I am not a vain person.  I really am not.  Sure, I like to look good, but it is not all about me.  (Yes, it is, but that is not what we are talking about now.) So anyway, I am working on shedding some of that winter padding that we all get.  You know the stuff.  The extra 5-10-30 lbs you swore last summer you would lose before bathing suit season hit this year.  Yeah, that crap.  Well, apparently, summer snuck up and bit me on the ass.  Suddenly, I am hearing the eager chants of children proclaiming “We want to go swimming!  We want to go swimming!” (Or in Little Diva’s case, “We go pool!  We go pool!”)

What?  How the hell did it become bathing suit season already?  I was just wearing sweats yesterday a couple of weeks ago a couple of months ago?!  But wait!  I am not where I want to be!  I am not ready to be in a bathing suit.  I am seriously thinking of suing someone over this.  I just can’t figure out who, yet.

Which brings me to the whole “How the hell did my body go from hot co-ed to mother-of-three without my permission.” Don’t get me wrong, I love actually being the mother of three.  I just hate the damn body that came with it.  I have always said I would never change what I was given with plastic surgery,but let me tell you this…. I sure as hell would be the first to sign up to undo what age and children have done to me over the years if it was suddenly an impulse buy at the grocery store.  Excuse me, but when exactly did all of this happen and why did it have to?  Is it really necessary for me to actually look like I belong in the grocery store at 2:00pm with no make-up and food from some child (hopefully mine) on my t-shirt that is not only fading, but is a concert shirt from 1987?  And who the hell put those lines around my eyes?  I didn’t put in an order for that!  While we are talking about the face, can I just say one word…bags?  Bags under the eyes?  WTF?!  Okay, I can deal with these things if I have to.  Most women, without the aid of plastic surgery, have a few lines. I can cope.  Bags, I can hide with Preparation H.  (Don’t laugh.  It works.)

But can we talk about the damage done to other areas, thankyouohsoverymuch to motherhood?  Once upon a time I had somewhat flat abs.  I am not talking about Abs of steel.  But nice.  Now?  Take a slinky.  Stretch it as far as it will go.  Farther than it is meant to go.  Hold it there for 9 months.  Do that three times.  See what I mean?  The bounce back, taunt feature inherant in slinkies is shot to hell.  Welcome to my abs.  And the “girls”?  Well, apparently, the girls are afraid of heights because they are becoming friends with gravity. 

What the hell is that all about?  Doesn’t God and the universe know that of all people, Moms need to have those extra perks (pun intended) to handle the whole “how-the-hell-did-I-get-here” stage in life when they look in a mirror one day and freak out.  I mean, really!  We need to be the ones all perky and tone with Abs of Steel and an ass to match.  Not these young things who take it for granted.  Nope.  We Moms with ketchup stained shirts really do need to be the ones to wake up one day to Perky and her Twin sister and abs that not only look hard, but actually won’t move like jello when we run with an ass that would make a grown man weep. 

I want a creation do-over.  Anyone with me?

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