel helpless because we don’t know why our babies are crying, we’re not the first to resent our new babies from time to time, and we’re not the first to occasionally feel like failures.

And while it would be wonderful to have a group of women helping me out at home the first few weeks, knowing that someone else out there has gone through what I’m going through, and will tell me it’ll all be OK, is nearly as good. I may not have many experienced moms here in my immediate vicinity, but thanks to the virtual community I have a wealth of experience to draw from, and several digital shoulders to lean on.