The Sisterhood of the Fat Pants

Dear God, someone please tell me that they, too, tuck their abdomen into their pants every morning (before I have to up the ante on my Zoloft). I know I have a beautiful 2 month old daughter to use as a crutch, but I am mourning the stubborn wobbly parts of me that refuse to return from whence they came. Besides, I'm pretty sure I can't use the baby as an excuse forever -- she may want to go to college some day, and then where am I?
I weigh less now than I did before I got pregnant with Baby Girl -- not much less, but let's not split hairs, people -- and my pants still don't fit. I suspect that it has less to do with weight, than with the total tectonic shift of my bones and ligaments after human #3 hit the exit ramp on the Mommy 101. I used to be Pangaea -- well, maybe not Pangaea exactly, but certainly not the loosey, goosey arrangement of continents that we've got going on now.
But of course, the extra weight can't help. I have a slight problem with baked goods (if by slight you mean all crazy-eyed, shakin', jonesin' for some super refined, trans fatty goodness), so I have started a diet. This diet is one I have done successfully in the past, but the problem this time around is that I just don't want to do it. I want to lay around and cram my pie-hole with Twix bars -- is that a bad thing? Well, it is if I want to fit in my clothes, which I desperately do, so it's off to diet-land I go.
Meanwhile, I keep shoe-horning myself into my old pants, which involves a whole lot of cursing and very little breathing. So if you see a woman in the mall with 3 kids and a little jelly roll of stomach hanging over the sides of her jeans, be kind -- it's probably me, and I used to be Pangaea!