The Tamesis
I’ve made no secret of the fact that early motherhood wasn’t for me (so much so that I wrote a book about it). After a year of crippling postpartum depression that left me barely able to connect with my baby or even think motherhood might be enjoyable, I slowly made my way back into the world of life through therapy, medication, and the slow, mundane work of changing myself.
Even at my lowest, one thing that never completely fell apart was how I thought about what I was wearing, even when I was in diapers. I clung desperately to my clothes, one of the few chances I had to feel like my old self.
In the back of my mind, I sewed elastic waistbands onto Miu Miu dresses that no longer zipped, forcing my swollen body into the vintage pieces I’d collected over the years (even though my still-expanding belly was barely contained by the stretched, aged fabric, leading to well-meaning strangers asking, “When are you due?”). I refused to give in, which is why I ended up drunk at a party wearing a Chanel dress with a broken zipper, open back and underwear exposed – and not on purpose, Hailey Bieber naked way, but in “Tuesday” printed on the butt The way of my Indiana childhood.
On the other side of that year, something changed: I fell in love with my son. I feel a responsibility to love my children in a way that teaches them to love themselves. I selfishly want motherhood to be fun and fulfilling for me because it’s the job I permanently signed up for. This part feels almost taboo, but is important to me. So I started learning how to mother in a way that felt authentic, how to honor who I was, not just who I thought I should be.
There was a time in my life when clothes were pure fantasy, an ethereal version of the person I might one day become. They appear on the pages of magazines in New York City. Discussing them is a way to connect with other women and form friendships that feel exciting and hopeful. Clothes once promised possibility. Even in sneakers, I deserve more monotony.
I began to understand that if I wanted to relate to my kids in a way that was good for all of us, I had to go back and take care of my 11-year-old self, the kid with the knotty knees who dreamed of growing up to dress like a professional ballerina and be a cheerleader and possibly the popular girl who wore a miniskirt school uniform and violated all dress codes.
Wearing clothes became one of the few ways I could maintain myself. Kids are who they are, unapologetically. One of the great lessons of having them is that I should be too. So I bought some vintage sweatshirts, like the ones my middle school crush used to wear, and put a bow on them to look like the ones my Samantha American Girl doll once came with. I grabbed a flannel shirt that reminded me of the shirts seniors wore in the 90s and paired it with a light pink sheer skirt with tights from a dance supply store. I let my hair grow long; I braided it like an awkward teenager whose limbs haven’t straightened yet—and probably never will. I wear Sanrio pastels to feel like a young girl again, each piece of clothing representing a memory of who I once was, the little girl I needed to love so that I could be the most caring adult version of myself.
