Put Some Rubies on That Mom Bod

Linking up with my favorite people at Five Minute Friday today!
The theme?

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There is a mom here at the pool who is in a bikini. It’s flamingo pink and she is tall and slender, and I think, but I’m not sure, she has a six pack.
I am not exactly sure because I need to stop staring. Staring is rude.

It’s just… a six -pack? Really?

I, meanwhile, am sitting over here in the concession stand area, amongst the candy wrappers and fifty-thousand flip flops and towels, and wondering where my six pack went. It’s been lost for a while.
Forever. It’s been lost forever.

She is also very tan. A nice golden glow.

I am not golden. I am more like a connection of freckles.

I know what you’re gonna think. You’re gonna think I’m going to go all “You go, mommies! No matter what size or shape or pack or lack of pack, you rock it, sister!”

And you’d be right. Sort of.
The interwebs is full of Go Mama Go posts, which is fine and dandy and kind of wonderful, for the most part.

But, it’s really kind of nice for me today because, I am actually there, already caught up with the words.

Don’t you ever wonder, with all the instagrams and facebooks and tweetings about Go Mama Go, if ever there might be a time… that the writers might be saying it so they can feel it too? Like, the words provide the comfort, retrospective-wise?

Oh. Just me? Ok.

I have done this. I have written, in hopes that the feelings would come.

Because, maybe, one of the laws of blogging is:
If You Write It, It May Come.

Or something like that.

(Another law of the bloggings? Don’t obscurely quote movies in your text.)

I am comforted by my blog, and you guys, and words that heal. But today? (Who knows how I will feel about all this tomorrow, but for now, thank you) I am comforted by the fact that I am ok-ish in my momsuit. Because I am dearly loved and beautiful and more precious than rubies.

Just let those words sink in. They are more than a comfort.
They heal.

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Let That Be a Lesson To You

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Criminal A and B.

 

 

Every Wednesday night my church has a great event called His Kids, where seven million children alight upon our little brick church and play, eat, run about, and learn about Jesus.

Ok, not seven million. But it’s a lot.

My children, when they were small and adorable, used to call Wednesday His Kids, “Biscuits!!  It’sa da Biscuits night!” This would become even more compounded in meaning if the church meal there WAS actually biscuits and gravy, and my poor boys were swimming in biscuits all over da place.

This was so cute that I never actually corrected it, and to this day my children seem to link church going to flaky baked goods with honey.

There are worse things.

Last Wednesday night, His Kids was wrapping up, and I was attempting to get two boys in coats and boots and out the door before we hit the dreaded It’s Way Past Your Bedtime, and Your Mom Gets Grumpy deadline.

As I headed out the the car, I spotted them, running way ahead, down the sidewalk, to the car, past the car, and they Just. Kept. Going.

Let’s just say that right then is when I passed the Grumpy deadline. Inside, I had warned them, quite calmly, with a lovely and firm but soothing Mom voice: “Boys, head straight to the car. It’s Way Past Your Bedtime. If you stay up much longer you implode with exhaustion and hyperactivity with help from all those Starbursts you ate after diner.  And I am feeling a grump coming on… it’s a small tickle in the back of my throat, so we best get home. Now.”

As I watched them run past the car with only the roadrunner glee that a four and a six year old can, I thought,

“Humph. They are going to learn a lesson.”

So, I got in my car and drove away.

Now, before you start trying to figure out how to call the cops on a mom blogger, just know this: I didn’t LEAVE-leave… I slipped around the back, silent and stealthy as an unmarked vehicle, and pulled in the side. I sat there for about thirty seconds, giving Red and Blonde just long enough to realize I was gone, and then tears and repentance and all that.

I peered around, to the front of the church, looking for two very sad and sorrowful boys who will never, ever disobey again, like ever.

Instead, I saw two small boys who were sprinting like mini Usain Bolts, and they had a three block head start on me. They were going home. By themselves. At eight o’clock at night.

And, then, I spotted it: They were gleeful.

I was told later that at least two members of my church reported back that “Red and Blonde are out running down Lincoln street! Danger! Danger! And, WHERE IS THEIR MOTHERRRRRR??”

I followed them. I kept praying, “Lord, sometime along the way, could some sort of freaking out occur? Could they get cold or get attacked by a stray cat or something.” I sighed. “Somehow, please, could this whole thing not turn out to be an awesome field trip of wonderfulness? Could we have some misery at some point? Please, Lord?”

Nope. They were absolutely thrilled. When I finally pulled in and revealed my cover – Blonde ran to me, cheeks all red and eyes twinkling,

“Mom! Hey, where were you? We started home acuz you left and we ARE ALMOST THERE and I watched at each stweet and lookits both ways! I was very careful!”

Red interjected with a small jazzstep and some “vroom vroom” noises, and then shouted, “DIS. IS. SO. AWESOME!”

I had prepared a long speech for them. I opened my mouth. I shut it. And then I growled, “Your father will talk to you about this when we get home.”

“Okay! But… canna we walk the rest of the way? Dis is fun!”

Well. Let that be a lesson to you.

 

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Tuesday Takeout and Toddler Confusion

 

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Monday is usually pasta night at our house, but today I decided to be a rebel and go for this switcherooni:

Breakfast for Dinner!

I know. Breakfast instead of pasta night?  Living on the edge.

Edge-living, however, confuses toddlers.  When I listed out the menu (as I am asked, every day at about 4 pm, “Wat doin? You making our dinner?  What are we gonna have?  Canna it be mac and cheese? Is der gonna be green stuff init?”) and I rattled off:  “eggs, bacon, hash browns…”  they both furrowed their sweet brows and said: “Dats for MORNING time.  Dis is DINNER. Nighttime.”

“Look, ya’ll, let’s live a little.  Let’s have eggs.  Change is good, wee ones.  And! We are also having BISCUITS.”

Did they respond with joy and gratitude because baked goods were coming their way?  Nope.  We had full out toddler befuddlement due to the fact that my children are weird.  The deal is: Every Wednesday night they attend (with much gusto and anticipation) a church program called His Kids.

But, my kids don’t call it that.  Nope.

They call it:  “BISCUITS!”

It all started way back when the wee blonde was three and we were illegally trying to get him into His Kids (age requirements? Nope, just GO small one, saunter IN, and MINGLE my darling.  Please.  Go away where someone will talk to you about Jesus for an hour and feed you, so your mom can sit and talk to other women and not have to WIPE anything for a bit.  Ok?)

He was, after all, three years old and that’s when toddlers really are like Cute on steroids.  And thus, he christened His Kids “Biscuits” with that adorable toddler lispyness we all love so.

He is now five and it’s still going strong.  The propaganda has spread to Red, so when I told him about our menu tonight he got all confused – was tonight when we go to church and Jesus and candy there and alllll his friends and candy and we get to run around and be as loud as we like because sugar? And Jesus?

Uh.  No.  But did I mention I’m making eggs?

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Best cookbook ever.

 

Homemade Buttermilk Biscuits When You Don’t Have Buttermilk*

2 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 generous tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter or shortening or even LARD, very cold
1 cup buttermilk (approx)  OR:  1 cup milk with one tablespoon lemon juice added (the earlier you do this the better to “proof” the acidity in the milk.)
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
In a bowl, stir the flour, soda, baking powder, and salt with a whisk to combine.  Add the butter or shortening (I used shortening.  I know.  GASP.  Very bad for you.  Etc. Etc.) and mix with pastry cutter, or fork, until small “pea size” chunks.
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Add the buttermilk.  Or the buttermilk imposter that works REALLY well, because, really, I NEVER HAVE BUTTERMLK.  It’s just an ingredient at which I draw the line.  Martha Stewart probably has oodles of it in her ‘fridge.
Stir dough until it pulls away from the sides (I add a little less than a cup and adjust as needed here).  Do not overstir!
Turn out, knead just briefly to allow dough to come together.  Dough will be very soft and smooshy!  Roll out to about 1/2 inch and then paint with butter (sometimes bacon grease.  I know.  GASP again. Etc. Etc…).
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Fold the dough over and use a small glass to cut out your perfectly soft little circles of goodness.
Paint a bit more butter on top if you wish.
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Place on ungreased baking sheet and bake for 10-12 minutes until golden brown.
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Give to toddlers and tell ’em:  “This will help you get over His Kids not happening till tomorrow.  Right?”
They aren’t answering.  They’re munching.
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You’re welcome.

And lo, Momsie made biscuits.  And she gave them to her wee ones.  And it was good.  Especially with lotsa jam.