If you’re like me, you’re wondering what to do with this gift. It’s like coming across a crumpled $20 bill on the sidewalk. Think of the possibilities! I’m rich! I can go buy some gold!
Only this isn’t money. It’s time. Found time! I’m rich!
Mine — and maybe yours — comes courtesy of elementary school letting out for summer. One of my major parental responsibilities — I was removed from math homework when we started getting notes like this: “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, your daughter’s math work has taken a turn for the worse. For instance, 8+8 is not B” — one of my big parental duties was packing my daughter’s lunch each morning.
But school’s out! I don’t have to do it anymore. I have all kinds of time in the morning now. My blood pressure is leveling out again. Hooray!
It’s a high stress job, packing a lunch for a 7-year-old. And I’ve been in some pretty tough jobs before. I’ve been a newspaper editor, in charge of what stories will run in the paper the next day. I’ve covered intense breaking news stories. But they’re child’s play compared to guessing what a kid wants to eat each day. Firemen, generals, presidents don’t experience this level of pressure.
Because if you get it wrong, they could go hungry. Even starve! And all because I left the dang crust on the bread. Or Heaven forbid, didn’t slice the sandwich right.
“Dad, are you kidding me?!? You know I don’t eat cubes! It’s Tuesday! You were supposed to cut it into a heart. Sheesh!”
“Ohhh, I did it again! I’m so sorry. I’ll do better next time. Please don’t fire me.”
There’s so much to remember. It’s not like picking clothes. Picking clothes is easy. At this age, if an outfit doesn’t match, people find it cute. They think you did it on purpose. That you’re a fashion genius. “Did you help dress her? Oh, you have a real eye for fashion, don’t you. I saw something like that in Milan several seasons back.”
Only, she picks her own clothes now. The only time there’s a problem is when she emerges in something she’s grown out of. A skirt that fits like a tutu. A shirt so tight her belly shows and you can actually hear the threads stretching and popping at the shoulder blades.
“Nope. No way. Back in there and change,” I say.
“Oh man,” she says. “But it hurt my head getting it on!”
Of course it did. It’s four sizes too small. You’ve cut off all circulation to your upper extremities. We’ll need the fire department to get you out of that thing.
There’s no pressure with clothes. Life-threatening, sure. But no pressure.
School lunches are another story. There are so many ways to go wrong. One missed step and you’re banished. Your relationship is scarred forever. Some children have gone months without talking to a parent. All because they used the wrong jelly — “Boysenberry?!? Who even buys boysenberry!” Or forgot to send along a cookie.
Or sent the wrong KIND of cookie.
“Dad, sit down. Now I don’t like talking to you like this, but we’ve been over this before. Chocolate chip is for kindergarteners. First grade is sugar cookies with sprinkles!”
“Doh! I forgot. Forgive me, mam. I won’t make this mistake again. I’ll do better next time.”
To be reprimanded by a 7-year-old. I’ve sunk to a new low.
There are so many requests. Some ridiculous or downright impossible. Cutting Cheez-Its into new shapes. Turning Goldfish crackers into bears. I’m a strong guy, but that could break me.
School is out, though. I’ve won a reprieve. I’m off duty until August. It’s a big vacation for me. A chance to finally get some rest. To enjoy this found time I have in the morning. And to start mentally gearing up for those second grade lunches. They’re a doozy, I hear. They don’t like sugar cookies with sprinkles anymore, and good luck if you even think about cutting a sandwich wrong!