One more day. I only have to pack school lunches for one more day. It seems like an easy task. How long could it possibly take to throw a few things in a lunchbox? This is where people chime in about how I need to enjoy these moments while I can. Time goes by so fast. I can hate packing lunches and love my child at the same time. There is something about cutting the crust off bread at 4 a.m. that can send one into a psychotic rage. I accidentally bought American cheese last week. Do you remember the scene in “Sleeping With the Enemy” when Julia Roberts realizes the cans are misaligned? That was the level of panic I had when I realized I wouldn’t have “white cheese” to put on my daughter’s sandwich. What the hell happened to me? I am afraid of an 8-year-old. A friend once said “If she is hungry enough she will eat it.” No, she won’t. It will go right in the trash. Then, she will want a snack the second she walks in the door instead of two seconds after she walks in the door. What’s the difference between packing a lunch and making it at home? That’s a good question. It’s one of the great mysteries of the world.
The time I will save packing lunches will be used sorting through papers. Every year my child brings home enough worksheets, workbooks, artwork, etc. to fill a swimming pool. My kid isn’t going to finish the last six pages of the math workbook. It’s hard enough to get my children to do homework during the school year. Plus, because of the Common Core curriculum I don’t even know how to answer the problems. I miss the good old days when you could solve a problem without 100 steps. I could also do without you sending home every piece of paper they touched during the year. Not all artwork is created equal. They aren’t all winners. What do you expect me to do with a half finished coloring sheet of a squirrel? Should I hang their construction paper diagram of a plant on my wall? I don’t want the name tag that hung on their desk. This person grew in my uterus and gave me stretch marks for days. I will never forget his or her name. Listen, I barely have enough room in my house for their shoes which are actually a necessity. No matter how many times I organize the footwear it inevitably ends up in a pile in the corner of the room. These kids come out of the building hunched over trying to carry their weight in garbage. So, let’s cut out the middle man – which is me – and get rid of this stuff at school. Recycle it. Throw it away. I don’t care.