When I was in Middle School, lunch time was the social event of your day. While in the classroom, you were pretty much just like everyone else (which is the ultimate goal in Middle School). It was at lunch when you were “grouped”. Where you sat, who you sat with, whether you bought lunch or brought lunch, all mattered, as ridiculous as that may sound. Only two groups bought hot lunch: the rich kids (because they had a parental disposable income) and the poor kids (because they ate at a reduced fee, or free). That leaves everyone else who brought their lunches. I remember buying my lunch exactly one time (but that is my memory, not fact). I remember this specifically because as I waited in line, looking thoroughly annoyed (it was cool to emulate the girls from Sixteen Candles and Breakfast Club) with my bouffant Princess Diana hairdo, braces (with rubber bands), my pink floor length cotton tank dress and white gladiator sandals (which, I’ll have you know, are back in style), one of my friends came up to me and told me that the coolest boy in our class thought I looked “cute” and “pouty” (which I am sure meant “childish” and “grumpy”, but I took it as a compliment). I digress.
My Mom made my lunch every day, “with love” as I am sure she would add. It was always the same formula:
x + y + z = sustained energy/nutritious lunch*, aka “Mom’s food formula”
* x = a combination of healthy bread, a meat, a cheese and something green, like lettuce or sprouts.
y = one piece of fruit
z = something sweet
I always got $.25 for a drink and being the good girl that I was, always splurged on milk. While my friends always had nutritiously void white bread sandwiches stuffed with nitrate-rich bologna and processed cheese, and an assortment of Hostess sweets (Ding Dongs, Twinkies, etc), I always had something well-rounded and nutritious. You know, the last thing you want to lay out in front of a bunch of snotty, judgmental 7th graders. While today, I am so incredibly impressed and thankful for my mom’s drive and ability to put together three well-rounded bag lunches for us kids five days a week, at the time, a corn dog and a can of Dr. Pepper (because that is what all the other kids ate) would have given me a 7th grade confidence you don’t find in a turkey, lettuce, cheese sandwich followed by a medium sized apple and (if my mom was feeling really squirrelly) an oatmeal Little Debbie Sandwich which was washed down with two cups of 2% milk, which no doubt got me through my afternoon Earth Sciences class.
After college, I was incredibly lucky to be invited back to live with my parents in an effort to save a little money from my $7.04 an hour job so that I could eventually move into an apartment and gain a little of that early twenties independence. My mom made my lunches, which I took with me to work everyday. Except Mom’s food formula bar had been raised. In fact, more often than not, my sandwiches were now made with homemade bread (and of course still contained x + y + z methodology). I used my own spare change from my $7.04/hour job to buy a Diet Coke, for I was an adult now…so long milk! Not to sidenote, but homemade bread often had a very crispy crust which could cut the roof of your mouth as you bit into it (because each piece was 1.5 inches thick) and the bready part contained natural holes for the mustard to sneak through to mess your hands, or God forbid, your $34 suit (term "suit" used loosely) you spent part of your hard earned $7.04/hour money on from Mariposa.
It is now blatantly obvious how lucky I really was. My mom dedicated all of her time to the welfare of her children. Was the “formula” a well thought out plan of hers? Or simply common sense? As I spread the budget no-name peanut butter on to the Costco wheat bread (cracked, not whole) or as I set the microwave to 3:35 seconds to make Easy Mac
again, I stop and think….WWMD*?
*What Would my Mother Do
Granted they didn’t have Easy Mac in the 80’s….but would serving a bowl of orange powdered pasta upwards of 3 meals a week been ok? Or would that have kept her up at night? The one thing I do remember learning from my Mom’s food formula is that a plate must have 3 different colors on it. “Different” being the operative word.
Wrong: Rice (white), mashed potatoes (white) and chicken (whitish).
Right: Wild rice (brown flecked), Broccoli (green) and chicken (whitish)
It seems so simple. Execution is the hardest part.
I am standing at the fork in the road of child-rearing which includes my children’s nutritional future. Does my behavior now determine if my kids are picky adults, or if they will choose the drive thru over something healthy, homemade and balanced? Am I setting my kids up for an adulthood of diabetes and obesity? Will my kids be one of the ones sitting at the Middle School lunch table obliviously noshing away on nutritously void white bread and nitrates? WTF? WWMD? My children, while only 4 and 16 months, are developing their own food pickiness which, unfortunately, tends to drive my menu, which most certainly does not follow Mom’s food formula. While in middle school I may have
wanted a corndog and Dr. Pepper, I
got a brown bag filled with x + y + z. And because I only had $.25 for a beverage, I had little other options than to just eat it. And guess what? I liked it. And I am guessing, so would my kids.
Maybe it is time to pull out the parenting manual to read the chapter on how to convert from a menu of “I-serve-him-this-because-I-know-he-will-eat-it,-so-what-if-it-is-only- one-item,-one-color-at-least-I-don’t-have-to-hear-whining” to “x + y + z = sustained energy/nutritious meal”. I need to go because I have some manual reading to do and Thank You Mom for making the estimated 8395 lunches, give or take a few (more than the usual child, seeing how you made my lunch until I was 24 years old). While I may not follow it to a “T” (yet), at least it helps me to recognize my areas needing improvement, so my children thank you too. Or at least they will in 30 something years.
Love, B
But more on him later.
Poor baby Charlie has been suffering (ok, that is a little dramatic) with a face rash for months now. He will be seeing a dermatologist on 7/21/09 to determine next steps. His doctor things it might be psoriasis. I really hope she is wrong. Some days it looks better than others. Sadly, this was a relatively good day:
But that won't stop Charlie from enjoying the hot weather we have been having! Why (?) you ask are our kids always naked in the backyard? Good question. I don't have an answer other than they really, really like being naked outside. Swim suits tend to stick to you when you are wet. That, and they really don't want to mess with tan lines.
Henry and Charlie walked with their cousins in the Happy Valley 4th of July parade on Saturday. This was our attempt at the Barton float:
Our kids are really quite self-sufficient when it comes to potty hygiene. Who needs toilet paper when you can just stand over a fire hose built into the ground?
Seeing how Henry started the crazy game of standing over the water by himself, I have concluded that this behavior is just a boy gene and I'm not going to even pretend to understand it.
If you don't already know this, Charlie has a strange fascination with anything vacuum, broom or swifferish. Cleverly, my parents made Charlie is own Charlie-sized swiffer to use in their home. They were tired of him missing spots on the expansive tile floors. Now....get back to work Charlie!
There are just some people that you could photograph all day. Aside from my own beautiful children, Ax is high on my list.
As Henry says "Swip-n-swide!!!!"
Mmmm...mellllon....
BBQ at Aunt Sissy and Uncle RyRy's house after a long day of playing in the sun.
Henry still has a horrible fear of anything fireworkish. He runs to the farthest corner, covers his ears and cries uncontrollably. We tried fireworks again this year, but to no avail. Charlie loves them and if offered would probably hold a sparkler in between his teeth, while juggling smoke balls and balancing a piccolo pete on his head (which I would never allow in case there is any confusion). Henry even spent the whole drive home covering his ears and telling Daddy which way NOT to go (anywhere he saw fireworks in the sky). Poor little guy...maybe next year. 
