In early April 2020 we were four weeks into our first ever Lockdown, Easter almost upon us, and I, like so many others, was apparently in need of some feeling of connection. Anything at all. I just missed people.

I posted a spontaneous little video to Instagram suggesting that it might be a nice idea to document who we were at this moment, in this period like no other that would surely become one of the most significant times in history. Certainly, it was to be an Easter like no other before or again in the future (surely??).

I came up with The Way We Wore: a sort of virtual time capsule capturing who we were when: a snapshot of what we wore; who we were; where we were residing; how we were spending our days

Birth in times of COVID – who the hell thought we’d be here?

Sometimes, I think the most effective way to feel in control is to simply control the controllable. So, the nesting might be turbo and the planning pedantic; that’s all good. Whatever gives you a sense of purpose and lets you feel in command is exactly the undertaking for you at this time.

I started compiling a ‘concise’ list for my hospital bag this week – just to tick things off as I went, making for an efficient packing process, you understand. Then for no reason at all, I began elaborating on my list…

I couldn’t wait to taste the toast — the one new mothers rave about. You’ve heard them, they’re all ‘keep your truffle and hold the caviar’ — it’s the anaemic looking slices soggy in melted butter, cut straight across (never a triangle) sitting on your Nana’s everyday crockery and presented to you on a canteen tray following labour… that’s the sweet nectar of the Gods.

Now, I would categorically not be one for willingly eating in a hospital — plagued by multiple food-hygiene preoccupations, you see — but I figured that particular neurosis would likely relent once I had brought the mini human from tummy (via bummy) to earth in just a few short hours. Yes, I should look forward to that treat for lunch.

I can feel the blood that runs through my veins begin to rush as I spot the corner of what is sure to be a must-have gem. On realising the full garment is just as beautiful as the peeking fabric teased, my eye develops a twitch and I start to giggle manically with anticipation.

The absolute and overwhelming joy, however, comes when I’ve taken the dress behind the flowery curtain, am mid-try-on and as the rusty zip rises all of my hopes are realised … IT FITS!

Etiquette. Such a quaint notion that it deems those concerned with old-fashioned and those not, well, shall we say loose? In the manners department, you understand. Without this widely accepted point of social order, how on earth is one to know just how to carry on in a time of selfies, Tinder and twerking? Or perhaps it’s less to do with social conventions and more my 30-something years that has me pondering the expectations of our collective conduct.

By now, even I had become exhausted by the accumulation. Not just the lugging of countless pieces of clothing from wardrobe to garment bag to box to van to smaller wardrobe — repeat — I was exhausted by the weight of owning so much and not knowing what it was I was hanging on to. The fact is, I’m actually not a big shopper. Most of what I have I’ve had for years; that in itself being part of the issue. I’m sentimental, you see; emotionally attached to so much of what I own… which has led to me owning so much. A capsule wardrobe my closet is not.

Having hit the halfway mark, I am now ‘openly’ pregnant for as long as I was keeping it to myself (sorry, ‘ourselves’. There is an other-half involved in this which means, according to the modern language of all things prenatal, we must now always refer to ‘us’ being pregnant. I haven’t seen too much swelling, stretch marks or bloating around his person but maybe he’s just lucky). This timeline means that I have experienced over 10 weeks of public advice and instructions, much of it unsolicited, to add to the existing bank of information that I had garnered from my medical team: Sr. Midwife and Dr. Google.