Stained And Deranged: What Every New Mum Needs To Know About Dressing In Early Motherhood
Move over Midge, there’s a new pregnant Barbie in town - and she’s not wearing your grandma’s curtains. Seen most recently at Wimbledon dressed head-to-toe in Alaïa, Margot Robbie debuted her baby bump earlier this month in a cropped white T-shirt while out and about in Italy. As a successful woman with good taste and an impeccable stylist, it is hardly surprising that she is not suddenly outfitted in oversized overalls like a stray decorator. And yet, I am here to warn her like the musty ghost of pregnancies past, that the countdown for her nattily dressed days is, officially, on.
I didn’t think that I’d fall victim to the new mum style succubus either, but I don’t believe that any of us are safe when it comes to the tantalising allure of stretchy clothes when faced with looking after small children. Once upon a time when I was young and smug, I saw a bedraggled mother running down the street, limbs akimbo, her stained rags flapping in the wind as she chased after a half-naked gremlin. That will never be me I thought to myself while decked out like the bedazzled love-child of a Christmas ornament and a figure skater. In my mind my life wouldn’t change when I became a mother. I’d still be me. I’d still wear the same clothes and do the same things and live my same life. I’d never look unhinged, unwashed or unchic. Never.
Ten years on, two children later, and one will to live hanging by a thread, and I can confirm, quite absolutely, that I was incorrect. That mother is now me, I am her, we are one. As I sit typing I can see about five mysterious stains on the front of my T-shirt and based on the general moistness I can feel on my back there’s probably an additional cluster lurking there too.
Something happens when you have children. A flip switches and you suddenly have about seventy-five trillion more things to think about than you used to. My day-to-day internal monologue used to be pretty chill, pre-kids. If I were to assign it a persona it would be a 1950s American disc jockey languidly talking me through the daily agenda. Questions about dinner plans and what to do on the weekend would sometimes float in and out of my head like little cumulus clouds.
Now, almost three years into children, my internal monologue is frazzled and SCREAMING. It is Al Pacino at the end of Scarface. It is wild-eyed, insane, and mainlining caffeine. It shrieks back and forth between my ears like a waitress yelling orders to a chef: 'BOIL THE WATER FOR THE FORMULA IN FIVE MINUTES!'; 'WASH THE TRICERATOPS DRESS FOR NATIONAL DINOSAUR DAY TOMORROW AT NURSERY!'; 'YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES LEFT TO POO WHILE THEY NAP!'. It has no time to care for clothes or appearances. It is holding on for dear life as my sanity is hurtled through the earth’s atmosphere at 800mph.
The space in my small brain is too crowded now. I heard somewhere recently that you can only have one thought at a time but somehow I manage to have 'what’s that smell?', 'why is she screaming?', and 'please tell me he’s not eating a battery' humming together in harmony at all times like the low ringing in the ears of someone afflicted with tinnitus. There is no room left in there to consider a three piece outfit with relevant accessories and appropriate footwear. I need whatever is easy and quick and smells the least like puréed apple and baby farts.
Most days it is also just generally unwise to wear anything of any value - I currently have an 11-month-old and some of the food that he eats, once mixed with spittle, creates a kind of industrial cement that I believe is used to build houses in some of the less well-regulated parts of South East England. Should this come into contact with silk, delicate cotton, or fancy clothing of any kind, then that would signify the swift death of that garment.
The activities that my old clothes were geared towards also no longer align with the situations that I currently find myself in. In my previous life I didn’t live on edge in constant anticipation of having to spontaneously tackle a baby to prevent them from eating a penny, throw a toddler over my shoulder to remove them from an ice cream shop, or dive to catch an airborne water glass that has been flung across the room by an agitated leprechaun. What I need my clothes to enable me to do now are beyond the realms of what I could have ever imagined I would have required from a garment.
While I used to think that an elasticated waist was the sign of a life abandoned, I now view my jogging bottoms as a trusted friend. They help me maintain my sanity. I am often just one stubbed toe away from a public meltdown, and so anything that helps me live life with ease is very much welcomed.
That’s not to say that I have totally given up on my appearances, far from it. The only people I allow to see me dressed like a dishevelled hobbit are close friends and family (husband, children, the employees at Tesco, nursery staff). If you see me on the street looking like Gary Busey, please do the polite thing and walk away. This is not for you.
Whereas previously I used to try every day, now I just try some days. In my pre-children life, I had make-up on and was swathed in absurd clothing morning, noon, and night. I wore latex to the grocery shop, sequins to the post office, and silk gowns to the newsagent. It would now seem, to me, to be both deranged and ridiculous to carry on this fashion when most of my days are spent in what feels like a never-ending food fight.
While I used to have just one mode, I find that I now need three. If my day is mostly centred around children or working from home, then my appearance closely resembles a crazed deep sea creature. If I am going to come into contact with someone in a social setting who I do not want to jump scare, then I have a uniform of jeans, a T-shirt, and lots of earrings to render me marginally hip. On the rarest of occasions, when I can see hours of life ahead of me without children and I do not fear contact with a random jammy hand, then I bust out the razzle dazzle and step back into my old wardrobe. I delicately remove the silk shirts and sequin skirts from my wardrobe like archival pieces at a museum, carefully place them on my body, and swiftly run out of the house with care not to touch any surfaces.
Wearing my 'old normal' clothing now feels like being a child after rummaging through a dressing up bin, emerging half princess, half ostrich, and 100% proud of their cack-handed lipstick job. It feels special to get dressed as I used to. It is exciting, it is fun, and it is joyful. I don’t feel like I’ve lost the person who used to wear these clothes, but rather that I am in a season of life where practicality is King.
While the clock may be ticking for Margot Robbie’s carefree days in white dresses, it is not a sartorial death sentence. It is merely a holding room in wardrobe wilderness, before life can resume as normal for all of us in the trenches of early parenthood. There will be a time, not so far from now, when our children will not be covered in hummus, or sand, or goo of ambiguous origins. Our tiny humans, soon enough, will not be trying to eat shoes, or sprinkle our houses in flour, or pee behind our sofas. When that day comes, we will be ready. We will rise like a flock of phoenixes from the ashes. We will re-emerge onto the stage of life like newly anointed drag queens in all manner of feathers, glitter, and velvet. We will be sleek, unsullied, and enveloped in impractical textiles.
But for now, I at least, will do my best to embrace this insane, chaotic, and deranged period of life. Stained clothes, weird smells, and all. Should you be taking a leisurely stroll through Richmond one day and spy a woman chasing after a small tribe of lunatics while looking unkempt, crazed, and mildly electrocuted, then there is a strong chance that she is me. And I’m ok with that.
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