This week my friend Lacey is having a surgery many mommies consider but rarely discuss, except, perhaps with her girlfriends after a few glasses of wine. Join Lacey as she guest blogs her journey here at Maija’s Mommy Moments.

To start from the beginning please click here.

The realization that my self-esteem, and stock in my healthy body image, had plummeted, was not the sole deciding factor for why I decided I was ready to explore the option of a tummy tuck. It was, and will be, the official “on paper” reason that I tell my very close friends and family, but there was one very defining moment that I knew I had crossed the line from “these jeans fit too tight” to “now, that’s just plain crazy!”

There was seldom a day that I didn’t grab, pinch or tug the ruined, post-pregnancy, stretched pouch of skin that rested between my belly button and my pubis, or FLAP as I affectionately like to refer to her. That sounds strange to even admit, but after seven years, it was an unconscious habit that I had whenever I undressed or redressed. Usually post-shower, I would grab it with both hands, lift it up, flatten it out, and wistfully fantasize about its disappearance. I liked to stand sideways in the mirror and pull the skin out hard enough that I could visualize my torso without it. It was during one of those routine palpitations that, in a moment of desperation, my thoughts turned crazy. I had visions of slicing the chunk off by myself, going to my local emergency room and serenely requesting that they kindly stitch me up. Ta da!

Free tummy tuck! Needless to say, I KNEW that senseless idea had pushed me well over the line into full-blown-nut-job, and perhaps it was time to investigate a rational solution.

Since google is as much a verb in my life as sleep and breathe, I hit the keys and got to work right away finding a surgeon to lend his expertise. Willing to travel the globe, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my region has more than one well-respected plastic surgeon that perform routine abdominoplasty. I chose three to ‘investigate’ further. Thank God I was never a cop, because my ‘investigation’ technique went something like this: Nope, not you, you look like a dinosaur. Nope, not you, I don’t want a two-hour drive home post-op. Hmm, alright, I’ll book a consult with you! Case solved.

Click to read the rest and see the pictures at Maija's Mommy Moments.