The Jumpsuit™: On Motherhood, Armour and Feeling Like a Fucking Goddess
People say that pregnancy and motherhood is a magical time in a woman’s life.
They tell you how expecting women have glossier hair — like some sort of bloody brood mare — and smoother skin. How they glow radiantly and serenely.
I’m pretty sure “they” are men.
Because while there are elements of truth in what they say, there is far more truth in what they conveniently don’t.
They don’t mention that pregnancy quite literally distorts and displaces your entire body, shoving organs out of the way to make room for the baby to grow.
They don’t mention the indigestion, the sweating, or that the laughingly named “morning sickness” is often far more accurately described as morning, noon and night sickness.
They don’t mention the giant fucking ass-teroids you can develop, or the truly heinous gas that can emerge from either end.
No word of a lie, I knew I was pregnant with Wren purely because I was suddenly belching like a steam train.
Again.
There aren’t many women lucky enough to be the magical pregnancy unicorn that “they” describe. The woman who experiences nothing but that glowing, thankful, blessed pregnancy we’re all apparently supposed to aspire to.
Hell, Elizabeth Banks made a movie, made the whole world laugh and presumably made a chunk of money with her version of exactly that.
Well, gentle reader, I was not that unicorn.
I had complication after complication and, by the time I had spent the two weeks leading up to Hawthorn’s birth in hospital, I had absolutely lost sight of who I was.
I was no longer Cassie Bramble: confident, capable woman.
I was merely a geriatric first-time mother who felt absolutely disgusting, existing in skin that no longer felt like her own.
I don’t remember exactly when or how The Jumpsuit™ entered my life.
I’m fairly sure it was a recommendation from someone in my Retro Mummies and Pregnant Pin Ups group. Beyond that, it is a mystery.
And one I will always be thankful for.
It was from the Swedish brand Miss Candyfloss: a deep, warm burgundy red with slight tulip sleeves.
Soft gathers over the bust gave room for my now Dolly Parton — God rest her soul — esque bosom to fill and flow, while the centre-front zip gave the baby easy access to the buffet.
The bodice was firm and smooth and gently supported my healing section scar before opening from the hips into wide, flowing trouser legs.
And I finally felt like a fucking goddess.
This was what I should have felt all along.
This was how women who had their shit together felt.
In that suit, I could do anything.
Literally anything.
I could have taken on the world single-handed, with my baby in the crook of the other arm, and never broken a sweat.
And this thing did not only look good and make me feel invincible.
It washed like a dream.
Low temperature, tumble dried and rarely needed ironing.
The absolute MVP of a postnatal wardrobe.
Obviously, looking back now, I recognise that those women who seemed to have their shit together probably had their own version of The Jumpsuit™.
Because it isn’t necessarily about the actual item of clothing.
It is about the armour that it represents.
That sense of right when so much of your life feels through-other, if you’ll forgive the Northern Irish expression.
As new parents, we are all so very, very vulnerable.
And particularly the mums.
Our bodies have gone through an incredible, traumatic experience and can take many months to recover, yet suddenly we are in charge of this teeny tiny wee being who relies on us for absolutely everything.
All while dealing with see-sawing hormones and, all too often, a shit-tonne of unwanted advice at every turn.
Advice that has us questioning ourselves over every bloody choice we make.
Should they sleep there?
Should they feed like that?
Should you pick them up?
Put them down?
Feed on demand?
Feed to a schedule?
Wear them?
Swaddle them?
Let them cry?
Never let them cry?
And while everyone else appears to have a very definite opinion about what you ought to be doing, you are standing there thinking:
I have absolutely no fucking idea.
We need the armour.
The costume.
The mask.
The weapon that helps us face the world and at least pretend we are confident in our decisions.
For me, that was a Miss Candyfloss jumpsuit.
I wore it for about five years, until I quite literally wore the poor bastard to death.
Yes, it was expensive.
It was probably the most expensive thing I bought for myself postpartum.
And I do not regret one single penny.
Because value is not always measured by how cheaply you bought something.
Sometimes it is measured in how many school runs it survived.
How many feeds.
How many bad days.
How many times you put it on while feeling utterly fucking dreadful and caught sight of yourself in a mirror and thought:
There she is.
Recently, I discovered that not only is Miss Candyfloss still selling what I have always thought of as The Goddess Suit, but their new autumn/winter collection appears to have been designed specifically to make me lose all financial common sense.
Teal.
Plum.
Burgundy.
Forest green.
Tartan.
Wide-legged trousers.
Beautiful blouses.
Proper waistlines.
It is basically a Bramble siren song in catalogue form.
I am going to need a lottery win, and soon, because there is barely an item in it that I do not desperately want to own.
But before anything else, I’ll be buying another jumpsuit.
Because ten years in, Mama’s armour is rusty.
But the fight is just as hard.
