Hi. Do you have this in a size eight ten twin skin?

Swimsuits. Or as I like to call them, uniforms of evil. A woman must not have invented these. And certainly not a woman who has given birth to twins.

The other day, when I was trying on my twenty-third device of the devil, I squeezed The Pie into the dressing room with me, while Daddy Bean wandered around with A. I slipped into one after another, slowly growing more desperate (and sweaty) with each new suit. I glanced down at HRP who took a moment from studiously chewing on my new sunglasses to look up at my reflection in the mirror. I looked at what she was peering at and then back down to her little pigtailed head. “You did this to me.” I whispered, without an ounce of bitterness or sadness in my voice. It was the truth, I was being matter-of-fact. And then I pulled the suit off, put my clothes back on and strolled out with my little bean.

Later, I stood in the middle of the mall and burst into tears. J asked me what was wrong and after minutes of incoherent blubbering, I confessed to him what I had said to M in the dressing room. I assured him that I didn’t do it in a hateful way, and that I would give my body up again and again for the gift that I had received in exchange. But I was still miserable and guilty and furious with myself for uttering such a vile sentence. How could I say such a thing?

It’s true that my body is completely different now than it was before the Beans. It’s true that I have scars and marks on my body that I had never had before and might never get rid of. And it’s true that twin skin doesn’t go away and that I’ll have surgery to repair some of the damage caused by pregnancy sometime in the future. And that I use the excuse of shopping for the girls to avoid buying things for myself anymore. And that shopping isn’t as fun as it used to be. Yes, they did this to me. They entered my body in January 2005 and ever since then, I do not recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Some days, I’m okay with it. If I stand a certain way or suck in just so, I don’t notice that my stomach is stretched and more or less resembles a pile of play-doh. On other days, I pull at my shirt or change four times. I have come to realize why mom jeans are termed “mom” jeans. Apparently, I’m not the only one.

I kick myself for thinking I was too fat or needed to lose a few pounds when I had my old body. I would kill to have my BTB belly and, if I could have it back, I would swear to never utter the word, “diet” again and make a pact to eat chocolate once a day. I wouldn’t whine about needing to lose five or ten pounds and I would not be ashamed to say, “Damn. I look good today!”

J hates when I complain about myself in front of the Beans. He reminds me all the time and even snaps at me if I’ve gone too far in front of them. He doesn’t want them to be like all the other women in the world who ridicule themselves daily with hateful comments to the mirror. He wants them to think they are the most beautiful women in the world and he thinks that the things that I say in front of them are hurtful and will affect them in the future. He’s right. I hear it all the time from my beautiful family and friends. Who are we comparing ourselves to, and why? Why is a man telling me how to be a better role model to my children?

So, I bite my tongue. And when I’m feeling really plucky (like when I lost another pound or when I purchased that white dress from The Limited the other day IN SINGLE DIGITS!) I prance around in my new clothes and show the Beans how pretty I feel. And I tell them daily, maybe even by the hour, how lovely they are. And how lucky I am to have had them. And when I’m smiling from ear to ear or dancing around the room like a two year old or grabbing my belly in side-splitting laughter, I tell them, “You did this to me.”