Summer vacation is in sight, but first I have to get through the last few weeks of June. Once school gets out, I can throw handfuls of Cheerios on the carpet and whistle for my children to come feed off the ground, but right now I still need to pack lunches. My arms feel like they are made out of lead every time I unzip their insulated bags. I am so sick of making sandwiches.
But then I realize, wait — some moms direct their kids to pack their own lunches. Sure, kid-packed lunches tend to include more chips and less carrot sticks, but whatever. This is an opportunity to teach self-reliance.
“Hey guys,” I tell my son and daughter one afternoon, “You can either buy your lunch or pack your own for the rest of the year.”
“I’ll buy my lunch,” says my son. He’s in seventh grade.
“Um, OK.” I am surprised that he chooses this option. The only part of school lunches he has said nice things about in the past is the chocolate milk. “What about you?” I ask my daughter. “Would you like to buy your lunch, too?”
“No way.” My third grader shakes her head. “Did you know that their spaghetti is square?”
I raise my eyebrows. “What?”
“It’s an actual square.” She wrinkles her nose.
“That can’t be right,” I say.
“Why don’t you believe me?” She reaches for her lunch bag. “I’m telling the truth.”
“It’s not square,” corrects my son. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not lying!”
I hold up my hands like I can physically stop the squabbling. “Maybe the noodles are a different shape than what you’re used to,” I say to my daughter. “Less round.” She has a known history for being noodle sensitive. “If you’d rather bring your lunch from home, that’s fine.”
“Good. Because that’s what I’m going to do.”
She then proceeds to pack her lunch with the thoughtfulness of a mother of an only child on the first day of school. The apple slicer helps her cut an apple into perfect wedges. She methodically spreads peanut butter and jam across bread slices. I watch her process for a while and am impressed with her attention to detail.
But I also realize that my third grader is making me look bad. Her lunch packing skills are better than mine.
“Here, Mom,” she hands me a napkin, “write me a note that I can read tomorrow.”
Wow. I rarely bother with napkin notes. Now I really do feel like a slacker. “Have a great day,” I scribble. I add a smiley face because I don’t know what else to say.
“Great!” She folds up the napkin and adds it to her bag. “Thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to pack your lunch, too?” I ask my son.
“Mom,” he says, “I’ll be fine. School lunch isn’t that bad.”
Parental achievement unlocked: If I stop feeding them, they’ll feed themselves.
Jennifer Bardsley is author of the books “Genesis Girl” and “Damaged Goods.” Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, on Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as The YA Gal.
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