School is almost over. That means I will have to remember how to keep my children occupied for seven consecutive days in a row, 24 hours a day. That scares me. But there is one thing I will not miss: packing lunches.
I take no pleasure in that task. None. It’s about as much fun for me as cooking dinner. I am not sure how food preparation fell into my role of household responsibility, but I wish there was a domestic union to back me up. I’d belong to Local 27, Domestic Engineers and Household Neuroscientists; freedom fighters for domestic justice.
Lunch preparation is complicated. Life-threatening food allergies, food safety and the possibility of making something weird are apt to make children social outcasts. Your child’s reputation depends on a balance of cool foods and reusable packaging.
While I support the litterless lunch in theory, I am certain that movement is driven by the plastic lid-snappy container companies. I am convinced those are in cahoots with idiots who make lunch pails.
The lunch pail guys make them simply not big enough to stuff all the plastic containers into, which then forces you to purchase more tiny triangle shaped dishes or itsy-bitsy round ones that hold four Goldfish crackers (a total tease). Packing a lunch bag is a logistical nightmare of geometry. Some mornings I pack and unpack my kids’ lunches five times before I can make it fit, and even then, the yogurt had to come in a tube before I could get it covered as well. Sometimes I visualize my kids sitting in their desks, slowly pulling the zipper on their fashionable lunch pails, carefully sliding it along in trepidation in case the whole thing blows up like a jack-in-the-box. I can only imagine how hard it is to stuff the containers back in. That explains why no matter how many labels I use, I am constantly missing my reusable containers. Go figure.
Naturally, stuffing kids’ lunch pails full just makes the zippers break, the seams tear, etc. So of course, we trot off to find another inadequate square version of a PVC-free, environmental, leak-secured unit that keeps food cool and looks even cooler. Fat chance. Maybe lunch pails should come with insurance.
Wait. My conspiracy theory is gaining momentum. The plastic lid-snappy guys and the lunch pail manufacturers are in league with companies who make teeny-tiny bags of pre-packaged cookies, krispies, and fruit nibbles. I cave in every time. They are a domestically-disabled lunch maker’s dream. Pre-packaged mini-food groups, while a total rip off and complete environmental no-no, are, sadly, the greatest joy in my grocery shopping experience. I vow to do better, to be more economically astute and socially conscious. But when you are in the line-up at Zehrs at 5:50pm on a Sunday night, having just remembered you have nothing at all in the way of a nutritional food choice in your child’s lunch, you will run hard and fast to buy chewy fruit.
Of course, with summer upon us, I will lose my ability to control the grocery intake between 9 am and 4pm. Maybe school lunches have merit. I’m not sure I can afford to have my children at home. Popsicles for lunch, anyone?