We’ve all seen the Johnson & Johnson commercials. They
bring smiles to our faces and flutters to our stomachs. Those like me,
with toddlers and beyond, wish that we could go back to the days in
which we had those sweet little lavender scented bundles of softness in
our arms: nothing but eyelashes and wonder, holding our hearts in those
tiny wrinkled palms.

But even more than that, I wish for the ‘me’ that was
before that baby changed everything, although I barely remember what
‘me’ looked like. I do know that there was no unintelligible pattern of
squiggly indented lines from bra line to pelvic bone. I vaguely
remember the abdomen I had before this shelf of flab appeared above
this nagging, obtrusive cesarean section scar. My husband recalls a
time in which the whole of my rear actually fit into those cute little
Brazilian cut bikini undies he bought me for Valentine’s Day a few
years ago, and when I could lay around in the bed without laying allllll around the bed.

Now the weight I’ve gained, it’s not just baby weight. In
actuality, a large part of it is just
lazy-dorito-loving-never-doing-more-than-lifting-25-pounds-of-toddler-in-the-air-ness.
With my firstborn, I was 4 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight
before Christmas Day. She was born the 2nd week in December
[do the math]. After my second, I didn’t bounce back as quickly, but
was still a reasonable post-baby size: nothing outrageous and
definitely not ‘fat’.

Yet, alas! Here I am. Fat. More than 2 years, dozens of
donuts, and many refusals to accompany my friends to workouts later:
fat. I’m not afraid to say it. I am what I am. I am not okay with what
I am, in any sense of the word, but I am. I’ve set a goal for myself:
sixty pounds. That would put me back at the weight I was after my 2nd daughter.  I’m young, only 23 - it’s doable.

My husband tells me he doesn’t care. I call him a liar, but
even if he truly doesn’t, that’s unimportant. I don’t want to be the
way I was [or better!] because of the ‘unrealistic standards of beauty
set by society today’ or because my sex life is lacking and I need to
feel a bit of umph before I can umph him passionately again, but
because I’m not happy.

I do regret that it affects my family. My depression with
my appearance is transferred onto them, and although they deal quite
soldierly with it, I know it’s hard for them. I find myself thinking
all too often:

“We can’t go outside today Ari; it’s hot and mommy can’t wear a tank top because her arms look like oversized turkey wings.”

“Jason, I don’t want to go out to eat with you - that
would involve me wearing something besides elastic waist pants and you
know I can’t do that without the mushroom/muffin top hybrid effect
going on at full force. Plus, you’ll get a salad or something and I’ll
be too embarrassed to devour my entire heaping plate of chicken tenders
and French fries in 9 seconds flat.”

But what about all the other things that these babies
changed? What about the stretch marks? What about the ridiculous
infestation of cellulite on my ass and outer thighs? What about the
loss of elasticity my skin has suffered from being stretched and
mangled beyond repair? Are there fixes for these? I’ve googled the hell
out of them to no avail. It seems that as small as I might get, I will
still have the never-bikini-ready wreck of body that I do now, maybe
just a few pants sizes smaller - okay, many pants sizes smaller. I really want to not only be able to take them out and wear a tank or shorts, but also not have to say “I
can’t help you across the monkey bars Bella because if I lift my arms
too high my road mapped belly will be exposed and cause dry heaving
amongst all the other park patrons.” Is that too much to ask? Really?

I am not one of these women who are able to look at the
damage done and think ‘battle scars’ or ‘beautiful’ or ‘baby tattoos’.
Actually, I call BULL! on those who claim to think this. Yes, our
babies may have been totally worth it, but don’t tell me if you had the
choice between having your kids and bouncing back like Heidi Klum
instead of Kirstie Alley that you wouldn’t choose the former. Liars.

I don’t believe I’ll ever be as downright smokin’ as I once
was, but I’m no longer satisfied just reminiscing about the days when I
was, so I will do what I can. I will stop ‘testing’ dinner as I cook
until I’ve eaten more than the rest of the family combined, and then
sitting down to a plate of my own. I will join Gold’s Gym and spend the
money I waste on Coke and Checker’s there instead. I will resist the
late night urge for something round, gooey and hot - now. I will dust
off the trainers, struggle my way into the sports bra and take the kids
and dogs for a walk instead just unleashing them into the backyard to
have at it.

I may never have the perfect skin of before, but maybe the
less fat there is to keep the epidermis spread, the less noticeable its
flaws will be. Maybe if I throw a bit of weight training in with the
cardio, the muscle I gain in my bottom half will combat or maybe even
rid me of the dimples and pockets there. Maybe, by the time I can
squeeze back into my size 6’s, I will have saved up enough for a tummy
tuck to rid myself of this lower abdominal shelf and there will be a
new miracle cream to fade all the blemishes into oblivion. Or maybe, I
will have come to  a point of self-realization and appreciation for
what my body accomplished by producing and delivering two beautiful
children into the world that I will be able to truthfully claim to love
my own ‘battle scars’ to the distress of another mom who used to be
just like me.