There’s a particular kind of hum that settles in after childbirth—not the mechanical whir of the breast pump or the repetitive clinks when washing and sterilizing bottles after a dream feed, but the constant buzz of advice, warnings, and well-meaning suggestions—whether you asked for them or not. It’s hearing “Breast is best” on Monday and “Formula means fed!” on Tuesday. It’s family telling you to “Sleep when the baby sleeps,” and strangers on the sidewalk assuring you, “You’ll miss this one day,” even when all you miss is the 6+ hours of uninterrupted sleep you used to have before the baby was born and yearn for the day you can sleep again.
Unsolicited is a collection of unasked-for advice, commentary, guilt, shame, and performative cheer I received in the early days of motherhood. Each pennant carries a phrase—some well-meaning, some patronizing, many contradictory. Together they form a garland of expectations: woman as mother, mother as martyr, baby as miracle.
Each phrase is embroidered onto party pennants—the kind you’d string up for a celebration — made from hospital receiving blankets: those familiar institutional stripes in pink and blue that greet nearly every newborn in this country (The United States). The softness of the material belies the weight of the words. These blankets once wrapped fragile, vernix-covered bodies. Now they hold something heavier: the burden of being constantly told what to do, how to feel, and who to become — all while bleeding, healing, feeding, and simply trying to survive and keep a newborn alive.
The party pennant form is intentional. We are told this is the happiest time of our lives. So why does it so often feel like a relentless unraveling?
The color choices — pink and blue thread — are a nod to the outdated binaries of “pink is for girls” and “blue is for boys.” The range of fonts reflects the relentless variety of voices and sources: family, friends, strangers, professionals — each one certain, each one different. This work is both celebration and subversion: of birth, of language, of the myths we wrap around mothers, new and repeat alike. It honors the radical, exhausting act of becoming while making space to name what is so often silenced: the pressure, the contradictions, the loneliness.
Because not every banner strung across a baby shower or a welcome home party is a welcome one.
____ revised:
There’s a particular kind of hum that settles in after childbirth—not the mechanical whir of the breast pump or the repetitive clinks of washing and sterilizing bottles after a dream feed, but the constant buzz of advice, warnings, and well-meaning suggestions—whether you asked for them or not.
It’s hearing “Breast is best” on Monday and “Formula means fed!” on Tuesday.
It’s family telling you to “Sleep when the baby sleeps,” and strangers on the sidewalk assuring you, “You’ll miss this one day,” even when all you miss is the 6+ hours of uninterrupted sleep you used to have—and all you long for is the day you can sleep again.
Unsolicited is a collection of unasked-for advice, commentary, guilt, shame, and performative cheer I received in the early days of motherhood. Each pennant carries a phrase—some well-meaning, some patronizing, many contradictory. Together they form a garland of expectations: woman as mother, mother as martyr, baby as miracle.
Each phrase is embroidered onto party pennants—the kind you’d string up for a celebration—made from hospital receiving blankets: those familiar institutional stripes in pink and blue that greet nearly every newborn in the United States. The softness of the material belies the weight of the words. These blankets once wrapped fragile, vernix-covered bodies. Now they hold something heavier: the burden of being constantly told what to do, how to feel, and who to become—all while bleeding, healing, feeding, and simply trying to survive and keep a newborn alive.
The party pennant form is intentional. We are told this is the happiest time of our lives.
So why does it so often feel like a relentless unraveling?
The color choices—pink and blue thread—nod to the outdated binaries of “pink is for girls” and “blue is for boys.” The range of fonts reflects the endless variety of voices and sources: family, friends, strangers, professionals—each one certain, each one different.
This work is both celebration and subversion: of birth, of language, of the myths we wrap around mothers, new and repeat alike. It honors the radical, exhausting act of becoming, while making space to name what is so often silenced: the pressure, the contradictions, the loneliness.
Because not every banner strung across a baby shower or a welcome-home party feels like a welcome.