The Honest Guide to Baby Onesies

It was exactly 3:14 AM on a freezing Tuesday in November 2017, and I was standing in the middle of Maya's nursery wearing a nursing tank that smelled strongly of sour milk and desperation. My husband, Dave, was hovering near the changing table holding a single, completely dry baby wipe like it was a radioactive rod, while Maya screamed with the lung capacity of an opera singer. And the poop. Oh god, the poop. It was everywhere. It had breached the diaper containment field, traveled up her back, and was currently threatening the nape of her neck. She was wearing this rigid, non-stretchy, utterly adorable pastel monstrosity of an outfit because I had fallen into the classic first-time mom trap of buying things that look cute on a hanger instead of things that actually function in reality.

I was sleep-deprived, running on my third Nespresso pod of the night, and trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get this garment off her body without dragging a slick of mustard-yellow infant feces directly through her hair. Which, of course, is exactly what happened. We had to bathe her in the bathroom sink at 3:30 AM while she shrieked and Dave kept muttering about how we needed a better system.

Anyway, the point is, your baby's wardrobe is basically a high-stakes tactical gear situation disguised as cute clothing. And the foundational anchor of this entire operation is the onesie.

The great closure debate that almost broke my marriage

If you want to start a fight in a mom group, just ask people what kind of fasteners they prefer on their baby's clothes. People have intense, terrifying opinions about this. Dave, for example, became completely obsessed with the idea of a magnetic onesie baby wardrobe after seeing an ad on Instagram at two in the morning. He bought like four of them, convinced they were going to save us precious seconds during midnight changes.

And look, they're fast. I'll give him that. But nobody tells you that if you forget to clasp the magnets before you throw them in the washing machine, they'll latch onto the side of the drum and clack around like a handful of loose change in a blender. Also, I went down this horrible late-night internet rabbit hole and read some terrifying things about how swallowing tiny magnets is a massive medical emergency, and even though they're sewn into the fabric, my postpartum anxiety just couldn't handle it. Every time she wore one, I was convinced a magnet was going to rogue-escape into her mouth. Exhausting.

Then there are snaps. The traditional crotch snaps. You're exhausted, the room is dark, the baby is thrashing like a tiny alligator, and you misalign one snap. Just one. And you don't realize it until you get to the end of the line and there's an extra flap of fabric hanging down like a sad tail, and you've to undo the whole damn thing and start over while you actively weep. It's psychological torture.

Which is why I eventually realized that the fabric matters way more than the fasteners. If the fabric has enough give, you don't have to wrestle them into it. A ribbed onesie baby is a happy baby because ribbed fabric actually STRETCHES. I'm absolutely obsessed with the Short Sleeve Organic Cotton Baby Bodysuit from Kianao. When Leo was born, he was basically a small boulder of a child, just this incredibly dense, chunky little guy. Getting standard flat-weave cotton over his massive thighs was a daily struggle. But this ribbed bodysuit just kind of glides on. It has a tiny bit of elastane in it, so it bounces back and doesn't get all saggy and weird after they've been crawling around in it all day. I bought it in like three different earth tones because I gave up on loud patterns by my second kid. Just get the ribbed cotton. Trust me.

Check out some organic onesies here before you lose your mind looking at cheap polyester.

The secret of the shoulder flaps that literally no one tells you

I need to talk about the shoulder flaps. You know the ones. The overlapping pieces of fabric on the shoulders of almost every onesie ever made. For the first four months of Maya's life, I thought they were just a weird stylistic choice to make babies' shoulders look broader? Like tiny baby shoulder pads from the 80s? I've no idea what I was thinking.

I was at a Target Starbucks, sipping a lukewarm flat white, wearing yoga pants that I hadn't washed in four days, when Maya had a massive blowout in her stroller. I dragged her into the family restroom, hyperventilating because I was by myself and her onesie was compromised. Another mom was in there washing her toddler's hands, took one look at my panicked face, and said, "You know you pull it down, right?"

I just stared at her.

She explained that the envelope shoulders are designed so that when there's a catastrophic diaper failure, you don't have to pull the soiled garment up over the baby's head. You stretch the neck opening wide—using those handy little shoulder flaps—and pull the entire onesie DOWN over their torso and off their legs. It contains the mess. It protects the hair.

My brain basically short-circuited. I felt so stupid, but also incredibly betrayed by the medical establishment. Why did they send me home from the hospital with a folder full of pamphlets about tummy time and zero instruction on how to execute a downward onesie extraction? It's criminal.

My doctor terrifying me about the nursery thermostat

So, right around the time Leo was three months old, we had his routine checkup. I had dressed him in this incredibly thick, fleece-lined, zip-up monstrosity because it was January and I was convinced he was going to freeze to death in his crib. My doctor, Dr. Evans, took one look at a sweaty, red-faced Leo, sighed, and casually mentioned that babies are terrible at regulating their own body temperature.

He mumbled something about how overheating is actually a massive risk factor for SIDS, and how synthetic fabrics like polyester trap heat and sweat against their sensitive skin, which also causes those horrible eczema flare-ups. I nodded politely, walked out to my car, and immediately spiraled into a full-blown panic attack. I went home and bagged up every single piece of synthetic baby clothing we owned. Just a complete scorched-earth purge of my nursery drawers.

I realized I needed base layers that honestly breathed. If you're stressed about temperature, you've to go with natural fibers. It's not just a crunchy-mom aesthetic thing; it's literally about airflow. I started using the Organic Cotton Sleeveless Baby Bodysuit as a base layer under everything. It's undyed, which is great because Leo had these weird little dry patches on his belly that completely cleared up once I stopped putting him in cheap, chemically-treated clothes. It's super thin but durable, so if the nursery is warm, he just sleeps in that and a sleep sack, and I don't have to lie awake at 2 AM wondering if I'm accidentally slow-roasting my infant.

Speaking of keeping them comfortable, you also have to deal with the constant moisture from teething. Because once they start cutting teeth, the front of their beautiful organic onesie is going to be perpetually soaked in a puddle of highly acidic drool. I ended up getting the Panda Teether from Kianao to try and redirect his chewing. Honestly? It's fine. It's a cute piece of silicone. Leo chewed on it for like a week and then decided he preferred the taste of my television remote and my keys. But it's entirely one piece of silicone, which means there are no tiny crevices for mold to grow in (unlike a certain very expensive French rubber giraffe that I had to throw away after I looked inside the air hole). It's easy to wash in the sink when you're half asleep, so it gets points for that.

Why we're all lying to ourselves about baby aesthetics

Before you've a kid, you've this very curated vision of what they're going to look like. When I was pregnant with Maya, I remember searching for onesie baby girl clothes and nearly going blind from the sheer volume of neon pink, aggressive ruffles, and shirts that said things like "Daddy's Little Princess" in glitter font. It was horrifying. And then with Leo, searching for onesie baby boy stuff was just a nightmare of dump trucks, footballs, and slogans about being a "tough guy."

I rebelled hard. I decided I wanted a purely neutral, minimalist baby. I was constantly googling where to find a black onesie baby wardrobe because I figured black hides the endless stream of avocado purees and spit-up. I just wanted my kid to look like a tiny, sophisticated beatnik hanging out at a coffee shop.

But the truth is, sometimes you just cave to the cute stuff. You really do. I'm a deeply practical person who preaches about ribbed basics, but then I saw the Flutter Sleeve Organic Cotton Bodysuit and immediately bought it for Maya. Are flutter sleeves necessary for a baby who spends 80% of her time sleeping and the other 20% trying to eat carpet fuzz? Absolutely not. But she looked ridiculous and precious in it, and sometimes, when you haven't slept more than four consecutive hours in six months, seeing your baby look like a tiny, fancy woodland creature in a ruffled organic cotton bodysuit is the only serotonin boost you get all day. I justify it because it's still organic cotton and has the lap shoulders, but yeah, I bought it entirely because it was pretty.

How many of these damn things do you honestly need

If you read the mommy blogs, some overly organized woman with a pristine white living room will tell you that you only need six onesies for a minimalist capsule wardrobe. This woman is a liar.

I talked to my postpartum doula, and she laughed in my face when I showed her my stack of six newborn onesies. She told me babies go through at least four outfit changes a day. I didn't believe her until Leo projectile vomited across the room, immediately peed through his diaper during the subsequent outfit change, and then managed to smear diaper cream all over outfit number three, all before 10:00 AM.

Here's the real math: You need 12 to 14 onesies per size unless you want to spend your maternity leave standing in front of your washer praying for the spin cycle to finish. Buy them in multi-packs, buy them stretchy, and for the love of god, make sure you can pull them down over the shoulders.

Stock up on the organic basics here before the midnight blowouts begin. You'll thank me later.

The messy, unfiltered FAQ

Are zippers really better than snaps?
Okay, so doulas swear by the two-way zipper for night changes because you can unzip from the bottom and keep their chest covered. And yeah, they're great, until the fabric bunches up under their chin and looks like it's choking them. I like zippers for footie pajamas at night, but for daytime, a stretchy ribbed onesie with three crotch snaps is usually easier to deal with when they're wiggling around on the playmat.

Should I buy newborn sizes or just start at 0-3 months?
I skipped newborn sizes with Leo because everyone told me "they grow so fast!" Huge mistake. He was swimming in 0-3 month clothes, and the loose fabric kept bunching up around his face, which spiked my anxiety. Buy like five relatively cheap newborn onesies just in case, but invest your actual money in the 3-6 month sizes, because they stay in those for what feels like a lifetime.

How do I get the yellow poop stains out of organic cotton?
The sun. I'm not kidding. I tried every expensive, eco-friendly stain remover on the market, and then my mother-in-law told me to wash it, leave it wet, and lay it outside in direct sunlight for an afternoon. It literally bleaches the breastmilk poop stains right out. It feels like witchcraft, but it works.

Are magnetic onesies worth the money?
Dave says yes. I say no. If you've the budget and you don't mind the clicking noise in your dryer, go for it. But honestly, babies outgrow clothes so fast that spending $40 on a single magnetic onesie feels like setting money on fire to me. I'd rather buy three good organic cotton ones with snaps.

What's the point of a sleeveless onesie?
Layering. When it's winter, I use a sleeveless onesie as a base layer under sweaters so the chunky knits don't scratch their skin. In the summer, it's literally the only thing they wear. If your doctor has terrified you about overheating like mine did, the sleeveless onesie is your best friend.