My friend walks into the village hall, scene of my son’s third birthday party, a mixture of panic and incredulity creeping across his face. “I didn’t realise we were dressing up,” he says, taking in my outfit. I feel myself blush. I’m wearing a mint-green tulle midi dress with sheer sleeves that balloon precociously and a tiered skirt that puffs out in such a way as to give me the appearance of either a Quality Street or a three-year-old at her own birthday party. It’s not, if I’m entirely honest, the most practical of outfits for serving chocolate cake to 18 sticky-handed toddlers but, as I blurt out to my friend, keen to dispel any confusion, the avant-garde look wasn’t actually my choice: it was AI’s.
I love quirky clothes. Different cuts, unusual fabrics, bold colours, exciting textures. My wardrobe is my identity, my refuge, my hobby, my happy place. Or, at least, it was. Recently – since having my second baby – I’ve struggled to get dressed. Paralysed by choice, I am beset by decision fatigue every time I approach my (admittedly groaning) closet. With a three-year-old and a six-month-old to wrangle into clobber, too, the overwhelm has joined forces with lack of time. This morning I was hurling clothes at my body while the youngest screamed for his nap. The steady spoliation of my personal style continues apace, now stained with breast milk and squashed banana.
