Then one Wednesday morning, I experienced a moment of clarity. Struggling to zip myself into a dress, I was debating whether it was worth the effort to succumb to the strategic compression of Spanx, or if I should give up and find something more forgiving to my muffin top, when my 5-year-old daughter walked into the bathroom. "Can I help?" she asked. I offered her my back, and she climbed up onto the stool that allows her to reach the things that are too high for her — her toothbrush, the faucet, the mirror that she has not yet learned to resent for its honesty. She zipped up the dress with no resistance and blew a raspberry in the space between my neck and shoulder before running off to do whatever it is 5-year-olds do while their parents get ready in the morning.