For the last 28 years or so, ever since I’ve been aware of the concept of fat and whether or not it applied to me, I have frequently asked my mother whether or not I “looked fat”.

Of course, my mother — with her petite-but-matronly figure — always answered no. I’m not really sure why I even asked, as I was fairly sure I would never get an honest answer, or certainly not a discerning one. There were times when I was quite certain that indeed I did look fat — or even better, WAS fat — but I always got the same old positive answer from my mother. I was fairly certain that my mother was incapable of acknowledging that I was anything other than perfect.

Until last week.

Mom, showing me something that had a silhouette of a rather svelte and curvaceous woman (think mudflaps on a semi-truck) that was holding a child on each hip: “Oh look, honey, it’s you!”

Mom (visibly uncomfortable): “Well… it was once, and will be again.”

She put her usual positive twist on it, but it was there for the taking: my mom had admitted that I had gained weight. Was not perfect. Maybe even… fat.

The unflattering pictures, the awful number on the scale, the pre-baby clothes that don’t fit… yes, they’d hinted at the idea that things had really changed for me. But strangely, on a day-to-day basis, in situations where I had the opportunity to address the situation, I somehow deluded myself into thinking there wasn’t really a problem. Regardless of what the outward signs said, in my mind’s eye, I was still the size 6 that I’d been most of my life.

But my mother acknowledging that I might need to make a change? That was my rock bottom: I have let myself go.

Now before you think my mother an awful person, here’s the reality: I weigh exactly 50 pounds more today than I did on this day four years ago (and I wasn’t skinny then).

Yes, it’s true that I’ve had two children in that time period, the youngest born just this past September. But based on the USDA dietary guidelines, someone of my height can have a healthy weight of up to 144 lbs, and a healthy pregnancy gain of up to 35 lbs, for a total of 179 lbs at delivery.

And I weigh…

Um, I weigh…

1… 9… 0. Point 5.

And my womb has been vacant for four months. I’m way beyond overweight — I’m well into the “clinically obese” category. So there is no excuse to be had.

In all seriousness, I think typing that dreadful number is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My husband keeps coming around me, as I’m typing this, and I keep shielding the computer from him. As if he hasn’t noticed that I’m fat, I don’t want him to read about it here.

I’m literally laughing at how insane that sounds… particularly as it pertains to my husband, who could work for a circus with his uncanny ability to peg the weight of things — especially people.

So this is why I was elated when MomSquawk’s own Crystal came up with the idea of having our own Biggest Loser challenge. (Note to Biggest Loser: Don’t bother suing us for using your name. We haven’t a dime.) The challenge kicks off today and will consist of weekly weigh-ins through April 1. If you’d care to join us, it’s not too late (although it will be tomorrow). Just shoot an email to squawk@momsquawk.com indicating your interest, and we’ll get you fixed up.

I’ll be chronicling my own journey here, as well as sharing highlights of the challenge (with participant permission, of course). I’d love to hear from you about your own journeys and struggles with weight and fitness, too.

Good luck to everyone on their own journeys, whether in the competition or not. Weight is a very personal and unfortunately highly emotional topic, and every woman deserves to be supported on her goals, regardless of the number on the scale.