I don’t know when I stopped trying. I think it has been a gradual process. It all started, I think, right around baby number 1, which was seven years ago. It was also 60 pounds and 10 clothing sizes ago. I stopped going to the gym, wearing high heels, and full-face make-up. I just didn’t have the energy to put in the effort. However, I did manage to keep current with the latest in maternity fashion and keep up my hair (color, cut, and even some foils!), waxing, pedicures, facials, and even dental appointments. I also continued to wear lipstick or gloss and mascara. Not a lot of effort, but some. Going “out” was rare, but on those rare occasions, I did manage to pull off some full-face evenings and the occasional high heels.

Then came baby number two. I still wrangled the hair (minus the foils—no time for that nonsense), waxing, and some pedicures in the spring and summer. I still went to the dentist every six months and had an occasional facial. I downgraded my wardrobe completely and, unwilling to part with my “thin” clothes completely, put them in a plastic Rubbermaid bin in the basement—where they still reside, untouched, after three moves to three different states.

Now, with baby number three and a new business, the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be. My basic wardrobe these days is t-shirt and jeans chic. But I don’t want to invest in any fabulous clothes in the size I wear right now because I am still in total denial that I even wear this size. Likewise, I am in total denial that even if I were to attain my old weight, my body will never, ever look like it did pre-pregnancy. The shar-pei-like quality (as in wrinkly dog, not High School Musical character) of my abdominal skin screams “extreme make-over.” The boobs that once rivaled those of Pamela Anderson are now nearly at my waist.