The Last Lunch Note

*Copied-without permission-from the note I tucked in Abby's lunch this morning. 

This is the last lunch note I will write you.  

You were my “pack a lunch” kiddo.  While the boys always liked to buy their lunches, you preferred to pack yours, almost always.  

When you were younger, you would pack them yourself.  But in these last few years, the job fell to me.  Isn’t that weird?  I think most kids would have grown INTO the job, not out of it.  You got busy in the evenings, and began to count on your lunch being prepped, and I wore the “I pack a great lunch” badge with honor.   I never minded, particularly.  Well, to be fair, some mornings I would grumble and moan and the absolute last thing I wanted to do at 6:45 am was pack a lunch, but MOSTLY I loved it.  

You were a very thoughtful and meticulous planner.  I would know well in advance that you would like to eat chicken breasts and mini guacamole cups one week, or peanut butter and banana sandwiches another.  Cut up veggies.  Grapes.  And dips of all kinds.  Ranch, sour cream, bleu cheese, hummus, hot sauce.  If I could pour it into a tiny cup, and you could dip a veggie into it, thumbs up--lunch is served.

I could occasionally convince you to branch out.  The wrap-sandwich experiment, for example.  It didn’t work too well, until I cut your wrap into tiny pinwheels, then you liked it better.  OMG.  I think I finally get it. . .you’re actually still a toddler!  You like things in tiny pieces and anything you can dip into anything else.  Sigh.  Captain Obvious, where were you when I needed you?

There were the lunch crisis moments, those mornings when I didn’t think you were packing a lunch, and the call would come down the stairs at 7:19.  “Mom, can I have a lunch?”  Those were the days you got 1/4 of a cold Chipotle burrito from the fridge, a piece of questionable fruit, and a small handful of Halloween candy.  In April.  But you would still get a lunch note, no matter what.  

Every packed lunch gets a lunch note.  My boys got fewer, but they got them, and I had the pleasure of finding all of them, saved, every year, in the inside pockets of the soft-sided lunch boxes.  Something about those notes, being tucked away instead of tossed aside, made every note that much more important to compose.

Ahem.  Compose is a big word.  Write.  Scratch.  Scrawl.  Some were clever.  Some notes to you were honest.  Some were “good luck on your test.”  Other’s were “HI!” on a napkin.  Once or twice, when you were running out the door, I had to blow a kiss into the lunchbox and yell “LUNCH NOTE!”  (Whatever works in the moment, right?)  Many would discuss the latest "Grey’s Anatomy" episode, or Scandal, or "Secrets And Lies" (Where is that show, anyway?  Anyone?)  I’d try to be inspirational, or funny.  Or punny.  Or holiday-themed.  I would go for the laugh, but my daily goal was always the same:  to let you know that I was thinking of you while you were in the lunch room, dipping your cucumbers in the dip-of-the-day, hanging out with your girlies.  

This is your last lunch note.

I’ve told you everything I could possibly tell you, at least in lunch-note language.  But to finish it off, here you go:

Have a good day.

Sing out.  Sing your song.  Good luck on every audition, ever.

Don’t talk to boys, but if you do, be smarter than they are.  (Not hard.)

You be you, GURL.

Take your time on every test.  Read the questions carefully.  

Plan in advance, but if you don’t, make the best with what you have.

Be careful what you dip into.

Try the wrap.  

Take small bites.

There is no shelf life on Halloween candy.

Be brave.

Your hair looks great today.

When you are watching Grey’s, eat the caramels.  Think of me when you accidentally get a cream.

Send notes.  Leave notes.  

When you eat lunch, know that I am thinking of you.  

I’m proud of you.

Make good choices.

Be a good friend.

You are a star.

It’s a great day to save lives.

Where is Secrets and Lies?

I’m going to miss you, but I’ll be okay.  

I love you.  I really, really love you.

This is the last lunch note.  Signing off.  May 13, 2016.  XOXO 

Love

Mommy

Best Dog Friend

 They tried to warn me, those naysayers and nonbelievers.  It will be hard work, they said.  You’ll be up all night with the crying, I heard.

I’d fought it for years, but I was ready.

Now?  I heard.  Your kids are so big, and you’re doing this now?

Can’t explain it.  I was ready.

It will tie you down, some argued.  You love to travel.

Didn’t care.  I was ready.  

I gathered my research, read the books, did the preparation, bought the supplies, and made the plan.  

I was ready.

And on the day he came home, I was really, really ready.

I was prepared with the small bowls and the soft food.  There were itty-bitty snacks and soft blankets, and toys.

Pee-pee pads, two crates, three beds, seven different chewy bones, a dog car-seat, and one two-and-a-half pound Maltese puppy.  

Coach the Dog was a late-but-great addition to our family.  Small in stature, but big in personality, he offers kisses to all who will accept (and serious make-out sessions with some lucky winners).  This fluffy little puffball has taken over our home and schedule.   But we were ready.  

We were all ready to bring the puppy home.  I was not prepared to meet my Best Dog Friend. 

My Best Dog Friend came into the house in my arms on August 29th, and hasn’t left my side.  The pitter-patter of his four small paws follows me everywhere.  From the stove to the refrigerator.  From the couch to the bedroom.  From the bed to the bathroom and back to the bed.  If I am working, he sleeps under my desk.  If I get up, he gets up.  My Best Dog Friend likes to sit on my vanity while I dry my hair.  And he likes me to dry his already-dry fur. (High maintenance.)

My Best Dog Friend protects me from things I cannot see, and from my husband whenever he tries to put his arm around me.  

My Best Dog Friend warns me of possible intruders, or maybe just leaves on the porch.  

My Best Dog Friend shares my food with himself.

My Best Dog Friend cries when I leave and falls all over himself with joy--literally--when I come home...from getting the mail.

When Adam is traveling, My Best Dog Friends sleeps on the bed and makes us both happy.  (Oh, I mean he’s totally crate-trained.) 

        My Best Dog Friend keeps me company when my kids (“your kids are so big!”) are gone all day.

        I was ready to bring a puppy into the house.  I was unprepared to fall in love.

I’ve never had a Best Dog Friend.   I was ready.

God and Baseball

Be still.  (Still calling those as strikes? Really? You're missing a great game, Blue. . . )

Be still,  and (and NOW it's a ball?  You have GOT to be kidding.)

Be still, and know (you know what?  I'm going just post these pictures of Jono batting on Facebook)

Be still, and know that I (I need another water.  Does Jono need a Gatorade?  Where is the Gatorade?)

Be still, and know that I am (I am on 15% battery here.  I hate it when that happens.)

Be still, and know that I am God.  (Um, God?  I am trying to watch a game, here.)

But I wasn't.  And that verse, my very favorite, was quietly inching its way to the front of my brain.  Now, I know that God and baseball (and cellphones and Facebook) might not intertwine for most, but for me, they go hand-in-hand.  What was meant to be a peaceful morning, relaxing in the beautiful sunshine, watching my son play his favorite game, was being overshadowed by the unimportant details.

So I put down the phone, and relaxed into my chair.  And there, with God and baseball, with the sun on my face, enjoying the boy I love playing the game he was born to play, I was finally still.

I was even thankful for the umpires. . . and that says a lot.

Be still, and know that I am God.  Psalm 46:10

Singing Outside the Box

I've never been that great at "stepping out of the proverbial box."  No thank you,  new boxes.  I like the spaces, activities and schedule that I have created, and I like the people that are incorporated into my world.  So it should have come as no surprise when my best friend, Lisa, told me recently that it also takes me a while to warm up to new people. But surprised I was.

This can't be true.  I thought I LIKED meeting people.

"You do like meeting them," she assured me.  "But it takes you a while to see if you're going to let them in."

Really?  REALLY?   So then I asked her how long it took me to decide.  I assumed that A) she wouldn't know or B) it would be a few weeks to a month.  

Seven years, on average.  

Apparently, I'm a mean dog in a lonely, box-shaped crate.  Like, the meanest.  No new people.  No new boxes.  Go away.  Get out.  See you in seven years.  

Those who know me well will hopefully attest that this is a bit of an exaggeration.  I'm not the meanest dog, but maybe it is okay to step back and consider who and what we let in.  At the same time, we don't want to let great things pass us by.

The past couple of months, I've been seeing notices at church recruiting singers for Faure's Requiem. Dates and times for vocal interviews.  Come and sing!  Everyone in the community invited.   I saw the same notice in the Hudson Hub.  I love singing big pieces of music.  Well, I love singing any piece of music, but the idea of this was really calling to me.  I haven't sung in a long, long time, but I kept thinking. . . if I don't audition, and I'm in the congregation watching, what will I thinking as I enjoy the music? What experience might I have allowed to pass me by?

Rehearsals are on Monday nights, a night in my week that is absolutely free.  So I scheduled my interview, sang for Tom, received my score, and went to my first rehearsal.  Out of my box.   Although singing is something that feels natural, I've not sung in this setting, with this director, with these people.  There were a few familiar faces, but far fewer than I expected.  So. . . deep breath.  New box.  New people.  Surface introductions.  Sang the first movement.  Night one, big success.

At the second rehearsal, I was sitting next to Tracy again, in the Alto section.  (Note:  it is also waaaaaay out of my box to sing Alto.)  She sat down and opened her binder.  Binder!  I was there with my score and pencil, now feeling underprepared.  

"I'm doing that next week," I said, coveting. 

"Well," Tracy said.  "I sing in three choirs.  I just love to sing!  So I have to do this."  In her binder, she also had a pencil case with a mass of sharp pencils, a pencil sharpener, and all the handouts from Tom.  I was overcome with jealousy.  I have missed years of this.  

Tracy went on to tell me that she sang in the Laurel Lake Choir, and also the Hudson Community Choir.  I shared that I had sung in the Community Choir many years ago.  She asked where I had grown up (Cincinnati) and she told me she was from Lima, OH.  And there it was-- The Connection.  Lima is a town very near Indian Lake, OH, where my grandparents are from, and where I spent (and spend) many of my summer days.  It's where my parents met and still have my grandparent's home.  It's where my dad was a lifeguard and where I learned to waterski.  It's where I fell in love with the day lilies that I transplanted to my own yard.  Tracy told me she danced at the same ballroom where my grandfather's band played.  She knew the amusement park.  We both knew Hinkle's donut shop.  

After practice, we walked and talked toward the exit.  We took the elevator down and chatted some more.  Tracy would drive home, one town over.  In the elevator, she had asked if I attended church at First Congregational.  I had said "Yes, since 1998."  I believe Tracy was far more out of her box than I, and yet she seemed infinitely more comfortable.

Now, I have my binder ready.  I have made at least one new friend.  I've learned two movements of the Requiem.  The words are so familiar but the tune is not, and I have but six weeks, not seven years, to warm up to the song.   I'm already loving the experience, though, so I'm not really worried.  

 Make a friend.  Sing a song.  Walk and talk.   Open your heart and take a tiny step out of your box.  Even if it's back into a place you've been before.  

Kids Today. . . Rock!

I am a user of social media.  Twitter is my first source for breaking news and weather alerts,  Facebook keeps me connected to family and friends, and Instagram (when I remember) shows me fun and often beautiful moments from my daughter's life.  I am intrigued by the way the world is becoming connected and instantly updated; more than that-- I am amazed.

At first, I resisted.  "Facebook? No thanks."  However, once my children became members of the digital society,  I felt the need to join, connect, and put myself, well, out there.  For a few years, I was an avid user, and I still go through spurts.  But more often than not, I'm now more of a scroller.  

While I still love the technology, I've become a bit disenchanted with the overwhelming number of posts about (and I am most definitely paraphrasing) "We Are Raising Entitled Kids" and "Growing Up In the 80's (50s, 60s, 70s) was So Much Better!"    We brag, we boast, we compare, we criticize.  Kids today!  Stop being bored, kids.  Go drink out of a garden hose and ride your bikes until the street lights turn on. Work.  Get a job.  Make your bed.  Fly a kite.  When I was your age, I carried a four-pound WalkMan and listened to an Air Supply mix tape on gym-shoe roller skates.  (That's true; I did.)  Does it really prove anything at all?  To be clear, I can see my daughter right now, from here, wearing a super cool outfit.  Her tiny earbuds are tossed on the table and she is NOT wearing skates of any kind.  I think she wins this particular battle of "Then vs. Now."

Do my children feel entitled?  I hope not.  Or spoiled, mean, rotten, evil, nasty, cranky, selfish or any number of things that I wouldn't want them to feel.  Sick, angry, hurt, scared, hopeless, hungry, sad, bullied or worried.

Kids today.  Geez. 

It's entirely possible that, at some point, I may have shared a post like the ones I am arguing against.   I can't remember if I have or haven't.  And if I have,  I am hereby disenchanted with myself.  It's not that I necessarily disagree with all of the articles, or with the clever captions on the cute stock photos about parenting--they often make me laugh out loud!  

But I wonder, do the kids laugh when they read the the posts about kids?

These kids are our children.  They grew up in a digital world, one that provides instant updates and one-day shipping,  iPhone notifications and friend requests.  The fact that we, the adults, continue to post about the entitled, spoiled, bored kids of the world feels entirely unjust.

The truth is, they're probably not reading the posts.  They've likely moved on to the next big thing, and we are already one step behind.  But just in case, it would be nice to post with kindness in reference to our own children.

And I know that we ALL do.  I see the birthday messages, the sports photos, the messages of good news and the beautiful vacation pictures.  I've seen magic happen with prayer requests and stories shared.  The possibility for good is seemingly endless!

The digital world is allowing us a connectedness that is both instant and far-reaching.  It makes this big world feel smaller every day, as we branch out and share our stories and our lives.  I'd rather learn from these crazy "kids today" about what this new digital world has to offer, than try to convince them to live in the world where I grew up thirty (ahem) years ago.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pair of royal blue Adidas skates to find. . .  but at least I have a playlist on my iPhone.

The Sample Lady

I wish everything was served on a toothpick.  I'm the best guest at an appetizer party--hot, cold, passed, served.  If it's small and bite sized, I'll give it a whirl.  And I'm increasingly amazed at what people can stab onto a small stick and serve at a party.  I remain duly impressed.

When my children were small, I wasn't very good at fighting the food wars, and chose instead to pretend that my kitchen was Sam's Club, and that I was the sample lady.  "Cheese cube?" I would ask.  I presented the orange cubes on an Elmo plate with a small heap of pretzel sticks.  Not only was it a great game (stick the cube on the pretzel) but it was a perfect snack, and a cute appetizer.  Toothpick, pretzel-- it's all the same to me.   For years, I served chunks of pears, peaches, veggies, and bananas all with tiny pretzel toothpicks.  It was a party on the highchair tray at every meal.  (Note:  Cheerios and pretzels is like ring-toss, and it's super-duper fun!)

Yesterday, I noticed that a large box of frozen chicken sandwiches was still in the freezer, untouched. I had purchased them thinking they would serve the purpose of a good, quick snack between summer camp, theater, and baseball games, but since they were unfamiliar, no one had tried them.  *GASP! NEW FOOD ITEM! THE CHILDREN ARE INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENED*  So, as I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry, I heated up two sandwiches, cut them into sixteen small wedges, and grabbed my trusty toothpicks.   I put the "appetizer" onto a white plate on the counter, and ignored it.

"What is this?"  my youngest is intrigued.

"Nothing,"  I said, turning away and boiling water for pasta.

The sandwiches had been in the freezer for weeks, taking up space.  I had actually offered them up a few times, and was shot down on the basis of "never having had them before."  That's right.  You will live the rest of your life eating only things you have had before.  Enjoy your long life filled with waffles, pasta, pizza, Gatorade and cereal.

 "I just thought you guys might like a snack," I said, "but dinner will be ready soon."  My mom-voice implies: WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EAT THOSE BEAUTIFUL MINI SANDWICHES.

I would not look my children directly in the eye.  I would not ask them to try a bite.  From the pantry, though,  I could see them walking past, grabbing the bites of sandwich.  Like their mother, they cannot resist a tiny taste on a fancy plate.

"Those are pretty good, Mom," said my oldest.

"I'm so glad," I answer.  "Don't ruin your dinner."

My daughter grabbed another on her way through the kitchen.  "Not too many!" I call.  In a few days I will tell them that they can have a whole sandwich anytime they like.  But not yet.  I am wielding a private sense of power with my secret chicken hors d'oeuvres.

I wonder what else we might try if it was offered in fancy packaging and in the least overwhelming serving?

It reminds me of when my girlfriends took me skiing for the first time.  I was convinced mostly by my fancy new skis (toothpicks?) and the idea that it was only a six-week course (appetizer?)

And as I grab a mini-chicken sandwich wedge (obviously) I promise myself to be open to the samples that are being handed to me on platters every single day.  It just can't hurt to try.

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