It’s been over a year since I gave birth to my youngest daughter and I haven’t lost any weight. It’s going to be a long road. While I am home taking care of my three adorable children, I dream about the day when I’ll be able to go to the gym. A little slice of me time. I spend many days playing with my kids in sweat pants or pajamas.

But it’s been more than a year! I should probably try to get into some pre-pregnancy clothing. Wearing anything from my lovely professional and business casual wardrobe would be a wonderful welcome to my self-image.

No dice. Squeezing, sucking, jumping into my old clothes is no use. Nothing fits.

After hemming and hawing about spending money on new clothing, I decide to buy a few appropriately sized items.

I take my oldest daughter to the mall with me to look for something to bridge the gap. She is my most agreeable child: the one we can count on to do a good job and follow directions no matter what. The kid who always has room for love, encouragement and genuine enthusiasm for whatever we happen to be doing.

She’s five.

We walk the mall aimlessly looking for mom clothes. I’ve totally given up on anything young and trendy, but I still want to look like I intended to get out of bed.

We pass J Jill. I’ve never shopped at J Jill. The mannequins in the window look like a happy yoga lady met SoCal business casual. Forgiving, comfortable clothing with a little bit of style. I circle back around and enter the store, kid in toe.

An enthusiastic sales associate greats us and begins suggesting clothing options. I head to the sale rack, handing her items I’d like to try on. I’m not planning on staying this size forever, the sale rack will do just fine. Eventually, the dressing room is filled with an assortment of things.

My daughter sits on a bench watching me.

“Mom? Are you almost done?” she immediately asks.

“No. I just started. I’m going to try on these clothes and then we will go home. Mommy wants to find some clothes that fit,” I explain while trying on a pair of corduroy pants and a purple button down blouse.

“Mom! That shirt makes you look like a fat old man,” my honest daughter says to me.

“That’s a little rude,” I retort changing the color of the exact same shirt from purple to blue. I like the shirt.

She looks me over in the blue one. “I guess that’s a little better,” she’s unconvinced.

Blue it is I think to myself, placing it on the buy pile.

“Mom, what are you doing now?” She asks, concerned. “Oh no! Are you going to take off your shoes?” she asks, totally disgusted.

I shake my head yes and take off my shoes to try on some leggings.

“Oh mom! I can smell your feet!” she exclaims, louder than I would have preferred. “I’m just going to lay down under here!” she declares, crawling under the upholstered bench to hide while she waits.

This experience is so totally depressing. Now that I feel fat and stinky, I decide to ignore my honest little companion completely. I try on a few other items quickly and quietly. I am happy with my buy pile, two pairs of pants and two tops. Only a few things worked, but I’ll take what I can get. They don’t make me feel worse than a stinky, fat, old, man when I look at myself in the mirror.

I see her little head pop out from under the bench. I look down at her sweet little face and brace myself.

“Mom! Whatever you do, PLEASE do NOT take off your underwear!” her palm flies up in that iconic talk to the hand pose. “I DO NOT need to see your vaggeena.”

Thanks kid! Thanks.