Two children and several hundred night-time changes later, here is what earns its place in the drawer at every stage.
There is a specific kind of despair that only exists at 3am, and it is shaped like a row of poppers.
My eldest was six days old. I had changed her nappy in the dark, on the floor, with one knee braced against the wardrobe because that is where the changing mat had ended up. Then I started doing up her sleepsuit, got to the bottom of the placket, and found I had one popper left and nowhere to put it. Every single one was out by a step. I had to undo the whole lot and begin again while she made a noise like a smoke alarm with opinions. From the bed, my husband asked if everything was alright. I have rarely wanted to throw a shoe at someone I love quite so much.
Nobody sits you down before you have a baby and explains the clothing timeline. You hear about sleep regressions, weaning, whether to do a dummy. You do not hear that what your child sleeps in will change about five times in as many years, each change arriving with its own small logistical humiliation. So here it is, stage by stage, from someone who has run the course twice and took notes out of spite.
The newborn months, and the great tiny-size pile-up
Here is the first thing I wish someone had told me: everyone buys newborn size. Everyone. Your mum, your colleagues, the neighbour you have spoken to twice. You will unwrap eleven newborn sleepsuits and your baby will wear four of them, twice each, before growing out of the lot.
If you are buying for someone else, skip the tiny sizes and go for 3 to 6 months and up. It feels less satisfying in the shop, but it will get worn, in daylight, in photographs, for weeks. That is a better gift than something that spent its whole life in tissue paper.
The second thing: in these early weeks you are changing nappies six to ten times a day, and a fair share of those happen in the dark while you are barely conscious. Whatever you dress your baby in has to survive being operated by someone with the fine motor skills of a badly made robot. Which brings us to the central argument of this entire article.
Around four months, when they start moving
Somewhere in the fourth month my second child developed the ability to rotate. Not roll over properly, just rotate, like a slow chicken on a spit. This is the point at which getting a baby dressed stops being a task and becomes a negotiation with a small, strong, uncooperative party.
This is also where I stopped pretending poppers were fine. A two-way zip that opens from the bottom means you can get to a nappy without undressing the entire child, which matters enormously when the entire child is trying to leave. Brands like Love to Dream build their all-in-ones this way, with a zip at each end, and after the first night of one-handed 2am changes I understood I had wasted about four months of my life on plackets.
If you are buying at this stage, a good babygrow wants three things: a zip you can find by feel rather than sight, fabric that breathes properly so you are not adding a layer of guesswork to the room temperature question, and enough length in the body that it survives a growth spurt without turning into a leotard. Bamboo viscose and soft cotton both do the breathing job well. What I would avoid is anything with a decorative fastening at the back, which is a design decision made by someone who has never dressed a rotating baby.
One more practical note. Buy two of whatever works. Not one, not six. Two means one is on the child and one is in the wash, and you find out whether you love it before committing to a drawer full.
The great handover, somewhere around three
Then something shifts. One evening your child takes the pyjamas out of your hand with the weary patience of a colleague who has decided it is quicker to do it themselves.
This is a genuinely lovely milestone and nobody puts it in the baby books. It is also the point where all-in-ones stop making sense. A three-year-old who wants to dress themselves cannot manage a full-length zip up their own back, and they certainly cannot manage getting out of one at speed when they need the loo. Two pieces, top and bottom, is the answer.
The details that decide whether they can do it alone are small and specific. An envelope neckline that stretches over the head without a fight. A fold-over waistband instead of a drawstring or a stiff elastic band. A hem that does not need to be tucked. Good kids pyjamas sets have all of this designed in, and the difference between a pair they can manage and a pair they cannot is roughly eleven minutes of your evening, every evening, for years.
Let it take the eleven minutes. I found this almost impossible. Standing in a doorway watching a preschooler put a leg into the same trouser hole three times while the bath runs is a test of character. But the alternative is doing it for them until they are seven, and I have met parents in that situation, and they are not happier than I am.
What I would buy again, and what stayed in the packet
Would buy again: two-way zip all-in-ones in the first year, in sizes bigger than felt sensible at the time. Two-piece sets from about two and a half onward. Plain bamboo or cotton in colours that hide things.
Stayed in the packet: anything with a hood, which makes no sense in a cot. Anything requiring a bow. Novelty Christmas sleepsuits bought in November for a baby who was in the next size by December. Sleeping bags in three tog ratings when two would have covered the whole British year.
The bit nobody warns you about: laundry maths
Whatever you own, you need enough of it to survive a bad night. A bad night is not one change. It is a nappy leak at eleven, a milk incident at one, and something unspeakable at four, which is three complete outfits before breakfast.
Three sets in rotation per child is the minimum that lets you sleep without doing a wash at 4am. Four is comfortable. Five means you have stopped thinking about it altogether, which after two children is the only luxury I would still pay for.
Image: Depositphotos
