The thin me is not just dying to get out . . she's already dead

I hate perky, fit women. Especially those who've returned to a size two post baby and feel the need to share.
My body is only a faint echo of the body I had before children.
It's carrying around extra padding, perfect for snuggling children but terrible for the self ego. It has strategically placed stretch marks that never fade, a white roadmap of my pregnancies and weight gain and loss.
The only time my breasts are perky is when I haven't nursed and the contained milk makes them look like I'v had surgery. But the down side is the feel like balloons about to pop, and they are not filled with water.
My hair has lost most of its curl, which wouldn't be a bad thing except the curl has been replaced with frizz and fluff.
My skin is not dewey and soft. It looks tired and weary and no amount of Oil of Olay and microdermabrasion will change that.
I have bags under my eyes that could take me from here to China from the sleepless nights walkign with a baby or a sick child.
All in all, I'm a normal, average mother. A five out of a ten on a good day.
My husband tells me I'm beautiful, and so does my mother. That's about it. Sad, huh?
I don't inspire lust filled fantasies in anyone but my husband. And he's crazy from countless hours spent alone with our kids, so he doesn't really count. He pleads insanity at the drop of a hat.
I will never send a man into raptures of desire just by the crook of my finger. Hell, I can barely manage to bend a finger anymore--there's always a child clinging to it.
And I'm lucky if I have the energy to initiate sex, let alone stay awake for it.
Sleep or sex? Sleep wins, hands down. If my husband so much as breathes on me once all three kids are asleep, he'll regret it. He's lost two fingers to a sleep crazed madwoman that burrows in our bed.
So where did the young me go? You know the one. She had energy to do things, including sex, and she wore really cute shoes. Is she buried somewhere in this new, matronly me? The one who wears Crocs or tennis shoes all the time. If so, has she smothered under the weight of babies, breasts, repsonsibilities, and parenthood?
If there is a thinner, younger me trapped inside, I'm pretty sure she's dead and I just haven't found time to bury her. I hope she doesn't start stinking because I don't know when I'll have time to shower.
So where does the pre baby me end and the motherly me begin?
About three kids and thirty pounds ago.