I stood in the kitchen doing the dishes the other night when my husband looked over from the computer and said:
“Wow. You’re really turning me on there.”
What?? Finally! Here was the evidence that I need only be a dutiful cook and great at washing dishes for a man to find me sexy! Cosmopolitan and Cleo had it wrong all along just as I suspected. Ha!
As I turned with adulation and triumph in my eyes, reaching out with those sud-soaked hands to stroke the face of my beloved, it was pretty clear he was being sarcastic: there was nothing sexy about me right now. He looked me up and down and then I looked myself up and down and realised, in full mummy-horror, that he was probably right.
I mean my ugg boots are bloody comfortable. Even if the left is reminiscent of a fired-up galah with my toe as the beak whilst the other boot looks like a small rat has been nibbling at it. And my Sussan nightie from 2008, the one I bought specifically to wear in hospital after given birth to Sussie: ain’t nothin’ wrong with that pastel number! It’s very sensible for the breastfeeding mother with a buttoned front, the fabric is extremely soft and breathable and the cut forgiving for the postpartum belly. This outfit is EXTREMELY comfortable. For someone who has just given birth. Which I haven’t done for four and a half years.
Now, I’m not saying I’m chained to the sink and required to wear heels and a Mad Men inspired dress while doing it- clearly not. Nor that sexy night attire is a requirement for a woman to feel sexy or a man to be interested in her- categorically NOT. Love should absolutely transcend looks and clothing and dishes. And it absolutely has in our marriage or I would have left last year when Fiela came out wearing his vintage 1985 Hot Tuna winter jacket, ready to go to a dinner party (the kind where they use cloth napkins- it was fancy!). My foray into high-carb-high-fat-don’t-say-one-fucking-word-about-my-weight-or-I’ll-kill-you-I’ve-JUST-HAD-A-BABY diet two years after I had a baby would have sent the vacuously body conscious husband straight to Hotel I’m Out Of Here. But it didn’t and he isn’t.
Anyway, I told him to shut up, Mr Wearing A Red Saucony Shirt With Holes In It And Weird Blue And White Stripy Linen ‘Sleeping Pants’ and swished back to my dishes. As I rinsed the last of the soap off, splashing water on that frumpy patterned smock I called night attire I came to the conclusion that Gah! He was right. I was not a breastfeeding mother and wouldn’t be again: perhaps it was time for this eight-year-old nightie to go (I refuse to let go of the uggs #uggsforevah).
The next day I went to our local shops to the closest chain store representing my current stage of life: I’m not quite with my Mum at Wombat Lane yet and I’ve certainly surpassed the ability to withstand the noise in Supre or the slogans emblazoned on everything in Body Cotton. This left me with Bras’n’Things. Surely amongst the lace and uncomfortable looking underwires there would be something for me? Something comfortable yet more Yummy Mummy than just Mumsy. Obviously 75% of the nightie’s were out on the polyester to viscose ratio immediately- I need a high cotton content- but on first glance, there were a couple of options.
I was there for about 45 minutes in which time I realised my breast feeding boobs now also had the ability to double as a scarf I could wrap around my neck: I clearly needed support in that area beyond appliqued lace.
As I inspected a black criss-crossed straps number with a bit of bust support and discarded it on the basis that trying to sleep on the eight pieces of metal at the back would be similar to water torture, a friend walked in to the shop with her companion, aged in her early twenties. The latter pointed at the strappy number: “That’s gorgeous- Oh My Gaawd I want it!”
Me: “Crikeys!? It’s ridiculous!”
Younger Companion: “Ha! That’s just what my Mum says?!”
It’s probs suffice to say I will have to travel further afield to find a comfortable nightie, one that wasn’t once covered in meconium and blood and has been with me through (quite literally) thick and not so thick. Eight years is long enough. It’s time to embrace the next phase of life; one which doesn’t involve open-fronted smocks or eight straps with metal thingys and scratchy lace. Sweet dreams people.
What’s your preferred mode of sleepwear? Birthday suit, grandma smock or laced chemise?