There’s a new arms race shaping up, America. It’s taking place in our homes. Our very own kitchens. Every morning, it’s being waged to win the hearts and minds of … school children? What am I even talking about?!? It was an article in The Wall Street Journal this week headlined, “The Competitive World of School Lunches.” And it made me realize that I’m a slouch. See, parents are taking it up a notch in the school lunch department. They’re creating mesmerizing displays of fruit and pressed sandwiches that, well, don’t deserve to be wasted on kids who will only discard them because the crust is 2 mm too thick. There are themed lunches. Lunches that resemble beautiful banquets. Lunches that parents shoot photos of and then post to Instagram because, why not?!? It’s not whether your kid likes it, but whether all your friends on social media do. But I was blown away. Straight-up shock and awed. When I’m in charge of putting together lunch for my daughter, it looks a lot like my poor, lackluster leaf blowing skills. Not focused. Just happy I attempted it in the first place. My porches and sidewalks always look worse after I’m done.

It was like a jail break, wasn’t it? A feeling of euphoria. Total freedom. As if the floodgates had opened and set you — this raging torrent of water — upon the world. Nothing could hold you in. It was total liberation. And chaos! As the bell rang on the last day of school, kids raced from the classrooms. There was great yelling and shouting. Books flew in every direction. Shoes, too. Shoes! Why did shoes always sail through the air in the scrum and hootenanny of that final release? Who knows. If you had a pulled a fire alarm you wouldn’t have gotten such a flurry. But now, kids ran in every direction. Not even stopping at their cars. (“Johnny, where are you going?” parents yelled.) Just running wild and free with delirious smiles on their faces. Seven miles out they would finally stop, look around and think, “Mom? Um … where am I?” I’ll tell you where, little Johnny: You’re in summer!!! And there isn’t much in the world better than that. (Well, unless you’re lost in an industrial area on the south side of town, but the cops will locate you soon enough.) I was thinking about all of this one night earlier this week as our family sat at the dinner table.

I’m not sure who had more fun: My daughter going to her first school dance, or me, getting to go along to drop her off at the school dance. I needed her special permission just to be allowed in the car. I had to keep a low profile. I wasn’t allowed to drive. Like a dog, I was required to sit in the back seat. I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t say corny, obnoxious or sappy things. And I wasn’t allowed to cry, laugh or pontificate. Any of these things would get me kicked to the curb, or worse! Shoot, I nearly got slugged when I came home from work and said to my daughter — her hair neatly brushed to one side and wearing a wonderful, flowing summer dress — “Boy, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.” I dodged the swing and jumped over the sofa to safety. But the short drop-off was still awesome. I pressed my nose up against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of something — anything! — as she walked into the school. “Stay away from boys!” I wanted to scream, but the child lock was set and the window wouldn’t roll down. (Darn kid had thought of everything!) How it reminded me of my younger days, and my first elementary school dances. I don’t remember that we had too many. Maybe because I spent most of my years at an all-boys Catholic school in Tampa, which was directly across the street — and two barbed […]