Great.  It's that time of year again.

The sun is shining.  The birds are singing.  And the hair is growing at a disporportionate rate.  It is as though the cruel universe has somehow alerted my pubic region to roll out the (hairy) welcome mat for bathing suit season.  Hair we go again.

Face it, ladies.  Swimsuit season is getting more difficult with the passing of time.  Gone are the days of simply swiping a razor, tossing a gossip mag and some Hawaiian Tropic SPF 0 into a beach bag, and heading out the door to meet the girls at the beach.  Youth and two piece bathing suits are wasted on the young (note to my younger self:  You dumb ass!  You were NOT FAT!!!!)

Alas, much like everything else, my bikini area "changed" after I had kids.  I blame the hormones.  What used to be a beautifully manicured piece of beach front property has basically gone into foreclosure.  You know what that means.  Weeds sprouting up in all the cracks.  Generally unkempt.  Sad, considering what it looked like back when the neighborhood was "new."  I've managed to keep the vagrants out, but still.  I wish I could somehow turn back the hands of time and return that little property to its hey day. 

 Maybe I could hire someone to "flip" it for me like Jeff Lewis on the Bravo reality show, "Flipping Out."(http://www.bravotv.com/flipping-out).  The problem with this is that the very first thing any flipper worth his weight in drywall is going to do is to "rip out ALL of the carpet."  Ouch.  Maybe hiring Jeff Lewis isn't such a hot idea, after all.

It's not that I never maintain the area.  I do.  It's just that it's hard to stay on top of things when you're always multi-tasking.  For instance, apparently I can get dressed and walk a dog at the same time.  How do I know this?  Because as I was standing in my walk-in closet the other day, trying to get dressed, my three year old looked up at me and said "Mommy, I don't like your puppy.  He's too messy."  My heart sank because a) we don't own any animals, and b) she was pointing at my fem tackle with her index finger and assuming it was a small, furry animal.  Not good.

Because my bikini line continually tries to revert to it's natural state (think of young saplings and wild weeds growing up through the engine block of an abandoned car on the side of the road) I have attempted to tame the wilds myself.  I used to be able to do it.  As I mentioned, once upon a time I didn't have kids, and that means I lived a fairly distraction-free life.  I could take more time in the shower.  Hell, I could take a shower. It was just not as big a deal.  Now, it is.  The girl I used to be would have laughed at the adorable 3 year old trying to open a Tampax Pearl tampon with her teeth.  While the compact Tampax admittedly look like some sort of shiny wrapped candy, the girl I am now (mother of said 3 year old) doesn't find it so cute.  Crap like that makes shaving anything in the shower damn near impossible.  I'm lucky to scrape that rusty old Venus razor across my armpits, let alone conquor the jungle below.  It's just a disposable razor, not a machete, people.  Seriously!

So, I've turned to waxing.  Thank God the racquet club that we belong to has a little day spa attached, and they offer a full service menu, including waxing.  The first time I went in, I was a bit nervous.  After some polite conversation, and a whole lot of wax applied with a wooden tongue depresser, I was feeling much better about the state of pubic affairs.  The spring had returned to my step instead of peeking out from the side of my bikini bottom.  Yay!

Next stop?  Beach, hair-free, with three-year old in tow.  And maybe the pet store, to get the poor child a real puppy.