Since my pregnancy, I’m spotting baby bumps all over fashion; I can predict the exact gestational age and name of future offspring based on how Pleats Please drapes down a belly, and I keep a running tab of runways — from Di Petsa, Collina Strada and Sinéad O’Dwyer, amongst others — starring pregnancy.

Maybe it’s the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon (like when you’re saving up for Le Labo and suddenly smell it everywhere). Maybe it’s a thing. Jasmine Tookes opening the Victoria’s Secret show while nine months pregnant felt like a major moment. So did Kaya Wilkins, strutting down Chanel’s runway with a bump and a pair of baby shoes dangling from her bag. I just spotted an influencer who bejewelled her bump for Copenhagen Fashion Week.

It got me thinking: was pregnancy always a fashion thing? And why now — as size inclusivity on the runway stagnates — is the bump suddenly a look?

The bellycore of yore

Bear with me, because the fashion history on this is fascinating. For one year in the 18th century, pregnancy was apparently so fashionable that women flaunted faux bellies under their gowns. This bellycore of yore connects to the era’s pronatalist attitude; after the first French Revolution, having children was seen as patriotic and thus, en vogue. In 2026, as big families have become a status symbol, this reads very familiar. But for most of fashion history (before and after 1793), bumps were hidden or ignored because pregnancy was still a bit unseemly or taboo. Dresses were either voluminous enough to accommodate a bump, or simply let out. Even as maternity wear entered the scene in the 20th century, maternity itself wasn’t really fashionable; a temporary styling challenge rather than a runway-worthy look.

1990s

When Demi Moore posed for Vanity Fair in 1991, nude and seven months pregnant, it was the first sign that pregnancy would become, if not glamourised, then a subject of glitzy spotlights and attention. The cover was certainly controversial, refused or hidden at many newsstands and sold out nearly everywhere else. Not much later, a very pregnant model walked the runway of Alexander McQueen’s FW 1994 show in a sheer, Elizabethan gown. Of course it had to be McQueen, fashion’s great provocateur. If at all, high fashion used pregnancy as a showstopper, something to get people talking and the press writing (which I’m still doing here).

2000s

The 2000s belonged to celebrity gossip and paparazzi culture. While I couldn’t find one visibly pregnant model on the runway, fashion glossies ran spread after spread on the maternity style of celebs like Gwyneth Paltrow and Britney Spears. Public pregnancy announcements came in the form of well-styled editorials, a nod to Demi. The very term ‘baby bump’ was coined by US Weekly around 2002, and tabloids ran a ‘bump watch,’ scrutinising any woman in the public eye for signs of pregnancy. It was all pretty toxic (cue Britney).

2010s

One of the most iconic maternal moments comes from Jean Paul Gaultier’s SS10 show, starring Jordan Dunn in a corset Gaultier designed especially to celebrate her bump. After that, pregnant models make more of an appearance. Think Miranda Kerr for Balenciaga, Ashleigh Good for Chanel or Slick Woods for Savage X Fenty.

2020s

Speaking of, Rihanna herself deserves many snaps for going viral after wearing Miu Miu and vintage Issey Miyake as maternity wear. She’s often credited with redefining maternity style into something more daring and bump-baring. This is a common thread in the early 2020s, as maternity becomes a central fashion theme rather than a one-off or a runway gimmick. A wave of independent labels — Di Petsa, Wiederhoft, Eckhaus Latta, Sinéad O’Dwyer and more — star pregnant models in looks that show off the bump. You might even call pregnancy a fashion trend. Nensi Dojaka created a sheer, sequined slip dress that bared her wearer’s bump while toying with the light. Dimitra Petsa is known for draping her dresses in a way that accentuates the feminine form and looks like it’s wet. She often designs with pregnancy in mind, telling me:

Now we’ve landed at an interesting place. Bumps are still fairly common on the runway and — especially with designers or fashion weeks that value diverse casting (like Sinéad O’Dwyer or CPHFW, respectively) — seem to signal some kind of push towards body positivity. But I can’t get the bellycore of 1793 out of my head. Particularly, I can’t stop thinking about the creepy ‘go have babies for the Republic’ ideal that drove 18th-century women to buy and flaunt faux bellies Lindsey Lohan-style. Nowadays, we have kidmaxxing billionaires and big families as the status symbol. Conservatism is definitely impacting the runway; we’re seeing more quiet luxury and less size inclusivity. Maybe pregnancy will become like couture: aspirational, curated and increasingly exclusive. Maybe both reasons — bumps as body positivity and conservatism — can exist simultaneously? I’m not sure. I’d love a Di Petsa dress, though!

xoxo

Marjolijn

Before you start judging, I know my son isn’t a Tabi boot or a dress from Celine. Babies don’t exactly elevate your sense of style, as any parent can tell you. There are the bodily changes, the need for nursing bras… the puke! Human offspring are also significantly more high-maintenance than a vintage leather shoe or silk dress. And if we’re talking delivery, I prefer to shop at SSENSE.

And so, it would make sense to box up my impractical dry-clean-only pieces and adopt a uniform of athleisure — all Lululemon cycling shorts and beige jumpsuits for the baby. I can’t. Instead, my Vinted homepage has become an algorithmically confused mix of Ann Demeulemeester and colourful, elasticated co-ords from Stella McCartney kids. Like Blair Waldorf, I made up completely nonsensical fashion rules: which tiny cardigans go under versus over the tiny overalls; florals pair ok with other florals, but not with marinière stripes; no baby skinny jeans — ever!

The rise of the Mom Aesthetic

My fashion-school-dropout boyfriend (logically) asked me why I care so much. Maybe I feel the pressure of having a Mom Aesthetic. According to the New York Times, motherhood is becoming another vibe to curate for the gram. Are you an Almond Mom or ‘90s Butter Mom? You definitely don’t want to be a Sad Beige Mom… Jennifer Lawrence is the original momboy — silky trousers from The Row paired with Twilight merch and unwashed hair — and I want to be like her.

Meanwhile, Rihanna divided group chats worldwide by dressing her toddlers in custom tailoring from Dior by Jonathan Anderson. Was that really insane or really cool? Regardless, it’s clear that parents and their offspring are a fashionable topic. They either strut down the runway or have a front row seat at Fashion Week. I could get very political and point out the rise of large families as a status symbol — and how that connects to the cost-of–living crisis, climate insecurity, increasingly demanding work schedules and a questionable pronatalist policy push — but I won’t. Like J-Law in her silk trousers, I’ll keep things light.

How to fashionably take your kid to the function

As brand strategist Eugene Healey points out, having kids isn’t fashionable per se. “It’s about maintaining your pre-parenthood lifestyle whilst having them.” My feed is filled with ads promising exactly that: a €450 linen carrier bag for bringing your baby to the function (and looking good doing so), an upcycled diaper bag from Paris, Scandinavian modular toys to match your interior… I seriously considered attending a baby rave in Amsterdam Noord. “The performance completes itself when parents insist their children’s style must harmonise with their own,” writes Healey. “For every type of parent, there’s now a corresponding brand for their children. Whilst legacy kids’ brands like Toys “R” Us decline, luxury fashion houses launch exclusive childrenswear collections.” According to Healey, kids’ brands used to centre on the kids themselves: a plastic fantastic universe of Duplo blocks and garish Disney princess tees. Today’s upscale brands “treat children almost as luxury accessories to the parents’ life.”

Is it frivolous to care about a carrier bag?

I want to dismiss this vibe shift as frivolous. Surely, no parent (or child) needs a €450 carrier bag or Patta kids? And can a baby rave be anything but cringe? But I also love it. The first time I took my son for a coffee run, he was sleeping peacefully while strapped to my chest, the only visible parts of him being his knitted, butter-yellow hat and socks which I’d strategically matched to my own sneakers. I caught our reflection in a shop window. “Damn, I’m not a regular mum,” I thought proudly. “I’m a cool mum!”

Yes, I fit-check before daycare drop-off. Like Narcissus, my son is completely obsessed with his own reflection. But he lacks the ego to understand the well-dressed baby in the mirror is actually him, and I think that’s beautiful. He sees every tram ride as an opportunity to flirt, tilting his head and coyly smiling until the stranger next to us calls him adorable. Being so visible makes me care about our respective looks. It’s also hard to untangle where my baby ends, and I begin. He almost spent more time in my body than out; we both still crave that physical closeness. Is it so weird that I want to imbue him with my sense of style? To build an outfit (and life) that orbits around him? Is it weird to care about his carrier bag?

a P.S. for those who want to get more political. For Dazed Beauty, I asked the question: As birth rates decline, is pregnancy now an aspirational aesthetic?

From nonchalance to mom guilt

Before motherhood, I considered breastfeeding with nonchalance. Like a charity marathon, it seemed both impressive and optional. But somewhere between my 20-week ultrasound and the moment colostrum stained my CK bra, this attitude changed. In her podcast Het Witte Goud, journalist Hansje van de Beek describes a similar arc — from ambivalence to guilt. She traces how messaging (from institutions, midwives, natural-birth influencers and more) shapes our feelings towards breastfeeding – and that messaging is remarkably consistent.

Breastfeeding is a natural, symbiotic relationship between a mom and her baby. There’s no one-size-fits-all guide, but you should breastfeed whenever your baby wants, day and night. Your body was made for this.

This feels holistic and crunchy, which gets to me because I can be a bit Goop-ish: the type to sync her Oura ring with her Natural Cycles app. I splurge on organic cotton basics (now covered in milk-puke) and take the baby for long forest hikes where he licks trees. Aesthetically, I aspire to be like IG’s breastfeeding moms, who wear dewy makeup and linen Artipoppe carriers, casually whip out their breasts in public, and capture it all in a sunlit selfie. The underlying message?

Breastfeeding is natural.

Tellingly, Instagram censors pics of women’s breasts except when nursing, because “breastfeeding is natural and beautiful.” Even mothers who’ve chosen not to breastfeed feel the weight of that framing. In a recent Elle essay, model Elsie Hewitt — who bottle-fed to retain ownership of her body and protect her wellbeing — writes about the guilt she felt: “My body is biologically programmed to nourish my baby, and opting out of that can feel like going against something ancient, instinctual, and profoundly beautiful.”

This is where things get icky, because there are two ways to read breastfeeding is natural. One is about what a baby drinks. The other is about what a mom’s body was made to do.

I vibe with the first (in an Oatly-and-mushroom-burger way, not a raw-milk-antivaxxer way). But the second veers into tradwife territory. It fits into the Crunchy-to-Alt-Right Pipeline, which Kathleen Belew explored for The Atlantic. In the big Venn diagram of life, earth-loving wellness types (like me) and MAGA-leaning traditionalists share quite a bit of common ground, like organic farming, alternative medicine, midwifery, and a low-screen, back-to-the-land type of living. Of course, their political motivations differ wildly. But that’s hard to untangle when you’re scrolling Instagram during a night feed.

Was I made to nourish my baby?

In a recent day-in-my-life reel, Ballerina Farm’s Hannah Neeleman nurses her baby by the natural light of her extremely cottagecore kitchen, before spending the rest of her day making panna cotta from scratch. While Neeleman rarely makes bold political statements, other tradwifes are more implicit. In a now-offline video, Gwen the Milkmaid noted that a woman’s body was made to nourish her babies.

And there’s the La Leche League, a prominent global breastfeeding organisation whose materials I got from my lactation consultant. I found their feeding-on-demand advice around The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding genuinely useful, but incompatible with a career or personal life. I later learned the league was founded in 1956 by Catholic women who saw breastfeeding as a woman’s natural and moral role.

It’s not all nature.

On the other side of the Venn diagram, I also see plenty of selfies that don’t frame breastfeeding as a natural calling, but as a personal flex – and rightfully so! Some are from stylist and creator Nicole Huisman (whom I interviewed for 1 Granary). She shares her breastfeeding journey with reverence; for her prematurely born daughter, it’s not milk, it’s magic. But she also posts the unromantic reality: the 90s-Macintosh-sized hospital pump, mastitis, crying over spilt milk. “Breastfeeding was never a given,” she writes. “It’s not all nature.”

Nine months into motherhood, I serve my son a bit of everything: formula, breastmilk, bananas, peanut butter, plus an assortment of pureed fruits and veggies like a Hilton breakfast buffet. It’s been a wild ride – rewarding yet riddled with guilt and self-imposed rules; of getting up at 2 am to pump (the baby wouldn’t latch) and tracking every mililiter in the Medela app. I treated myself to a CK nursing bra and a fancy cream in an attempt to un-purple my nipples. My body wasn’t made for this; it laboured for this. The first time I breastfed in public – at the modern art museum – pride lit me up like a James Turrell. Naturally, I posted a selfie. The first time we gave him formula, I cried for a full day.

I’d like to say I’ve settled into, if not quite nonchalance, then okay-ness. I still get a strange satisfaction from seeing my freezer stash, lined up like the world’s most exclusive supplement — Gwyneth Paltrow could never (except she probably did).

xoxo

Marjolijn

1 Granary

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5 months ago · 14 likes · 1 Granary

It was one of those moments that toys with the fine line between unhinged baby-Burberry momfluencer and playing dress-up with a grown-up’s wardrobe, which is fine. Except now I’m posting about it on this Substack, which makes it content. So who am I to judge?

That’s exactly what this Substack is about

I’m spiralling. And if you’re reading this, you might be too. Welcome! This Substack explores the absurd reality of being a mom (or parent, in every sense) in today’s hyper-curated culture. Every other week, I’ll answer pressing questions of modern parenthood.

And this isn’t your regular mom newsletter… I hope. It’s fashion, beauty, wellness and cultural criticism that – unlike my baby – has teeth.

Who am I – if not like a regular mom?

Thanks to the postpartum identity crisis, I basically have no idea. I vaguely remember my own name, Marjolijn Oostermeijer. I’m an Amsterdam-based fashion and beauty writer with bylines at Dazed, i-D, Cosmo, 1 Granary, Vogue and many more. I also write copy for curated vintage stores, wearable breast pumps, period pads and belly oil. As of the autumn of 2025, I change a lot of diapers, scour Vinted for tiny tie-dye overalls and overthink every facet of modern parenthood.

xoxo

Marjolijn