All the stupid things I nearly bought as a new mother

Just because you use the word 'invest' doesn't mean my kid will be any smarter

I have never spent more time on my phone than I did in the early days of motherhood. At one point, I breastfed for almost seven hours; almost the length of a working day. Of course, some of this was at night, and staying awake was a personal battle that I challenged with copious audiobooks and, often, incessant scrolling.

Believe me when I say that the algorithm is watching you. If human behaviours can be predicted with granular precision, the targeting of mothers is a specific form of exploitation that ranges from hilarious to concerning.

I am not immune to it and nor are you.

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Today, I’m sharing the things I almost bought (or bought into) in the moments between lapsed showers and sleep. Enjoy!

£180 dresses designed to hide the ‘mum pouch’

It’s hardly a surprise to learn that new mums are a bit self-conscious about what their bodies look like after giving birth. Before I had my daughter, I wore a mixture of jewel-toned colours, full circle skirts, and 1970s paisley, but immediately afterwards I pulled together pieces that I can only describe as ‘cottagecore clown’. Think frilly blouses, often with an entire boob dangling from one side, and poster paint trousers with an elasticated waistband that made me feel like the narrow end of a sausage. I actually felt my stomach muscles knitting back together in the weeks after birth. No one tells you that! We are silly little meat sacks, full of milk and tea and chocolate digestives. I did not dress with this in mind.

Have no fear, because there are brands out there who delight in this body betwixtmas. What on earth is a ‘mum pouch’ and why aren’t we marketing clothes to slightly fat dads in the same way? Who cares what you look like! Stop making us feel like we need to disguise ourselves! I swear to god, if I never see a middle-aged woman twirling in an Italian piazza with a cinched waist again, it’ll be too soon. Of course they look great. They are beaming. They are cradling an infant with the ease of a mid-tier royal. Everyone deserves to feel like that. £180! I could buy five crap dresses for that, I thought. Really, it’s basic maths. If I had one ‘dress designed by thousands of women’ I wouldn’t need to wear anything else! No, friends. My style fluctuates with my mood. One day it’ll be Madonna in her Desperately Seeking Susan era, another day it’ll be urban Anne of Green Gables. It makes no sense, I know, and it means that my wardrobe is bursting with inconsistency, and I’m not about to change that.

Montessori toys

If you’ve ever been within three feet of an infant, I can guarantee that you have seen a targeted ad for Montessori subscription boxes that claim to give your child a catalogue of scholarships to Oxbridge by the time they hit puberty. There is one that dominates social media (hint: I do not LOVEVERY how much they appear on my feed) with greyscale videos of toddlers wrecking plush grey living rooms with barrels of plastic toys and claims of perpetual chaos if you don’t purchase a £120 set of critical thinking toys. I’ve seen these toys in real life. Yes, they’re beautiful. Yes, each one could be mistaken for minimalist home décor. But also… THEY COST SO MUCH MONEY.

When my baby was a happy little worm of three months, I ran out of things to do with her. When the third house tour of the day included a solo show of each and every surplus toilet roll in the bathroom, you start to go a bit mad. Me, not her. She was happy to stare at her own shadow so long as I accompanied it with a magician’s ‘Wowwww!’ But… a wooden ball posted into a wooden hole! A felt rabbit hidden in a felt burrow! A steel teething ring! Screw Captain Calimari, my daughter will be solving a Rubix cube next time I change her nappy.

Again, there is nothing wrong with these toys, but I do think that guilt-tripping mums* for not stimulating their slug babies enough whilst already crippled with sleep-deprivation is a bit of a low blow. Chuck a baby a wooden spoon and they’ll be delighted, then you can spend that money on a nice massage. Or a lobotomy.

*I have never seen a male featured across their digital marketing

I want to buy a rattle, not open a trust fund.

Ready meals for toddlers

Okay, I’ve been there. We experienced a solid four-month period in which my daughter mistook meal times for a caber toss challenge. Oh, you want me to eat from a spoon? Good fucking luck! Apart from the first few weeks of breastfeeding, starting solids was the most stressful part of parenting for me. You know that iconic Christmas advert, where Mariah Carey nibbles the end of a crisp like it’s been laced with poisoned? My baby is Mariah and the crisp is a green lentil and chickpea patty that I stupidly cooked a freezer draw full of.

Maybe it’s me! Maybe she hates my cooking! Maybe the experts know what babies like and I’m doing it wrong! Enter ready meals for toddlers. These might be useful at times when you’ve got no time and a child that eats like a flip-top bin, but if not, you’ve just spent £3.50 on floor food. I get it. I’ve been there. I once forked baby lamb bhuna off the floor because I was so exhausted from my daughter’s chaotic mealtime that I couldn’t be bothered to cook for myself. It ain’t worth it.

Waldorf education

I have Instagram to blame for this one. The first time I saw a reel of Waldorf education in action, I wasn’t sure if I was watching a kid’s baking show or a folklore horror trailer. The concept is lovely. If you want your child to grow up with a love of nature, take all their technology away, let them play in mud, and bake scones fifteen times a day. I’m not sure whether the principles of Waldorf education necessitate dressing like the cast of Little Women, but alas, this does seem to be the case.

A few years ago, I asked my parents who was more likely to join a cult; me or my brother. Without a missed beat, they both said me. I was shocked, but they went on to provide receipts and I had to accept that the draw of a lace collar and stripped furniture would see me sign my life savings over to a bearded man named Jonah in a hot second. I’m not saying that Waldorf educators are cult leaders. Definitely not. BUT their social media content (not too Waldorf for smart phones, so it seems) is a bit culty. There’s breathy singing. The children are silent. It’s so sincere, I cringe with the sound off.

Waldorf education is wonderful, but you can include elements of it in any kind of early year’s education. When concepts like Montessori, Reggio-Emilia, and Waldorf were first developed, it was in specific contexts that necessitated a subversion of common practice. Nowadays, most pre-schools incorporate these learning styles anyway, so don’t be convinced that your baby will be any more of a tree hugger if you send them to a nursery that bans them from being indoors.

This article from ParentData explains it far better than I could and is backed by actual science rather than my ramblings.

BDSM underwear

Are you serious? Are you actually, seriously, serious? If the Instagram algorithm reflects the real life searching habits of people like me, it’s of no surprise that those interested in Snow White style Waldorf education are immediately jumping to peekaboo-nipple-tassled-latex-girdles-and-crotchless-panties. We get it, you’re repressed.

I’m not saying that the women who flashed up on my phoned looked bad—they looked fucking incredible. I’ve never seen so many straps on a single bra. If I want to look like a walking imitation of The Vitruvian Man, I know where to purchase the outfit. But one month postpartum? When I was still doing Kegels every time an alarm went off on my phone so that I didn’t wee myself stepping out of the shower? No thank you, sir! Give me control of my bladder before you give me control of a horse whip!

‘That will be £57.80 please.’

Boilersuits for babies

There seems to be a trend for clothing that makes your baby look like a blue-collar worker. For half a second, I thought this would be an excellent choice for my child, who can’t stand unsupported, let alone work a petrol pump. Arguably, nothing can make a £35 boilersuit the length of my forearm look cute enough to justify the price, but I’m sure if I walked around North London for long enough, I’d find someone who did.