This last year I've been feeling not so much super-model as super-tanker.
I'm not overweight, but the waistband of my jeans is complaining, and there are interesting ripples and creases (oh, OK then....it's cellulite) where once all was smoothness and light.
It would be easy to ignore my own well-being and remain immersed in a world defined by autism.
This is a subject I return to every so often.
I fear losing my integral Jean-ness (this is a scientific quantity, measured in cups of tea in the morning, and units of Shiraz in the evening) beneath weighty layers of autism.
Even though we need to dive headlong into the Autism Ocean (which is east of the Sea of Bad Metaphors) and swim with the fishes, that we don't (and probably shouldn't) stay there forever.
There are two very real dangers.
One is that we will drown, forget who we are and become part of the ocean.
The second is that the Bad Metaphor Gestapo will come for me in the middle of the night and make me read poetry until I cry.
But I won't wait up for them...
...I'm not trying to win the Pulitzer prize for literature, I'm just trying to get a point across.
For me, it's taken almost three years to be OK with autism.
Now it's just there, in the same way that my oldest son hates French, and in the same way that my daughter wears pretty funky glasses.
I have great kids, a gorgeous husband and a roof over our heads.
Now that I've had my teeth fixed and my hair professionally coloured, it's time to get out of the sea, hit the gym and wiggle my wobbly butt into submission.
This October I will be a fit, fab and forty-year-old wife and mother, who just happens to have a cool kid with autism. As well as two other pretty cool kids, who don't have autism.
Autism rocks, but so does it's funky momma.