The Mommy Makeover

So there’s this ad that runs at least once a day on one of the radio shows I listen to in the morning, on the way to and from Ginny’s preschool. In it, there’s a thirty-something woman raving about Dr. So and So Plastic Surgeon Man and his “Mommy Makeover.” Having children wrecks your body, apparently. But whatever your problem might be, this guy will hook you up. Boobs down to your knees in manner of aboriginal woman in National Geographic? No problem. No discernable boobs, in manner of twelve year old boy? No problem. Unsightly gut, in manner of Homer Simpson? No problem. He doesn’t actually claim to do anything about stretch marks, but I imagine they are part of his repertoire as well.

Every single time I hear this ad, I feel two very different and equally unpleasant emotions: uncontained rage, paired with a nagging fear that I’m a pretty good candidate for a number of these procedures, right down to the thing that he can probably do for my bellybutton. I’ve read Our Bodies, Ourselves, and I know that the changes that motherhood brings to the body are both natural and normal. I get that. I also know that our culture is youth-obsessed to an unnatural and unhealthy degree, and wanting the thighs I had when I was 17 is both unrealistic and self-defeating. I know that my husband would never ever let me go under the knife for anything less than a really really good reason, such as being tromped on by a dinosaur, sustaining massive trauma to my entire body. So it’s not going to happen.

But there are a lot of women out there who are even more insecure than I am (hard to imagine, but I know it’s true), and they are probably Googling this guy, trying to figure out how much a tummy tuck will set them back. That’s where the rage comes in—how dare this person who has taken a vow to Do No Harm go around making women feel like crap? I don’t need to hear it. My daughter does not need to hear it. None of us need to hear it.

Anyway, for his information, I’ve already had a Mommy Makeover. Only, it’s not the kind of makeover he probably had in mind. Yeah, I kind of shun bikinis nowadays. Whatever. But I guarantee that this guy does not have my super-special parent powers. As Mommy, I can awake instantly, at any and all hours of the night, and know what the noise is that I just heard. (Usually Dan.) I know what that strange rustling is (Ginny getting into her Easter candy, attractively stored in the orange Halloween pumpkin on my kitchen counter.) I can tell the difference between a whiney I-picked-my-nose-too-much-and-now-it’s-bleeding cry and an oh-my-Lord-this-requires-stitches cry, from almost any given distance. I have magic hands. I know when it’s a fever. I can tell if the sippy cup is warm enough to be breeding deadly germs, and when it’s ok to drink. I have telepathic powers. I can find things by reconstructing my children’s byzantine thought processes, such as when Dan put Adam’s car keys in a suitcase.

So anyway, this guy doesn’t have anything to offer me. Nothing that I need. Nothing that I want. Or, at least, nothing that I can’t live without (or with, as the case may be).

Anyhow I have to wrap this up. America’s Next Top Model is on and I don’t want to miss it. Just don’t tell Adam. Or my daughter.