So, on the first 100 degree day, I reluctantly enter a department store with my children and try to look inconspicuously for the section containing the lycra instruments of torture.

“Can I help you?” asks a teenage salesperson, who is the width of a twig.

“Not unless you’re Mother Nature.”

“Oh, I see,” she nods sympathetically. “The bathing suits are over there.” She points to a display of spandex that looks similar to a bunch of multi-colored rubber bands.

“Thank you, “ I mumble and walk towards the swimsuits like Bambi confronting Godzilla.

“One or two piece?” the salesgirl continues, following closely behind.

“Four.” I hold a suit, marked with my size, against me. “Either this is mismarked or someone was kidding,” I pause. “I need a swimsuit that says 'washing machine' not 'sex machine'.”

I watch the salesgirl leaf quickly through the racks.

“I need something that’s a cross between Wonder Bra, corset and camouflage,” I continue.

“Speedo or GQ?” she asks, “bikini or French cut?”

“How about ‘The Mother of Two’?” I pause. “Something the color of spit up, with an elastic tummy, detachable long shirt ( that doubles as a canopy or burp cloth), water proof pockets for snacks and diapers, two sippy cup holders on either hip, and “No Whining” printed in red letters across the front.”

“Well,” she stammers, “How about these?” She hands me a bright colored one piece that looks similar to the Brazilian flag, a suit made out of Barnum and Bailey’s circus tent, and a bikini that would strangle a Chihuahua. She guides me to the dressing room where I grunt, groan, push and tuck my way into the suits. One hour and two hernias later I find a suit that fits, lets me breath, and would’ve looked great -- without my body in it.

As I look in the full length mirror at my post partum tummy and legs that have more stretch marks than the San Andreas Fault, I see my children sitting on the bench in the dressing room and making funny faces in the mirror.

“You look like Barbie,” my daughter says, watching me.

“Barbie,” echoes my son.

I smile and realize that my children don’t see my faults. My blemishes aren’t deformities, they are birthmarks, and my varicose veins are Purple Hearts in the battle of reproduction.

“I’ll take it!” I cry from inside the dressing room. Although I don’t look any younger or thinner, I look like what I am: the mother of two, and it suits me just fine.