Dressing a New Mother

After nearly five months, my body is approaching its pre-pregnancy dimensions. I have never been able to tell how fat or thin I am. Failure to accurately assess body image is very common. People cannot judge their own overweight-ness, or that of their children--perhaps because children function as surrogate selves to their parents?

Anyway, the body is finding its own shape, and the way I know this is by trying on my old clothes. A month ago I was dismayed to find that none of the old skirts or pants fit, and since I was feeling otherwise fine and healthy, I despaired of ever reclaiming my old wardrobe or my old dimensions.

There are shirts that no longer fit, too. But that's not such a problem. The maternal chest is substantially larger than before, and its duties are not compatible with certain style and fabrics. You want shirts that open in the front, and fabrics that are patterned (the better to conceal leaking milk, spit-up milk, and any other schmutz). Most of sweaters and many of the shirts must go, and that's not painful. I'll miss the cashmere bargains, but my new size is not upsetting. Given my dimensions in the upstairs department, having a fat chest has never been an issue.

I have worried about having a fat butt, though. So squeezing the butt that I have into the pants I once wore brings a certain satisfaction. Looking good, wearing clothes that I know flatter my body, brings a certain thrill, a flavor of something half-remembered.

I say "half-remembered" because there is a disconnect. Trying on these old clothes, I realize how I've changed. The body really isn't the same, and it never will be. The abdominal tone is um, very different! The spread of the hip bones is wider.

The heartmind is different, too. I am someone I was not before. Digging these clothes out of storage and putting them on is like putting on a dream person's clothes. Once, a self who no longer exists wore this slinky red satin sheath, this flouncy little black thing, this sexy retro tunic. Once upon a time, a woman bought clothes she liked without a thought as to whether they were compatible with breastfeeding or baby-wearing. Once upon a time, when I had no idea that I would be a mother, no idea how my heart would be opened and warmed and expanded by the tremendous and very simple birth of this baby, I wore these clothes. I went to parties and visited with friends and took myself to movies and generally did as I pleased.

I no longer do as I please; I no longer need the clothes that suited my old lifestyle. There is no regret in this. I am on assignment in the trenches of motherhood, where functionality trumps style. A cashmere sweater (hand-wash, hang dry) is no longer going to work for me.

Fortunately the neighborhood thrift stores giveth, and the neighborhood thrift stores taketh conveniently away. There's some serious turnover in the offing, both for them and for my closet.