FROM TENT DRESSES TO BELLY BUTTONS

Back in my day, pregnancy was a discreet affair. A woman would announce she was “expecting,” then promptly disappear behind a series of carefully engineered maternity garments designed to suggest something was happening under there, but nothing so vulgar as a visible baby bump. The goal was modesty. Mystery. Plausible deniability.

Was she pregnant? Had she just discovered pudding? No one could say for sure. Maternity fashion leaned heavily toward the shapeless floral tent, often accessorised with a sensible cardigan and shoes chosen for comfort rather than joy. The bump was not to be displayed. It was to be managed. Preferably quietly.

Fast forward to today and—good grief—the baby bump has escaped containment. These days pregnancy is no longer something you gently hint at with elasticated waistbands. Oh no. Pregnancy is now a statement. A celebration. A full-frontal, belly-first declaration to the world: “There is a human under construction here, and I’d like you to admire the scaffolding.”

Gone are the tents. In their place? Crop tops.Bodycon dresses.Strategically placed cut-outs that seem to say, “Yes, I’m pregnant. And yes, my belly button is also having a moment.”

And look—before anyone writes me an angry email in ALL CAPS—I get it. Pregnancy is extraordinary. Women should absolutely be proud of their bodies and what they can do. Growing an entire human is no small feat. It’s basically a biological miracle wrapped in heartburn and swollen ankles.

But somewhere along the line, we seem to have gone from “Look, I’m pregnant” to “LOOK AT IT. ALL OF IT. FROM EVERY ANGLE.” There was a time when seeing a pregnant belly was like spotting a rare bird in the wild. Now it’s more like a flash mob. At the supermarket. In activewear. Possibly doing yoga.

And the belly touching. Oh, the belly touching. Once upon a time, touching a pregnant woman’s stomach without permission would have been considered deeply inappropriate—on par with rearranging a stranger’s hat. Now, pregnant women seem to stroke, cradle, cup, and present their bellies like proud hosts unveiling a new extension to the house.“And this is the nursery… and here’s the baby, currently doing somersaults near my left kidney.”

Some outfits don’t just acknowledge the bump—they frame it. Highlight it. Put it under a spotlight and whisper, “You’re welcome.” There are dresses so tight and so strategically sheer that you half-expect a subtitle explaining which trimester you’re currently viewing. Again—power to them. Truly. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

But occasionally I find myself longing for the quiet dignity of the old days, when pregnancy fashion said, “Yes, I’m with child… but let’s not make a whole thing of it.” Now, to be fair, modern pregnancy comes with its own pressures. Social media has turned baby bumps into content. Weekly photos. Matching outfits. Carefully curated poses that suggest pregnancy is a glowing, serene experience rather than a nine-month endurance test involving nausea, insomnia, and an urgent need to pee every seven minutes.

Back in my day, pregnancy photos consisted of one slightly blurry shot taken at a family barbecue, where the woman looked tired and was holding a sausage roll. And that was enough.

These days, if you’re not documenting your bump from every angle with tasteful lighting and inspirational quotes, are you even pregnant? Still, fashions change. Norms evolve. What once felt shocking becomes normal, and what once felt normal becomes… well… a bit hilarious in hindsight. Just as future generations will one day look back at exposed baby bumps and say, “Why were they all wearing cut-out dresses in winter?”

So no, I’m not anti-bump. I’m just gently amused by how far we’ve swung from concealment to celebration, from “Let’s keep this tasteful” to “This belly has its own Instagram account.” And maybe that’s okay. Because, whether hidden under a floral tent or proudly paraded in a crop top, the truth remains the same: pregnancy is remarkable, women are resilient, and fashion—much like pregnancy cravings—often makes absolutely no sense at all.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a cardigan. Just in case.