Many a mommy-fashion-blogger has come across your Facebook feed touting the virtues of "the capsule wardrobe". By now, you're fully aware that every woman your age should have a "white button-down shirt", "dark skinny jeans", a "statement" this-or-that, and a handful of versatile "pieces" to mix-and-match yourself into Minimalist Mommy Nirvana.
As a mom of young kids, the minimalist wardrobe is not a hard sell. You essentially wear the same thing every day and consistently re-buy the same stuff over and over as your favorite cotton shirts get yellow in the arm pits and your go-to jeans develop the un-trendiest of holes from too many years of your thighs rubbing together. Sure. Your "curated closet" could use a little input from the moms out there who are considerably more "on trend" than you--but let's be frank. Your "capsule" is already assembled and most likely includes the following components:
The yoga pants. At this point, these are standard issue when you leave the hospital with your new baby, like the white swaddle blanket with the pink-and-blue stripe for baby and the white mesh biker-length underpants for mom. Every mother in America has multiple versions of the ubiquitously versatile bottom that took "momming" from robe-and-sweatpants to the 21st-century realm of Athleisure.
The dark cotton shirt. Because black, brown, and navy are the camouflauge of motherhood. And because fabric you can't wash does a mom as much good as an IPAD with 1% battery life. A crisp, white shirt might be a classic--but so is the massive swipe of peanut butter you'll be wearing across it in about 10 seconds. Just sayin'.
The jeans. Not necessarily the pleated, elastic-waist monstrosity they once were, jeans you wear for "momming" probably look pretty decent...until you touch them, smell them, or try to pair them with "going out" shoes. Mom jeans have come a long way, but they've still been rode hard and put up nasty too often to wear them for anything other than the rough-and-tumble rodeo of daily mom exploits.
The mom-shoes. One part cross-trainer and one part athleticized loafer, the ideal mom shoe runs the gamut from Merrell on the high-end to Skecher-knock-offs from Target on the cheap. No chunky heels or strappy ankle nonsense. Just a flat rubber sole, closed toe, and the same durable, weather-proof material they use to make the backpacks kids lug across Europe. You won't win any fashion awards, but you will be able to tote a kid up a staircase or sprint across the Kroger parking lot without breaking your ass. You might be just a decade away from wearing Crocs with socks and giving the haters a big middle finger. But for now, you still have your dignity. And a mean pair of mom shoes.
The giant purse. Like the boundaries of the universe, the size of the mom-purse is forever expanding. What was once a sassy accessory for housing your money and make-up is now a cavernous abyss of receipts, wet wipes, snacks, bribery candy, and whatever emergency paraphernalia the age of your children demands. Your stuff's in their too, of course--but if your life depended on locating your keys in less than 30 seconds, you'd most certainly be dead many times over.
The utility bra. She's a workhorse. She gets the job done and looks great under clothes--but she's a bit of a Debbie Downer on date-night. With her straps as wide as tighty-whitey waistbands and coverage so comprehensive, she's damn near a turtleneck, this ol' gal's been washed into a tattered mess of lint and pilled fabric that should never see the light of day. She's a necessary evil. Just look away.
The black cotton underwear. A pregnancy blog urged you to invest in these unfashionable friends for those months after childbirth, when the "situation normal" for your downstairs was bound to be "all fucked up" for a good while. You bought some for your first kid...and then more with your second. They've never been sexy, but they got you through the postpartum apocalypse. Like fellow soldiers in combat, that's a bond that can't be broken.
The slippers. Slip-ons, booties, or straight-up Totes Toastie socks with tread on the soles. Every iteration says "Fuck you. I'm cold. And I don't give a shit."
The full-coverage bathing suit. Maybe you're among the lucky few who can still rock a two-piece with pride. But even if you dare, that positive body image might be all you're left wearing after a day at the pool with young kids--known for their capacity to panic, thrash, yank, and subsequently expose you in the most embarrassing possible contexts. So whether you're masking problem areas or just trying to avoid catastrophic wardrobe malfunctions at the neighborhood swimmin' hole, that full-coverage suit is a mom's best friend. A sturdy one-piece, swim dress, rash guard, or ankle-length wet suit are where it's at for a gal whose leisurely days of lying poolside are through.
The haircut. In a fairly recent SNL skit, a group of moms at a baby shower described the decision to get "The Cut" like a conversion experience or alien abduction, during which they were overcome by the call of the "Mom Bob". And it's funny cuz it's true. Although it comes to you less like a lightning bolt and more like the gradual realization that you're not 17 anymore. You no longer find it practical to prep your locks for the imaginary Pantene commercial you'll be shooting in your head later on. True, the Mom Bob is most likely a gateway to "Grandma Hair"--fluffy perm, plastic rain kerchief and all. But in the meantime, you're no fuss and fabulous--and ready to wrangle some chil'ren.
If classic, quality pieces are your capsule's foundation, consider the above like your basement--the unsung and often unsightly level where the sausage gets made. You rely on the foundation when you want to look classier and more put-together than you feel. But to get shit done when you don't give a fuck? You go to the basement. Because what can't be conquered in yoga pants and mom shoes? And what need can't be met by your giant mom-purse? Your classic capsule may be incomplete, but your mom-cred is firmly intact. And completely machine-washable.
As a mom of young kids, the minimalist wardrobe is not a hard sell. You essentially wear the same thing every day and consistently re-buy the same stuff over and over as your favorite cotton shirts get yellow in the arm pits and your go-to jeans develop the un-trendiest of holes from too many years of your thighs rubbing together. Sure. Your "curated closet" could use a little input from the moms out there who are considerably more "on trend" than you--but let's be frank. Your "capsule" is already assembled and most likely includes the following components:
The yoga pants. At this point, these are standard issue when you leave the hospital with your new baby, like the white swaddle blanket with the pink-and-blue stripe for baby and the white mesh biker-length underpants for mom. Every mother in America has multiple versions of the ubiquitously versatile bottom that took "momming" from robe-and-sweatpants to the 21st-century realm of Athleisure.
The dark cotton shirt. Because black, brown, and navy are the camouflauge of motherhood. And because fabric you can't wash does a mom as much good as an IPAD with 1% battery life. A crisp, white shirt might be a classic--but so is the massive swipe of peanut butter you'll be wearing across it in about 10 seconds. Just sayin'.
The jeans. Not necessarily the pleated, elastic-waist monstrosity they once were, jeans you wear for "momming" probably look pretty decent...until you touch them, smell them, or try to pair them with "going out" shoes. Mom jeans have come a long way, but they've still been rode hard and put up nasty too often to wear them for anything other than the rough-and-tumble rodeo of daily mom exploits.
The mom-shoes. One part cross-trainer and one part athleticized loafer, the ideal mom shoe runs the gamut from Merrell on the high-end to Skecher-knock-offs from Target on the cheap. No chunky heels or strappy ankle nonsense. Just a flat rubber sole, closed toe, and the same durable, weather-proof material they use to make the backpacks kids lug across Europe. You won't win any fashion awards, but you will be able to tote a kid up a staircase or sprint across the Kroger parking lot without breaking your ass. You might be just a decade away from wearing Crocs with socks and giving the haters a big middle finger. But for now, you still have your dignity. And a mean pair of mom shoes.
The giant purse. Like the boundaries of the universe, the size of the mom-purse is forever expanding. What was once a sassy accessory for housing your money and make-up is now a cavernous abyss of receipts, wet wipes, snacks, bribery candy, and whatever emergency paraphernalia the age of your children demands. Your stuff's in their too, of course--but if your life depended on locating your keys in less than 30 seconds, you'd most certainly be dead many times over.
The utility bra. She's a workhorse. She gets the job done and looks great under clothes--but she's a bit of a Debbie Downer on date-night. With her straps as wide as tighty-whitey waistbands and coverage so comprehensive, she's damn near a turtleneck, this ol' gal's been washed into a tattered mess of lint and pilled fabric that should never see the light of day. She's a necessary evil. Just look away.
The black cotton underwear. A pregnancy blog urged you to invest in these unfashionable friends for those months after childbirth, when the "situation normal" for your downstairs was bound to be "all fucked up" for a good while. You bought some for your first kid...and then more with your second. They've never been sexy, but they got you through the postpartum apocalypse. Like fellow soldiers in combat, that's a bond that can't be broken.
The full-coverage bathing suit. Maybe you're among the lucky few who can still rock a two-piece with pride. But even if you dare, that positive body image might be all you're left wearing after a day at the pool with young kids--known for their capacity to panic, thrash, yank, and subsequently expose you in the most embarrassing possible contexts. So whether you're masking problem areas or just trying to avoid catastrophic wardrobe malfunctions at the neighborhood swimmin' hole, that full-coverage suit is a mom's best friend. A sturdy one-piece, swim dress, rash guard, or ankle-length wet suit are where it's at for a gal whose leisurely days of lying poolside are through.
The haircut. In a fairly recent SNL skit, a group of moms at a baby shower described the decision to get "The Cut" like a conversion experience or alien abduction, during which they were overcome by the call of the "Mom Bob". And it's funny cuz it's true. Although it comes to you less like a lightning bolt and more like the gradual realization that you're not 17 anymore. You no longer find it practical to prep your locks for the imaginary Pantene commercial you'll be shooting in your head later on. True, the Mom Bob is most likely a gateway to "Grandma Hair"--fluffy perm, plastic rain kerchief and all. But in the meantime, you're no fuss and fabulous--and ready to wrangle some chil'ren.
If classic, quality pieces are your capsule's foundation, consider the above like your basement--the unsung and often unsightly level where the sausage gets made. You rely on the foundation when you want to look classier and more put-together than you feel. But to get shit done when you don't give a fuck? You go to the basement. Because what can't be conquered in yoga pants and mom shoes? And what need can't be met by your giant mom-purse? Your classic capsule may be incomplete, but your mom-cred is firmly intact. And completely machine-washable.
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