Creation Story
Wanett at her baby shower, receiving the two new pairs of jeans
It’s March, 2001. I’m 20 years old and about to become a mother. Though street smart, I am an 80s baby from pre-gentrified Brooklyn. I had not had much relationship experience and in hindsight, had absolutely no idea who I was or what I wanted to be. That included how I wanted to look. But, here I was, a mother. One clothes size larger and, devastatingly, also one shoe size bigger.
The move from size 4 to 6 did not affect me in the least; jumping from shoe size 9 to 10 was more troubling with my skinny ankles. I had always been thin. The kind of young person who ate and ate and never gained weight. Back then I was yearning to be curvier and taking great pains to conceal my stick-thin limbs. By the end of high school I had come to terms with my body and had finally stopped wearing massively oversized Canadian tuxedos, which were all the fashion rage in the mid-90s. I hadn’t gained much weight while pregnant and being due in winter meant that I was mostly indoors once my courses ended and finals were completed the previous fall. When I needed to go out, I got by without any maternity wear; just my big high school sweats and cargo pants that I closed shut with elastic bands to leave room for my small belly. When the post baby hip spread stuck around, I was happy to be a little bit shapelier. I bought leather pants to wear to my baby shower and had, thanks to breastfeeding, cleavage for the first time.
It’s 2005. I’m due with baby number two in the fall, which meant being pregnant over the summer. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The high temps did mean that I could wear sandals that allowed my swollen feet room to groove, elastic-waist peasant skirts, and cheap flowy dresses and tops from Old Navy. Another pregnancy without the need for maternity wear. However, at the end of this one, I was shocked to discover that none of my pants fit. None of them. I was stuck in ratty stretch pants and those same, lame oversized tops once fall rolled in. I lamented this lack so despondently that my aunt gifted me with two new pairs of size 8 jeans at a hastily planned baby shower. The room erupted in laughter at my joy at the sight of these pants. My body eventually stopped fluctuating, as post-baby bodies are wont to do, and I settled into this newest shape, my new jeans, and a new kind of motherhood that included the needs of two kiddos.
It’s 2007. I had just finished my bachelor’s degree in the fall of ‘06 while carrying twins. Twins. Attending school while pregnant is a special kind of hell, doing so while carrying twins who sapped my body of all strength and nutrients doesn’t bear detailing. Momming while in school wasn’t bad at all with baby one, I was so young and the pregnancy so easy, it was as if she wasn’t nestled in there. With baby two, the strain was more evident. Pregnancy while parenting a preschooler, while also attending school, is demanding. The naps infrequent, the tasks mounting. By 2006, I had two small kiddos, one more semester of school before finishing and, surprise, two babies on the way.
No one was more taken aback than me. As a child of a twin, I had heard about how it “skips a generation” my entire life. Now I was living proof of this old saying. My reaction was so visceral; the sonogram tech was reluctant to leave me alone while she fetched someone more experienced with identifying the parts of two tiny humans on a mostly black screen. This time of life marks a period of frumpiness that I’m glad my sleep-deprived brain made it too hard to retain. So much repetitive wear of clothes that needed washing, mending, or replacing. I adopted the attitude that people had better be glad I showed up, regardless of what I was wearing. Luckily, everyone was wise enough to say nothing at all. This pregnancy required, at the very least, maternity jeans. I still wasn’t as large as some expectant mothers, but two babies inside my already bigger-than-in-the-past body made them vitally necessary. They were simple, just a stretch band across the top of soft jeans, and unfashionable; there was no disguising these duds as normal clothes. They were worn constantly as I battled my way through that last, rough semester. I limped across the finish line that December and gave birth, several weeks too early, in January.
“So much repetitive wear of clothes that needed washing, mending, or replacing. I adopted the attitude that people had better be glad I showed up, regardless of what I was wearing. ”
Through the trials and joys of learning to parent four children, three of whom were in diapers and nursing bottles, I almost never left home. This would have continued if not for my upcoming graduation that May. After the many hurdles of my undergraduate career, I was determined to walk in graduation. Nothing could have stopped me. Except, I once again had nothing to wear. All of my cute dresses were laughably tight. With great difficulty, I engineered a day alone. I had not been clothes shopping for myself in so long that I had no idea what I should be looking for or even where to go. I knew it had to be nearby, as you’re always on call with very young babies. I squeezed myself into the baby shower jeans, being of the light wash-boot cut variety they were now terribly out of style and didn’t match my old battered sneakers, and headed to downtown Brooklyn.
Collage by Laura Snelgrove (with help from Theo).
That day in Target I would have what I still consider to be one of the nastiest shocks of my life, exceeding even the surprise of carrying twins. I took a handful of dresses in a range of sizes into a dressing room. I put everything on a hook inside and took off my coat. As I reached over to hang it up I caught a glimpse of myself from behind for the first time in years. Somehow, someway, my mother’s ass had been attached to my body. Now, I knew I was bigger from the way nothing fit and the cutting waistband of the jeans I had on. But the visual was a great, great surprise. Blame it on pregnancy brain. Motherhood burnout. Mild body dysmorphia. Family who knew better than to point it out (“it” being my new grande-sized bottom). I learned two important lessons that day. One, everyone should own a full-length mirror. Because, two, reflections in storefront windows lie.
Now, in 2020, I’m writing these reflections as a mother of four teenagers. One in college, one in high school, two in middle school. Since the fateful day of graduation dress shopping, I’ve been a variety of sizes and in a variety of roles. My weight hits peaks and valleys based on time of year, amount of activity, if I’ve been unwell, if I’m happy, if the kids have roped me into their karate practice and workouts. And I, and my wardrobe, roll with it. Rolling with it: a skill that is crucial to surviving life in general, but especially when you’re called to inhabit multiple roles. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. And a woman re-entering the workforce. I have finished two graduate degrees, dove head first into a career, and landed a tenure-track faculty position. I’ve reached the grand old(-ish) age of 40 as a career-minded, goal-oriented woman who often feels giant steps behind my younger, more accomplished colleagues. All of these milestones were also steps in the evolution of my personal style, for changes in size and shape are not the sole reasons to reevaluate what you wear.
Now, my style reflects the many parts of me. My life as an academic brings conflict to the equation. As a Black woman, do I dress how I want and potentially feel uncomfortable with the (perceived) scrutiny of my colleagues? Or do I go full professor like some folks around campus and arrive in last night’s clothes I’ve picked up from the floor, which frequently includes something shabby and in need of mending? Do I reach for my upward-weight-shift gear, aka my secret pajamas? The pieces with give and stretch, longer lengths and skimming silhouettes? Or my feel-good garb, the things you wear when you’re at your best and want your outside to match your inside. And then there is, of course, my mama gear with it’s all-day comfort and forgiving footwear.
Being a maker, a person capable of constructing most anything I put my mind to, adds dimension to all of those aspects of personality and identity and my ability to express those facets through clothing. Finding the online community of handworkers while at home, mothering my babies, and racking up degrees, saved an essential part of myself. My true self, outside my identity as a wife and a mother. The ability to follow a set of instructions and make a garment that was unique and tailored to my body, whatever size it may be, was transformative. Each new skill and achievement I added to my repertoire gifted me with a little nugget of pride to sustain me through the loneliness that early motherhood can sometimes bring. Making provided me with new adult friendships, the strength of our shared passion for sewing and knitting added something extra missing from my other friendships, which were largely based on longevity and shared experiences.
“Being a maker, a person capable of constructing most anything I put my mind to, adds dimension to all of those aspects of personality and identity and my ability to express those facets through clothing. ”
Whenever I feel most in flux and in need of reassurance of who I am, I can make something beautiful and useful and recall those pieces of me that have fled in those moments of uncertainty. I’m always amazed by its effectiveness. When I present at conferences, I wear handmade. When I give a talk, or join a panel, I wear handmade. When I have an opportunity to network with colleagues, I wear handmade. When I feel my commuter anxiety spiking, I knit on the train. When the typical projects are not enough, I reach for a new skill—weaving, machine knitting, embroidery, rug making. Handwork is a balm that can be applied liberally and expansively and living in one of the fashion capitals of the world means that the tools of the trade are only ever a train ride away, though I always keep my toolbox well stocked. I am fortunate to have the space and tendency to hoard that makes it easy to ride the wave of creativity, and time availability, to work on projects as the mood strikes. Making is not my livelihood, but it is my salvation.
Through all the phases and wardrobe changes. Sizes and styles. Moods and roles. I arrive at whatever place and space with all of me: Black woman, librarian, scholar, faculty member, maker, creative, Brooklynite, New Yorker, urbanite, commuter, forty year-old, and most of all, a mama, a maker and wearer of things.
