My seven-year-old son yesterday: "Mommy, you're pretty all the time no matter what, even when you're mad at me." OK. As they say, "Out of the mouths of babes." Until my son said that to me, I had almost decided to lipo every single part of my body because working out didn't seem to be doing it. Face? Just a bit of a lift under the chin. Arms? Suck some of the crap out from under the upper arm. Legs? Well, honestly, I've always liked my legs. I used to be a runner, and somehow, my legs have remained pretty much unblemished, but my butt could use a visit to the Hoover shop. It's all about my lack of self-acceptance. I look in the mirror, don't see the anorexic girl of my teens, and say to myself, "FAT COW!!!!!!!!" Mind you, I'm 35, but I know a lot of Nautilized married women with more than one child who are size fours and can slink around in Victoria's Secret's latest thongs with great senses of pride. I'm the type of person I would have looked at in junior high and gone, "She's like, TOTALLY fat." Any size above a 12 meant certain death of self-esteem. I kissed self-esteem goodbye a few miles ago. But, let's review: I exercise. I work hard and play even harder. I had major surgeries beginning in my late twenties, and ending the day before my birthday in 2005. Each one meant tons of bed rest, lots and lots of weight-inducing meds, killer hormone therapy, no movement from my bed, and no activity, save the ton of writing I did in my journal. There's much room to grow, but I'm not going to, since my body has decided to settle on this one weight and hasn't budged in over a year, no matter what I do. I've been through hell, physically. I'm pretty damned lucky that my body is in the shape it's in, after all the horrific things that have been done to it. Besides, no matter how big the bags under my eyes get from writing all night, no matter how smeared my mascara gets from grieving the deaths of those close to me, and no matter how mad I get at myself for making bad coffee, my son still approves. And I have other things going for me. I think. Herewith: Green, big eyes. A good smile. High cheekbones. A chest the poor, late Anna Nicole never could have bought (which is often a blessing AND a curse. If anyone out there wants a transplant, let me know). Naturally strawberry-blonde hair. A particular combination of eclectic, spicy personality traits that no one else could possibly have. Really good skin, thanks in part to genes, and Estee Lauder gets some credit, too. And - oh, yeah - a heart the size of China. And I didn't list the most important thing in the world going for me: my son. After all, he's the best parts of my husband and me put together. And nothing could be better than that. And I have never loved anything or anyone as much as I love him. He's my greatest achievement. And I didn't go wrong there. In fact, I'm sure I prayed hard enough that he was sent from the angels straight to me. So, heavier, thinner, whatever. It's all the story of my life. And it's still being written, even if the book is getting kind of big.