A Divine Message.

Today, in my mailbox, I received a note from the universe...



I'm thinking it might be time to be done having kids since I'm now receiving junk-mail promoting sterilization.

Saving Grace.

Hadley stopped today to play with Jack in his swing. Hadley, as a baby, used to sleep for hours and hours in this swing, her only companion being our cat, Willie. Now, she is a big sister who is delighted by her little brother. She coos at him, and he coos back.



These are the little moments that make me and all mothers pause in the midst of their overwhelming lives to be filled with so much gratitude and love it's nearly too much to take. It completely fills you up. Of course, these moments are brief - they don't last. However, they're enough to keep you going through one more tantrum or one more wretched trip to the grocery store. These moments are our childrens saving grace because without them, I'm afraid mommy would spend her days hiding in the closet with a bar of chocolate.

Nuggets in a Mini-Van.

I reluctantly grabbed the fat jeans out of the back of my closet. Any girl who’s ever been overweight knows to NEVER throw out the fat clothes. Its a slippery slope to skinny and discarding clothes you’ve outgrown is just tempting the fat gods to slather you with their lard wands. These particular fat jeans are the ones I wore while at my biggest size, after the birth of my second daughter.
I’d been wearing my maternity clothes since I was just a few minutes pregnant so I’d grown pretty sick of them and the fat jeans seemed like a better option. Talk about being stuck between a big and a fat place! I sighed as I pulled them out of the closet and began to get dressed. My family was waiting for me downstairs. It had been two weeks since I’d had my third baby and my husband decided that we needed to take a family trip to a local carnival. Really? As if we weren’t hosting our own circus in our very own living room daily. However, I agreed to go, well, because of the food.
So, I pulled on my big girl jeans. What? What? What? Holy Hell Jenny Craig we have a problem! I screamed “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” to the highest heavens. My jeans were stuck at about mid-thigh and no amount of pulling was going to bring them up to their proper place. I pulled and pulled until I fell over. Damn it, I tripped on my own fat.
Ok, breathe, I told myself. Just breathe. The baby is only two weeks old. Oh, who was I kidding? Two weeks or two years - what difference did it make? Fat is fat and my biggest jeans didn’t fit.
At this point I was in no shape to go to a carnival. I was in no shape to go anywhere apparently except maybe to a farm for fatties. So, I sent the family, minus the baby, off without me. With tears and all the conviction that my hormonal postpartum self could muster I vowed that I was never eating again. EVER.
That lasted about 2 hours.
I got so hungry that I found myself sitting in my mini-van eating nuggets and a large fry. After my feast of trans-fats, I drove myself home in a mini-van that now reeked of fast food and failure. Then it hit me! I knew what I needed to do. The answer was so simple. The answer was sweatpants.

A Public Service Announcement

I'm not claiming that I’ve ever had a fabulous body. I’ve always had ham-hock thighs and a big ass. However, for better or worse, my body has always gotten me from A to B without much trouble. Now, after three babies, I’m thinking that my ham-hock thighs might be my best feature. The rest of me looks like I’ve been pressed through a meat grinder and put back together again - all mushy and quite lumpy. And there isn’t a toning exercise in the world that can cure this type of lumpy - the only remedy for this is a surgeon exercising his scalpel.
I’m proud that my body gave me such beautiful children, but the aftermath, well, it ain’t so pretty. I’ll break it down for you - and I’ll break it down real honest. My breasts, which once sat nicely on my chest, are now reaching south and resemble tube socks with rolls of dimes in the bottom. My stomach looks like a deflated balloon. My husband likes to say it looks like an orange peel. I think it’s more like a sagging chicken cutlet.
Forget all those pamphlets they give you at the doctor about how your baby is growing and how to eat properly. What they should be handing out is a brochure with some nice before and after body shots. This idea should be SERIOUSLY examined. According to my very scientific research, and by scientific, I mean I’m making it up, about half of postpartum depression could be cured if women were given a warning like - “HEY! Kiss your tight tush goodbye! Meet cellulite!” In fact, this brochure could serve as a public service announcement of sorts and surely solve the teen pregnancy crisis. One look at my stomach could stop an entire epidemic.
Yes, we’ve all seen Heidi Klum scanter down the Victoria’s Secret runway mere minutes after giving birth and her breasts aren’t hitting the floor, nor are her arms flapping like windsocks. Yet, she is a supermodel - a genetic freak. She should be put in a test-tube and studied - not put out like bait on a hook - a pipe dream on a runway - saying “Buy this underwear - my ass is attainable.” Attainable my ass. If Victoria’s Secret wants to sell more underwear, show me a woman who is 5’3” with cellulite whose ass looks that good in their underwear and I’ll fork over the $30, but until then I’ll be giving my $5 to Fruit of the Loom, because they make no false promises. They give it to you straight - panties in a plastic bag - no hype, just on sale at Walmart.