Why is it that the moment we hit that Labor and Delivery room (or maybe the Recovery Room. Not even a war photojournalist wants to document that bloody scene), our tiny little mini-mes gain exclusive rights to our Facebook profile pic? Is it because we are so beaming with pride that we can’t imagine anyone wanting to miss that great shot of them sticking their dirty little foot in their mouth, or their first little poop on the potty? Maybe. Or could it be that maybe, just maybe, our selfies don’t carry the same allure as they once did. There is this subtle shift from bikini shots to baby bums, and we all know the real reason why. The real reason your FB profiles become sweet shots of our smiling little angels is because there aint nobody who wants to see the bad roots, dark circles, and yoga-less yoga pant covered belly jelly, we call our good days.

I have a question for y’all. Can you still call it “baby weight” 18 months later? What if you actually had that weight pre-pregnancy? What if you earned those pounds well after the “baby” came along, or even well after they started walking, talking, and taking over your life? Can you still use the “baby weight” cliché to help soothe the sorrow that is your new reflection? What if I were to create a new excuse? “Yeah…I haven’t been able to work off the ‘kid weight’ quite yet.” You know, the condition that comes from the trendy diet craze among moms, exclusive to periods of starvation (“Crap…did I remember to eat. No time. Oh well.”), paired with leftover bites of macaroni and chicken nuggets, you’re too cheap and hungry to throw in the trash. This combo is fantastic for your metabolism. A single meal of carbs and processed food each day, is sure to tighten things up ladies. Or what about that expression, “the weight of the world”? I think that might apply here. Maybe I’ll use that one next time in my welcome back speech when I rejoin Weight Watchers again. At this point, if they had a punch card, I’d surely have earned a free lipo. When will I learn my lesson and just save up for that personal chef and trainer and babysitter and maid and…oh wait, I have no savings. Leftover nuggets and self-loathing it is.

Now before I start getting messages of wisdom, please know that my confessions are not cries for help. I am not looking for enlightenment on the logistics of diet and exercise. I am fully aware that juicin’ is a far better plan than carbin’. I make that green goo every morning. Unfortunately, drinking it sits on my “To Do” list, until the point when actually consuming it is questionably toxic. Thus, the “starve and carb” plan I’ve perfected. I need no education on cardio. I have a fabulous elliptical resting in my bedroom, that my children are convinced is an indoor jungle gym. I refuse to move it out because I know that tomorrow I will suddenly have that “me time” I need to actually give it the life it deserves. Tomorrow. Nor do I need to be motivated by posts by that freakishly fit “What’s your excuse?,” sports bra wearing mom proclaiming that us normal folks are simply lazy, when I can’t recall that last time I did less than three things simultaneously or even slept for more than a handful of hours in a week.You’re not motivating me to get fit lady. You’re just motivating me to drink a glass of wine with my nuggets. These are simply my confessions of this stage in my life. One day I know I may return to the world of selfies, but for now I am content to strategically place my kids in front of my trouble zone (neck down), and to use their undeniable cuteness to stealthily camouflage the battle scars of my mommyhood. They are worth every pound.