I accidentally played Buns of Steel with my 8 year old twins.
FYI, for the uninitiated, Buns of Steel is played in one’s laundry room whilst clad in undies (or skivvies if you’re part of the Under 10 crowd), and the rules are as follows:
1. Clench your butt cheeks as tightly as you can.
2. Get someone to punch your butt – HARD.
3. Have the puncher declare whether you do, in fact, have Buns of Steel.
There I was, in the laundry room, minding my own business, trying to find something, ANYTHING, clean to wear when I was ASSAULTED by 2nd graders.
Now I have worked for years… yeeeeeears… to try to convince my children my butt is not a bongo nor is my tummy a timpani, although they’ve been reluctant adopters of the No Beating Your Mother philosophy. Similarly, I’ve tried to assist my adorable cherubs in understanding it’s impolite to giggle, and — OK — guffaw as the case may be, at the way my fine flesh reverberates and wobbles at the smallest provocation.
I thought we were making progress, too, walking that fine line between teaching my children that, while I refuse to be ashamed of being what my maternity nurse generously called “fluffy,” I also don’t need to be poked and prodded to gleeful cries of, “We just watchin’ you jiggle, Mama!”
Yes, I thought we were making progress ’til I was punched in the rear in the laundry room.
I thought we were making progress, so I wheeled around — unhelpfully sending the whole ship a’shakin’ — to spear my precious angels with the hairy eyeball. The LOOK. The Oh No You Dih-Unt.
They backed away with their hands raised, protesting their innocence. “We weren’t punching your butt, Mom!” they said. And, to my raised eyebrow, they followed up, “Well, OK, we WERE punching you, but just to see if you got Buns of Steel.” Because that’s way better than beating my butt like drums, I guess.
So I asked, because I could not help myself, “And do I have Buns of Steel?” And they were caught.
Because not only had they punched me in the butt! Now they were forced to make a commentary they did not want to have to make. BWAHAHAHAHA.
No way out, baby dolls!
Full speed ahead!
Let’s see what you’ve got!
Which is when one twin looked at the other, beckoned him forward, whispered in his ear, garnered his agreement with a quick nod of the head, and said, “No, Mom. You don’t have Buns of Steel. You have Buns of Flexible, and that kind is good, too.”
So here I sit — on my battered Buns of Flexible — realizing we have, in fact, made progress. And for today, it’s enough.
P.S. You can see my Belly of Flexible – and read why I love it anyway – here.