Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

New me

Let's start with the good news. A mere 15 months after the Bean's arrival, I have slimmed down to the point where I no longer need to wear my old maternity clothes. People have, thank God, stopped a) asking when the baby's due (from the more brazen) and b) looking pointedly at my stomach.

And the bad news? The bad news is:

1. Trauma of ridding wardrobe of old and beloved maternity pantaloons

2. I have hardly any normal clothes left, not ones I fit into or could use anyway

3. After 15 months with a mix of statutory maternity pay and part-time freelance work, there's not much money to buy new threads.

4. The worst bit - I'm not doing very well at coming to terms with a symbolic end to The Bean's baby years.

First I piled up all my old maternity trousers, with their funny elasticated rigging that I dimly remember once, long, long ago, striking me as peculiar. They now seem alarmingly normal. The strange tweed maternity skirt from the Formes sale that I had to keep hitching up over my bump even at nine months. Cheap tops from Dorothy Perkins that fell apart in the wash.

Then I set to work on all the breastfeeding gear - breastfeeding nighties, breastfeeding camisoles, breastfeeding winter tops, breastfeeding T-shirts. Looking at the unironed pile of flannel on my bedroom floor, I did wonder if breastfeeding really does work out cheaper than bottles; that lot must have filled the NCT coffers by a few hundred quid. Here, too, it was hard to say goodbye. Flannel is very comfortable against the skin, you know.

Like maternity clothes, breastfeeding tops are another clothing peculiarity. From afar they seem normal, that is until you inspect them more closely and see the strange flaps, slits, panelling and apertures tucked away. The sight of them brought back happy memories: on a trip to the local art shop, the owner had to point out to me I'd neglected to close the flaps up again after feeding The Bean. Oops. Very bohemian.

About a dozen lovely glamorous greying nursing bras, including the badly-fitted one that had me in agony with a blocked duct, followed them into a storage basket. Even after all the early traumas of breastfeeding I was upset to see them all go, but I've steeled myself to draw a line and move on.

Then the following day, in one of those coincidences that are so uncannily in tune with personal circumstances they really shouldn't be a coincidence, a woman in the street stopped me to ask if I knew any good maternity wear shops in Edinburgh. I suppose she must have guessed I'd know, judging from The Bean's age. As I pointed up the hill to one place, tears welled up in my eyes, I cut the conversation short, and pushed The Bean away.

Update later the same day... it seems I spoke too soon. My kind neighbour saw me struggling in with five shopping bags earlier, and insisted on carrying two of them up the stairs to our second floor flat.... because she thought I was expecting. This is just intolerable. I look more pregnant than some of the women who really are. I have had to explain again I am not pregnant, though God knows I wish I were, (I spared her that part) and that I had a miscarriage. She looked mortified at her mistake, and I have just come off the phone to Va-vay in floods of tears.

Posted 30 July 2007 11:33

Childcare Edinburgh Kit Pregnancy Breastfeeding Miscarriage Money

• StumbleUpon
• Delicious
• Reddit
• Facebook
• Digg