What’s up with the disaster that is the maternity bra? Isn’t it bad enough that after having a baby your sexuality is being attacked from every given angle? Just when you are ready to get it up, everything lets you down.

Your hormones are working against you, more concerned with making gooey goggly eyes at a newborn than at your husband. Sure it’s all smart monkey stuff, ensuring the constant life of said newborn, but surely there was a little space in the contract of extending the species that would allow for a clause encouraging parents to procreate for the second (and third and forth) times? Surely! Apparently not. So here I am, all 21’st century educated and stuff, knuckles far far away from the former floor-dragging kind, but my hormones are simply not interested. Thanx girls. Way to let a lady down.

Of course your body is a whole other kettle of fish. Even if you drop the baby-weight instantly, something happens to your bits shoulder to knees that can only be described as the jelly effect. Jelly Belly is so real it’s scary! Sure there was a little paunchy pocket there before, but the fatty deposit had the decency to stay where it was originally assigned. Tummy fat stayed on the tummy. Love handles sat on your sides with un-bending loyalty. Even a saggy bum would always remain a saggy bum.

Until you have a baby that is. Hide all you want under shape-wear and maternity-fit clothing, but once naked and in any compromising position, you are at gravity’s full and unrelenting mercy. Belly may as well be up at your left shoulder and love handle moved to your lower thigh. Depending on how athletic your love-making is, your movable baby-fat may travel from ankles to clavicles in one good session. Not entirely attractive, and what a let down those Pilate’s classes suddenly seem!

Then there’s the sleep deprivation. Even the most haggard of pheromones, the ones who dragged themselves through the killing fields like War Horse to find their man on the other end of the battle (ok, that analogy may not be the best, considering it was a man and a horse, but you get my drift)… The point is, even when your whole existence is about that tiny bundle of baby, there are moments when you have flash backs to your former self and suddenly you think ‘Yes, why yes, I think I might have me some Husband after all.

But do you think you can? Of course not! Even if you don’t feel tired (I italicize feel because seriously, I don’t know what voodoo this is that they do, but somehow, even though you haven’t slept in 12 weeks, you don’t feel tired) the second your head hits a pillow that is not directly attached to the needs of your baby, you pass out into the deepest sleep known to man. And if you have a husband anything like mine, he finds the Sleeping Beauty kissing a dead girl on the lips thing a tad rapey. So he would never initiate anything if I were unconscious. Which as the case may be is the case all the time. Because sleep is the new sex. Way to let a girl down, consciousness!

And THEN, even if I manage to keep myself awake with all kinds of spells and potions of the red bull variety (breast milk pumped for future feeds, of course, to avoid any contamination) the baby somehow knows. I don’t know how he knows, but HE KNOWS. This is exorcist stuff right here people. This burping, pooping creature that hasn’t even figured out that he has toes yet can sense that mommy is about to get it on. So he stops it in its tracks.

Because what child wants to think of their parents having intercourse?




So then, if you happen to be superwoman and have hurdled the no-sex-policy hormones and the lack of sleep and the body-morph and got baby so deep asleep an air raid siren wouldn’t wake him, another joyous jester arrives at the ball.

Mommy just broke through…and so did the milk! Yes my friends. Pump all you want, but when a slightly giddy feeling enters your body, the boobs jump up from their slumber all confused and caught unawares, and instead of incorporating plan B (sexy, perky, husband mesmerizing) they revert back to plan A with fervor. Plan A happens to be what is known as a ‘let down’ and that is exactly what they do to you in the moment. They let you down. They spray mother’s milk all over your partner – SO unsexy – and they won’t stop for love or money. Where is baby? Baby is asleep. Oh well, lets just spray out a full feed right here right now anyhow, just incase.


So you think, ‘Lets pop on a bra. With secret panels where you can stuff super-absorbent breast pads to avoid any spillage. A sexy one, as a disguise.’

But where are all your sexy bras? They are stored away because there is no space anymore for them because of the clothes that actually fit right now. All you are left with is your sack full of maternity bras. They only deserve a sack, not even a drawer – I can’t believe I let them take up space in my drawer! I’ve let myself down here – giving up prime La Senza real estate for the sake of, dare I even say it, practicality. (Those words are like dying breath to a girl who loves lace and heels and perfume and all things pretty…)

Despite ALL THE ABOVE LET DOWNS, I never ever thought it would be the fashion industry who would bring about my ultimate fall.

Nothing is worse than a maternity bra. Nothing can bring your sex appeal to a grinding halt faster than a maternity bra. Nothing on this earth can stop a husband’s ogling gaze faster than, you guessed it, a maternity bra.

So please. PLEASE. If you have any say or sway, if you have anything to do with buying or making, if you are able to launch a whole new Victoria’s Not-So-Secret maternity lingerie line (not-so-secret ‘cus the baby’s out the bag…) then please do. PLEASE!

Don’t do it for me. Do it for your species.