There came a point, about halfway through my third pregnancy, when I Iost my fashion mojo. Jeans no longer did up, leggings had been metaphorically burned, old maternity trousers were in the wash and my tracksuit bottoms, well, they’d never been fit for public consumption. I sat naked and sobbed.
The episode felt especially painful as my job title at the time read: Fashion Editor. Once, clothes had been my second language; I spoke them fluently. I knew my tulip skirt from my paper-bag trousers. I’d done my time on the front row, and in my desk drawer sat handwritten notes from, among others, Donatella Versace and Christopher Kane.
Today, the baby has turned one and I am happy to report that the pieces of my style puzzle are slowly slotting back into place. Once I’d emerged from the newborn haze, I started working out. I spent the majority of my maternity allowance on reformer pilates (don’t judge me, I’ve been pregnant A LOT); when my tummy showed signs of abating, I did a bit of restorative shopping.
Flat shoes came first, and then a lovely handbag, which looks like its been designed by Saint Laurent but was actually 40 quid from Zara. Next I ventured into hostile territory: jeans and tops. I found solace in Topshop’s new Leigh flares and a selection of silk (come to think of it, they’re probably polyester) shirts that work just as well for dinner with friends, as they do when I have a meeting with my literary agent.
I’m by no means done, but I am also by no means rich. Which means this post-baby style reawakening will be a work in progress for some while. Since that pitiful moment on the bed, I’ve done quite a bit of thinking on the matter of post-baby style: here are my tips for exhuming the woman inside that mother.