Lingerie

On lace, four quiet days, and the woman I unexpectedly ran into.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much of yourself has changed until an old version of you walks back into the room.

This week she arrived wearing lace and stayed just long enough for me to remember I’d forgotten she existed.

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Buying Season

I used to know the difference between Chantelle, Aubade and Simone Pérèle at first touch. Last week I realised I didn’t even know my own size.

Twice a year I’d fly to Paris for buying season. I knew the collections before they reached the shops. I cared about lace, underwires and whether bronze leaned more towards milk chocolate than orange. My underwear drawer looked like someone had moved a Paris showroom into my apartment. Buying lingerie used to be my job. I was, objectively, excellent at it.

Fast forward. The newest bra I own is a nursing bra. Breastfeeding ended almost two years ago. The bra didn’t.

Somewhere between vaccination appointments, UV-protective swimwear and researching why my toddler licks the floor, replacing my own underwear disappeared from the to-do list.

The heatwave exposed the situation. By day three I was walking around in my husband’s boxers and that same old bra. My husband noticed. “I think that thing is older than our relationship.” Close enough.

An hour later we were standing in the lingerie department at Amsterdam’s De Bijenkorf. I spotted it immediately. Soft lace. Bronze drifting towards milk chocolate. Beautiful embroidery. Obviously I touched it. Three seconds later I was back in Paris. Buying season. A tiny espresso.

Then my husband appeared beside me. “Why don’t you just grab a few?” I laughed. Of course he said that. That’s exactly the kind of sentence someone who buys underwear in packs of five would say. He saw bras. I saw Paris.

The cashier smiled. “Beautiful choice. That colour looks wonderful on you.” I’d forgotten what it felt like to be the main character.

My husband reached for our joint grocery card. Without saying a word, we promoted luxury lingerie to the category of household essentials.

“€120.” He looked at the bra. Then at me. Nobody mentioned grabbing a few again.

The next morning I opened my underwear drawer. Three nursing bras. One Aubade set.

“Mama!”

I put on the Aubade.

Nobody noticed.

Except me.

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Good Taste

Family Archives

Apparently this obsession started decades ago.

I love eating ice cream. I love attempting toddler-approved versions.

The research continues next Sunday.

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Elevator Mom Diaries

The Walk

It’s 7:20am and we’re once again acrobating down our steep Amsterdam canal-house stairs. I’m carrying Mini-Us, a folded stroller and a tote bag. My husband has a suitcase and an “airplane bag” -parent language for books, snacks and false hope.

I’m taking my boys to the airport. Only this time, I’m not getting on the plane. For the next four days, I have the apartment to myself.

Fifty-five minutes later, I’m home. Mini-Us didn’t even look back when I waved goodbye. He looked at his father and announced, “I want sandwich.” Toddlers are humbling like that.

I finally have time to do absolutely anything I want. The problem is… I no longer remember what that is.

I buy my favourite chocolate. Walk past three playgrounds without stopping. Briefly consider doing nothing. Apparently I’ve lost that skill.

Step. Step.

Back up the stairs carrying only my phone, keys and chocolate.

The apartment is silent.

So naturally, I alphabetize the tiny dictator’s possessions.

Then I open Substack and spend my first child-free morning writing about motherhood.

Apparently motherhood doesn’t stay at the airport

Amsterdam Stair Selfies

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Outro

This week I met an older version of myself.

Apparently she never left.

She’d just been dressed very practically.

- X - Yasmin

See you Sunday, 9:00 CET