How parenthood should shape the way you dress.

Many things change when you become a dad. You may notice that your bank balance has lost a naught. Perhaps you find that you have less time, or you are prioritising nappy changes over the pub (enforced pre-6.00am starts are that much more painful with a hangover, anyway). Whatever happens, you will almost certainly notice that your clothing preferences start to change. It could simply be that you favourite items have more stains on them. You may discover a newfound attraction (or fear?) towards slacks. Perhaps you find yourself living in sweatpants. Below, we asked three professional new dads how the introduction of a small child has impacted their wardrobe, and what their advice would be for anyone expecting. Don’t worry, it’s not all negative (but it’s fair to expect a lot of unwanted new colour and pattern, courtesy of your little ’un).

Online editor-in-chief, Christie’s

I have been a dad for a little over six years, and the three children I have sired in that time have had a tangible and detrimental effect on my wardrobe. As babies – and there is currently a baby in the house – they have all adorned me with milk vomit epaulettes that only ever seem to get pointed out by the colleagues I like the least (and generally in the third or fourth meeting of the day). But it is my coats and shoes that have suffered the most, which is particularly galling as I have weaknesses for both.

The demands of leaving the house with three small children, and being ready for every possible peril presented by the outside world, place an enormous strain on pockets. I have much loved coats by Burberry, rag & bone and Victorinox with pockets that have surrendered to the tyranny of wipes, keys, snacks, small toys, loose change, more snacks, more wipes, token objects used as bribes, car keys, house keys, more wipes, random pieces of Lego, and a comprehensive collection of lighters should I ever get five minutes to relax somewhere private (like behind a tree).

Within minutes of leaving the security of home, all of these objects will make their bid for freedom, locating the holes they have previously created – like a pocket version of The Great Escape – and pouring through them into the lining of my jacket. Having the contents of a charity shop swimming around my coat is the cause of much of the low-volume swearing my children are subjected to, not least when I have to resort to amateur contortionism to find the right set of keys to get them back into the car or the house.

Then there are my shoes, which from glorious oxblood brogues by Tricker’s to Quoddy boots to rare and precious adidas sneakers collected over my pre-fatherhood years, have all been abused in the pursuit of my offspring across the muddy acres of municipal parks, or via the aerial bombardment of food that rains down from the table.

Recently, I decided to branch out, and break my longstanding loyalty to the trefoil by investing in a pair of colourful trail shoes from a Finnish running brand. For a few weeks, I felt confident that they had freshened up my signature weekend look of faded Lee jeans, white or blue shirt and navy blue round neck. Then I caught sight of myself in a shop window and was confronted with the truth: I’d bought a pair of dad sneakers. I know this to be a road that ends in one place, and one place only: action slacks.

Freelance writer

As a new dad, life is about cycles, and not the kind Mamils ride: as in feeding, napping, nappy-changing, back to feeding again. My schedule is tighter than cycle shorts, which means getting dressed is something that happens in a 30-second window between getting my daughter ready and putting her coat on ready to go to nursery. Standing in front of my wardrobe computing potential outfit formulas like Mr Russell Crowe calculating equations in A Beautiful Mind is not an option; scrambling into sweatpants is. It’s athleisure, honest.

My closet has also been compressed now that the spare room is no longer unoccupied, forcing me to drastically downsize my rotation. Painful as it was to part with stuff (mainly suits), I kidded myself I’d wear again one day, restricting myself to a smaller volume of more versatile pieces has helped me streamline my morning routine to Formula One pit-stop proportions. Because I can’t afford to waste time, or money for that matter, I’ve also imposed strict rules about what I can buy. If it’s not navy, grey, olive, burgundy, camel or black – that’s to say, colours that all go together – then it doesn’t come in. In snatched moments of online window shopping, I scan product descriptions for the key words “machine washable”.

Patterns and logos are no-gos, partly because they’re not as multipurpose as plain, but also not as solid in another sense. I want to give off the impression to medical professionals, council bureaucrats and nursery staff that I’m responsible, not frivolous. I don’t want to dress like a dad, but at the same time, I really do. As evinced by my recent purchases: dark olive corduroys, black Timberland boots, grey selvedge jeans. Washed, that is – good luck trying not to launder raw denim for six months when you’ve got a child.

Chief Sub-Editor, MR PORTER

As a new dad, there are two opposing forces pulling at your wardrobe. The first is a new-found sense of responsibility. You are now a role model, and, as with any action you take from this point on, the way you dress is about to be instilled on the unformed mind of your offspring. You want to be someone they look up to figuratively as well as literally, not a case study for future therapists where everything went wrong, and clothes are a good place to start with this. Plus, as a signifier to the wider world, opting for a pair of trousers instead of jeans or shoes instead of sneakers, for example, suggests that you have at last risen to the rank of grown-up, whatever one of those is.

But there is also a far more volatile power at work here, and that is the day-to-day reality of dealing with a child. Namely sleep deprivation, an overburdened washing machine and all manner of suspicious substances conspiring to soil your clothing. Both time and money are currencies that are suddenly channeled elsewhere, but if at this stage you could afford to invest in new pieces for your wardrobe, they would ideally be comfortable when peeled on and off again at 3.00am, dark enough to cover stains and wipe clean if possible; if they can repel liquids, even better.

There really is no middle ground here: either resign yourself to a lifetime of sweatpants, technical jackets and dad sneakers (actually no longer the social smear it once was) or accept that halfway through any given day you will discover – best-case scenario – a daub of puréed apple on the lapel of your blazer.

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