From here to maternitywear
If you imagine yourself as part of a Richard Curtis movie, it’s time to get changed
If you’ve paused here hopeful of sartorial pointers for a final panicked fling up the high street, in search of a now balding sequinned number you may or may not score for a song in the sales, I’m so sorry, but I’ve nothing for you. Although, perhaps if by Dec 30 you’ve yet to purchase anything “festive”, I think you’ll probably survive without it.
As a new mum, I’m currently vastly unqualified to offer advice on what one should wear to dance in the last night of the year, unless, of course, you’ll be flexing moves in your kitchen at around 9.30pm while waiting for a camomile tea to stew, in which case, feel free to join me in a pair of Hanro (IMHO the very best in comfort) pyjamas.
I’ve spent the past seven months confounded by the limited binary options of infant wear – parenthood essentially being a series of aesthetic challenges – rather than pondering whether or not anyone will want to wear a pink suit, or if culottes really are acutely unflattering.
On the pink suits? Well, from my intense research out here in the field, the answer is resolutely, no. No one’s wearing them. Not with a kitten heel, not with a backless loafer and definitely not with a pair of trainers and sparkly socks. A relief, all things considered. Who knows about culottes? I’d certainly approach with caution.
Being on a break, though, from skitting around Mayfair eating overpriced breakfasts in the name of journalistic discovery, has chiselled down my wardrobe skills. Having always prided myself on owning an outfit for every eventuality, from New York blizzards to dirty East End pub lunches, being able to maintain fashion front in the face of an extended stay at the NHS’S pleasure was sadly beyond me. It turns out I’m no Melania in a disaster zone.
While some women seemingly skipped along the corridors in neatly tied robes, as if they’d been for nothing more than a slightly taxing jog; I mournfully shuffled, propped up by my drip stand, attempting one slow step in front of another, wearing a raggy cotton nightie. On my feet were Nike sliders, which I’d previously viewed as ironic sportswear, yet now assumed a new role as the only shoes suitable for a public, shared bathroom. There’s nothing more levelling than the complete loss of dignity at the coalface of childbirth.
In the same collapsed vein, you can never be quite prepared for having to ask your husband in a small voice to go out and find you a pair of knickers that will work over your battered, bloody and broken post-emergency-caesarean wounded body. When he returned, gallantly proffering enormous, stringent black elastic girth containers created by a brand called Blooming Marvellous, I realised that someone, somewhere, was mocking me.
The scorched memory of this was somewhat softened when, six months later, having finished my breastfeeding shift, I took myself to be fitted and fussed over and happily upsold a pair of £25 pants to go with my new beautifully extortionate French-lace bras (via Chantelle and Maison Lejaby). Pausing in the mirror, my silhouette suddenly given the nip and tuck it desperately needed, I remembered a simple style tenet that I have long preached but not always followed: decent underwear is a tonic. Another post-partum rediscovery is the joy of the cheap thrill. While lolling in the environs of fashion weeks and fancy places, I’d become an itinerant snob. But against the reality of pushing a pram for hours in order to maintain a state of infant slumber, small high street wins are as exciting as any Matchesfashion.com delivery. En route for babygros, I snapped up a navy velvet pleated midi skirt in M&S, £35 and machine washable, which is excellent for adding a morsel of glamour on dank, grey days. I wear it with trainers. These, I admit, are Céline via Bicester Village (so buggy friendly!), but a drop of practical luxury is an invaluable mood lifter, and one has to have some standards. Even on a Monday afternoon along Leyton high street. Equally joyful are the gobstopper Art Deco-ish earrings I found in Accessorize, and the floral midi dress from Topshop, which I bought mostly because it fitted, but was later gratified to realise that a busy print is an excellent decoy for baby-spew.
Early on, I figured out that, as well as avoiding vitriolic Mumsnet threads at 4am, there are definite mum-style tropes that make you feel about as original as an episode of Only Fools and Horses on UKTV Gold. When your personality is, at times, sunken beneath a barrage of grotty muslins, finding a few broken shards of individuality through clothing can be helpfully self-asserting.
This struck me after absent-mindedly pulling on a Breton T-shirt to wear to baby cinema. Glancing around the stripe-strewn multiplex patrons (babies
and their carers) I realised that, at only a few weeks in, I’d already reached peak mummy cliché. I banned Bretons immediately, and initiated a simple rule: if at any point you start to imagine yourself as part of a melodic montage in a Richard Curtis movie, it’s probably time to get changed. Best-laid plans when it comes to motherhood are, of course, brought into sharp focus while tending to an infant 24 hours a day. During Paris Fashion Week earlier this year, I ordered myself an entirely decadent, full-length, silk dressing gown from Equipment, thinking it would be just the thing to rally my spirits a few months after delivery. I was, of course, entirely correct. Nothing – bar eight hours of unbroken sleep – could have thrilled my soul more when I finally received it on a slow September morning. I slink around the house in it, reassured by its sharp Joan Crawford edge. And reader… it’s currently on sale. So should you have nothing to wear tomorrow night, it’d make an excellent cover-up to any pair of pyjamas or raggy old nightie. Looks like I had something for you after all. Happy 2018!