Operation "Kill Snow White"

My lovely brother is getting married in February, which meant that yesterday I went out to find myself a party outfit. This would have been fine normally and I have recently lost a dress size (which you know because I keep bragging about it) but let me tell you there is still quite a bit of baby fat there. My nearly-five-kilo excuse is now four and half months and eight kilos already, so the excuse is wearing thin (I wish I was) while the self-hatred is reaching new peaks. I need to lose two more sizes before I will feel happy about the way I look and feel and I should really stop hiding behind the breastfeeding because that does not normally stop people losing weight. Au contraire, mes chéries.

I was so sure that I wasn't going to find anything nice in my size that I was in a bad mood before I even started. With this positive attitude, three children in tow and a patient and very brave companion, I set off for the centre of town on the second day of the sales - a ridiculous idea under normal circumstances but simply suicidal with two prams and one of the children coughing up alarming amounts of phlegm. I intimated to my companion that I was not feeling too great about myself. (Okay, I whined. I sulked. I refused to even enter shops which only cater to the fashionably-sized. (Oh, how I long to be fashionably-sized again. (Give it six months, Mwa, give it six months.)))

When I finally did go into a gorgeous (and very fashionable) shop, of course I did fit in some of their "size 4s" and I found a stunning dress, teaching me that pessimism always pays off because I was far happier than I would have been had I not been expecting abject failure. I had been trying to hide my self-loathing from the children by discussing it (okay, lamenting it bitterly) only with the shop assistant and my shopping companion but I probably should have expressly stated this desire to obfuscate to them, as my shopping mate told me "You say 'I'm too fat, I'm too fat, I'm too fat,' but this camouflages your belly quite well" right in front of them. So much for my attempt not to pass on the self-esteem issues. Another faux-pas was the most used description of outfits shown: "Not exactly slimming." Sigh. I'd call that a completely failed mission.

Which makes my next operation all the more important: I call it "Kill Snow White" because that is what I may perhaps be planning to do. I have not decided the means of her demise yet, so perhaps you should all help me. Marie was given this Barbie - well, officially Snow White but see for yourself - by someone at Christmas. I may have slightly put my foot in it by making a derogatory comment about this doll of horrors the next day in front of the horror dolly giver. Woops.

Actually I haven't fully made up my mind to exterminate her yet. Marie really likes this doll. But the very first thing she did was take off all her clothes, revealing her in all her ridiculousness.

Well, obviously she didn't come with those various instruments of torture. That would have been even more ridiculous.

I don't think it would be a very nice thing for me to secretly murder Marie's new friend. Then there's also the trail of evidence to consider. If I document my unspeakable (but apparently bloggable) deed, she may find out in the future and resent me for it. Then again, if I don't she may develop an even more unhealthy ideal of the female shape than she was no doubt already going to have, and potentially an eating disorder. I mean, look at those fucking legs. And the breasts actually poked me when they were in my trousers, they are so pointy. (Maybe I should explain that I put them down my trousers in order to smuggle them past my assembled brood, just to avoid the obvious question of "Where are you going with my new dolly and those matches, mama?" No, still doesn't sound good, does it? A Barbie down one's trousers may never be explainable to a satisfactory degree.)

So, interwebs, what do you think? Do I let Snow White disappear quietly, do I maim her in a cathartic and symbolic revenge for all the hours I've spent disliking my own shape because of cultural stereotypes like Barbie, or do I allow miss pointy-limbs to continue messing with my little girl's mind? I fucking hate her. I'll probably just hide her in the back of my wardrobe, where I will find her each time I attempt to get into my gorgeous dream-on-jeans (three sizes away), making the humiliation sting just that little bit harder. Karma's a bitch that way.