Mommy Fashion Police

In my mother’s time, a yummy mummy was someone who made fabulous food. Not a mummy who looked good enough to be consumed whole. Motherhood was that blissful time when you could eat, grow fat, blame it all on the pregnancy and sedately become a cholesterol patient. Now, though, as soon as the baby comes out of you, you’re supposed to look like you were never pregnant. You have to look like a hot lass of sixteen even if you feel like a hippo with the knees of a ninety-year-old grandma who has led a calcium-deficient life. In those days, women who failed to ‘maintain’ themselves were not quite subjected to the kind of scrutiny that we are now. When Lady Diana stepped out of the hospital, everyone thought her figure was a miracle. When Kate Middleton stepped out of the hospital, everyone thought her figure was an aspiration. As in, a doable thing like eating a whole packet of Lays. In our times, if you don’t enroll in a Zumba class on your way from the hospital, you’ve let the sisterhood down badly. Because we have to show’em that motherhood doesn’t change us in any way. We aren’t getting old or tired or sensible. We’re still crazy and ready to party, yo. Even if we can’t keep our eyes open after 9 pm any more. As part of this obsession to look youthful forever comes the dressing. See, it’s wonderful that we don’t let our relationships define us and what we look like. I’m all for people experimenting with their appearance – I’d have gotten myself an eyebrow piercing and pink hair if not for the concern that I’d get thrown out of PTA meetings. But there’s so much judging and sniggering going on about mothers who do not meet the standards set by the fashion police mummas that it’s as much you who is getting a report card when you go for your child’s Open Day as your toddler. It’s like high school all over again with the ‘It girls’ defining what everyone else should be wearing and the behenji-types cowering with nervousness every time an It Mamma comes their way. I own only two pairs of shoes (for real) and most times, I repeat my outfits because I’m not under the delusion that I’m Sonam Kapoor. However, I get away with a lot of fashion disasters because I’m a writer. People see my terrible sartorial tastes as the eccentricities of an artiste, but what about all the others who dress like me but cannot claim to be artistes (with the extra ‘e’), eh? Someone has to speak up for them! I’m in full admiration for those of you who qualify to appear in a Santoor ad. I’m even a bit jealous. But some of us have bad genes, little time and not enough money. Be nice, ladies. Once in a while, it’s not wrong to conform to those annoying stereotypes about mothers being the milk of human kindness. Two Hands Only happens every Tuesday and is dedicated to all the mums who have only two hands and a million things to get done.