Notes on Dressing a Body

Last week I watched an influencer with a month-old baby talk about how she was excited to start thinking about getting dressed in real clothes. To find herself again. It struck me as a completely unhinged thing to say. And not because she was still in the 4th trimester. But because of the hyper-individualistic way we construct motherhood and identity.
Dressing a post-partum body is no mean feat. You have to contend with a body that’s leaking; bleeding; bruised; held together by whisps of nylon; simultaneously contracting and expanding; perspiring an ocean each night. Meeting this moment with questions of identity seems, well, unhinged.
Surely questions of comfort and care are more pressing? Can you solve for a crippling sense of self-evisceration sartorially? I don’t think so, yet we try.
I try.
We’re talking industrial quantities of black pants, stretchy maternity leggings, soft bras stuffed with pads, oversized t-shirts and dungarees made of jersey fabric.
The Ballerina Farm lady wore a ballgown when she was less than two weeks postpartum and was hailed as a triumph. Dedicated! Committed! Driven! An inspiration! She’s actually just thin. And rich.
In the past 7 days I have felt sad or miserable.
No, not at all.
Hannah Neilson is the embodiment of Motherhood™ in a nap dress.
Of her post-partum body, Angela Garbes wrote in Essential Labor: ‘The fundamental shape of my mid-section has morphed from something tapered at the waist to something rectangular and vaguely refrigerator-shaped’. How does one dress a fridge?
No, not very often.
I bought one of those super soft, super slouchy, yet effortlessly cool jumpsuits that were all over my Instagram. You know the ones modelled by trendy influencers? Turns out they’re not a good look on a fridge. Turns out you can’t dress yourself back from the edge.
The contents of my wardrobe: a rainbow of washed-out onyx, faded gunmetal, a once-white-now-grey that a paint company might generously call ‘low salt’ or ‘ghosted’. It’s actually just manky. Maternity leggings; yoga leggings; maternity jeans; regular shapeless jeans; the aforementioned jumpsuit. Bobbly jumpers; holey t-shirts; frayed nerves. What else do you wear to have a breakdown?
Yes, quite often.
Yes, most of the time.
From the ages of 17-21 I dressed almost exclusively in pink. This isn’t hyperbole. Dressing was a joy. It was playful. It was mischievous. I wasn’t afraid to be seen. This was in the era of MySpace and Bebo and emo club nights. My friends all thought they were punk and played in bands and made bad decisions about boys and all crashed out, drunkenly, in each other’s beds. I wore wide-legged skate jeans that got soaked up to the knee when it rained. Black strapless dresses covered in pink stars that poofed out at the waist. I don’t think anyone would accuse me of being chic, but that wasn't the point.
Pink, unashamedly, is still my favourite colour. But I don’t wear it anymore.
It should be said, for the record, that all the while my child was dressed immaculately. His outfits always carefully considered. I dutifully rotated his onesies out. Every three months at first. And then every six when his growth slowed down in the second year. I thought about snowsuits in the winter and jelly shoes in the summer and sun hats and knitted hats and little seasonal outfits for Halloween and Christmas photos. Dude could pull off a little summer romper better than any Zara Kids model. Better than a fridge.
My friend invited me to a Christmas party and I bought a leopard print dress especially for the occasion. Scooped low at the back, swishy sleeves, full skirt. Ostensibly a very ‘me’ dress.
Too much. Too exposing. Retreat. Retreat.
Nobody talks about the grief of exchanging those little outfits for the next size up; the emotional labour on top of the mental on top of the physical.
The leopard print dress wasn’t the only thing I wore in an attempt to feel differently – gold appliqué jumper! Purple hair! Polka dot shirt with blue pleated skirt. Maxi dress with a fun print. Dopamine dressing resistant. Intractable.
Three years ago I wrote: ‘Two years ago, I had a baby, which has changed my body in ways that I still do not recognise and cannot fully articulate. There are the obvious changes that come with growing an entire human in your body; my hips have widened, my belly is softer, rounder, fuller. My arms, thighs, boobs are all bigger than they have ever been. There is more of me…’And while I am not separate from my body; I am my body; the last two years have made me more fractured, more disconnected from myself’.
‘Another person has existed in her, and after their birth they live within the jurisdiction of her consciousness’, writes Rachel Cusk in her pathbreaking book A Life’s Work; a book which was deeply controversial at the time of publication, but which probably wouldn’t ruffle any feathers now. ‘When she is with them’ Cusk continues, ‘she is not herself; when she is without them she is not herself; and so it is as difficult to leave your children as it is to stay with them’.
‘People of all genders can do the labour of liberatory mothering’ argues Sophie Lewis. We’d do well to remember that.
‘To discover this is to feel that your life has become irretrievably mired in conflict, or caught in some mythic snare in which you will perpetually, vainly struggle’. Cusk didn’t even have to contend with social media’s competitive one-upmanship; who can martyr themselves the hardest for their child(ren)? And look the prettiest while doing it.
My baby is five. FIVE! A few weeks ago while I was doing the emotional/mental/physical clothes admin I found one of his newborn babygrows. Possibly the only babygrow I kept. It hollowed me out. Turns out some clothes can change the way you feel.
How do you come back to a body you’ve been estranged from? How do you dress it?
Motherhood is a radicalising force; you can’t dress up the rage, the anger, the resentment, the pain. You can funnel it into school bake sales and twinning outfits with your 3-year-old. You can become an elimination communication, low-tox, pouch-free mama. You can become a scummy mummy cracking jokes about how long your husband takes to shit. You can become a yummy mummy sharing your ASOS hauls. But you’ll be caught in the snare.
You have to let it galvanise you. Yes, most of the time.
My body has changed again; this can happen when you start lifting heavy things I have heard. I like feeling stronger. I’m pleased nobody else has noticed.
How do you dress a fridge that is filled with grief and rage and resentment and is almost constantly in pain (although less so now with the weight lifting). Do they have an expiry date? Can you clear a shelf for pleasure or joy?
The fright of being perceived. The shock of being perceived.
Yes, sometimes.
Things go bad and you need to toss them out.
Things I’ve worn lately; a custardy yellow waistcoat and wide-legged trousers co-ord; a dress that reminds me of the parachutes kids run under on sports day; a short-sleeved crochet cardigan dotted with juicy oranges; a leopard-print sundress with red nails and red lips; a properly fitted bra; a blue and white striped dress like a bag of pick-’n’-mix; a riot; a rebellion; a dream.