Last week, after the elastic on my swimsuit put up the white flag and declared surrender, I knew it was time. It was time (cue freaky music) to buy a new swimming costume.
Most women will tell you that swimsuit shopping is the stuff therapist appointments are made of. Add to that three children as shopping buddies and a body that housed all of them and you’ve bought yourself an afternoon of rocking gently in a corner.
Take it from someone who has been there, the day of the expedition, you need to be prepared. You’ll be working around nap times, shop opening hours and peak hour traffic. It’s a good idea to pack enough snacks to feed a small army, and make sure your phone is charged. I don’t care how much you’re against using technology to entertain kids, there will come a point in the day where you give zero sh*ts about that.
Here is how your day is likely to play out:
Step 1: Get the shops eventually (after kids lose their shoes/need the toilet/generally shit about) even if it doesn’t seem like it will ever happen. Between the fights, the tantrums and the constant interruptions from backseat occupants, you will make it.
Step 2: Battle your way through the carpark and avoid punching on with other drivers who “didn’t see” that you were patiently waiting for that spot with your blinker on, but still take it anyway. #somepeoplearejustjerks
Step 3: Load everyone into various forms of child transport. Strap them in good, lady. You don’t want anyone escaping.
Step 4: Make a direct path to the swimwear shop. That’s what you’re there for, you’ve got no time for anything else. You may resort to cheap bribery (usually food) in order to get your children to act normal. Remember, at this point, you’re the only person in this store that knows how downhill it could go.
Step 5: Make your way around the shop but avoid spending too long on patterns and colours. You’ve just had a baby remember? It’s black. Black, black and black. Don’t deviate.
Pick up a bikini.
Put down the bikini.
Unless you own an Instagram account and use the hashtags #fitspo #mumswholift regularly just don't do this to yourself.
Step 6: When a friendly shop assistant approaches you, tell her that you’re there to find a one piece. Try not to laugh in her face when she hands you a cut out style which is really just a bikini with a loose bit of thread over the belly.
Explain that you’ll be needing something with a little more coverage, as a result of the fresh screaming human who you suspect has been brewing something in that pants department. (You’ll later discover that it’s not just the nappy. Singlet, top and carseat will also require washing, thanks mum.)
Step 7: Try and drag your older children out from underneath racks of clothing. Feel that familiar rise in blood pressure as they knock pretty much everything off.
Try and perfect the "mum look". You know it, it's somewhere between "just wait until we get in the car" and "please, I'm begging you. Please, just behave for five minutes".
Step 8: Follow the shop assistant around the store as she collect things she thinks you might like. Ignore the look of disbelief and horror on her face when you inquire as to whether they stock anything that might be in any way suitable for an FF cup. #breastfeeding
Politely decline the bandeau style top she reaches for. Reiterate the need for a one piece knowing that a bandeau has buckleys chance of staying where it's meant to. You’ll be chasing children up and down the sand making sure no one drowns, asking your children not to eat sand covered food and pondering whether the lump in the swim nappy is excess sand or poo. (It’s poo by the way, always poo).
Step 9: Back to reality, you retreat to the change room with a few pieces of over priced lycra. Don’t think for a second that the change room will be pram friendly.
You’ll need to park three children outside the curtain. This means that every two seconds you’ll have to lean out and make sure they haven’t been stolen.
At that exact moment, the shop assistant will return to catch an eyeful of your saggy, white bum/boobs. Give up the modesty, everyones seen them by now thanks to the two year old who's been holding the curtain open when you've been changing.
Step 10: Squeeze your way into the swimsuits, feeling nothing but empathy for the suction packed hams you saw in the deli.
Ask for the next size up.
Ask for another style.
Ask them to dim the lights.
Peel yourself out of the horror gut hugger and try another.
Think back to the first time you thought you were fat and wish you were that fat again.
Step 11: With half a boob hanging out, you referee fights and bickering from outside the curtain. Throw food at the kids and reassure the sales assistant that you’ll sweep up after the little grubs when you leave. Here’s when you’ll likely resort to Peppa Pig or some other equally as annoying kid's show just to get this done.
Step 12: Try on another swimsuit and wonder who’s idea it was that high leg cuts came back into fashion. Deforestation is not an issue around your place, clearly.
Step 13: At this point, it’s all hit the fan. The kids are feral and there is food everywhere. You’ve also discovered body issues you didn’t even have before you set foot in here. You’re pretty sure your boobs are about to start leaking over some very exy fabric as well because the baby has started screaming the place down.
Step 14: Hand over the swimsuits to the sales assistant and bumble your way through an apology about the mess, the lack of purchase and the fact that you’ve hung nothing back up.
Step 15: Get the hell out of there, lady. Make a mental note that from now on, all your shopping will be done in the privacy of your home on the internet, likely in pyjamas and most definitely with a wine in hand.
How did you find your first time shopping for a swimming costume after baby?