rubbed my c-section wound, or, crucially, didn’t unbutton for breastfeeding.These sleep-deprived early days of Mars Bar lunches and 3am buttered-toast seemed to drag on, but a humble walk to the local park café marked a real turning point.
Persuaded by my perceptive mother to pick out a comfortable but fashionable outfit, I scanned the large, breastfeeding-unfriendly tranche of my wardrobe and eventually settled on a burnt orange mohair cardigan.
It was a statement jumper that lifted the grey pregnancy shirt dress I was wearing – but even more crucially, it lifted my mood.
Indeed, its loud, ludicrously large buttons were easy to slide off at feeding time, while the design, which was a trippy spin on cottagecore, aligned more with my sartorial identity than anything in the limited, lacklustre world of nursing tops and dresses.
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