My son, our second baby, just turned 17 months old. (Just in time for me to take him to his 15 month checkup – oops).

Why am I telling you this?  Because only in the last month or so did I finally remember that I’m still here.  Four months after I stopped nursing, and I have *just* started to go back to the gym.  Slowly.  Very slowly.  We’re talking bovine pace on the elliptical but you gotta start somewhere.

Two weeks ago, I forced myself into my local European Wax Center to get . . . an eyebrow wax.  (Let’s not get ahead of ourselves).  The lovely girl who trimmed my overgrown hedges and then carefully shaped them into something resembling eyebrows kindly asked “do you exfoliate?” — knowing full well from my peeling dry schnoz that I clearly don’t.  She reminded me, gently but with a sense of urgency, that I need to do that from time to time.  It would help reduce the dry patchiness that I try to mask with more foundation (a winning combo, it is not).  I told her that first I would try to tackle removing my makeup at night.  She tried hard to conceal her horror, god bless her, but it was there.

I even went and got highlights.  From a stylist near my house in the burbs and lo!  Now I’m a blonde.  That was not the plan.  But I sort of like it.

Then I went into J.Crew to beg Kristy, the amazing stylist at Brookfield Place, to take back a pair of shoes I ordered final sale that were too big (she did!).  I ended up trying on a whole bunch of stuff she recommended in a size I thought was verboten but she was right.  I had lost just enough weight so far to get me down one size.  Kristy tacked on some promotional discounts that I’m pretty sure she made up and I walked out with some shit that really made me feel good.

Like the pants I’m wearing today.

Since when can I wear leopard pants to work? Today!

I’m still a LONG ways away from losing all the weight I’ve accumulated since I started having kids.  But goddammit, I am finally wearing a bra that’s not embarrassing.  I’m starting to feel almost human again.  My big girl even asked me this morning why I looked so nice and “fancy.”

Turns out your kids notice when you stop wearing trash-bag mu mus that look like depression.

Making babies and then taking care of them is really fucking hard.  Here’s what I’ll say.  Don’t rush.  Don’t feel bad that you’re not back to yourself overnight.  Or a year or two later.

It takes a while. But, it’s coming.

For now, go get your hair blown out or something.

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**Editor’s note: This post originally appeared in a closed Facebook group on March 2, 2017.  The response it received is part of the reason this blog exists.  Thanks, UES Mommas.**