No Free Forgotten Lunch
I’d like to think I’m the Michael Jordan of mothers. No, silly, not for my greatness and universal recognition (identify yourself as from Chicago literally anywhere in the world, and people with otherwise zero English will invariably exclaim “Ah, Michael Jordan!”) but because one of the quotes attributed to him goes like “I’ve failed over and over, that’s why I’m successful.” Now, whatever success has recently been credited to my mothering faculties is due to my children’s own efforts, so that’s no score (and no humble brag) for me, but failed I have. Over and over. Today.
As a fellow parent or just someone skimming the news, you can’t have missed that helicopter parents are all the rage, and not in a good way. There is some misconception on what constitutes a proper chopper, and it matters: Ambitious, even pushy parents invested in their child’s success, often assigned to a wild feline family, are not the same as anxious moms (yeah, it’s mostly mothers) supervising every step with a 4x4 and hand sanitizer. Both may have good reasons for their styles; both are wont to go overboard. But this isn’t about judging others, I’ll savor that another day. I’m judging myself.
Guilty as charged: I took my son’s forgotten lunch bag to (high) school for him. For the second time this school year. I know I shouldn’t have. There isn’t a single reason I had to. He wouldn’t have starved in 8 hours, he didn’t have any money on him but surely could have mooched off someone or snuck out to Starbucks or Chipotle with the card we gave him, which makes me look even worse. But he is a young man of principle, except when it comes to organizing (did I mention I’m still making his lunches although he is perfectly capable of slapping two slices of toast with PB&J, which he prefers anyway to the remoulade/pesto/avocado/tahini/tofu/tomato on whole grain I’m alternating day after day?).
By bailing him out I’m not helping. I’m staving off a minor inconvenience for him by inflicting a minor one on me, teaching him that his morning ditziness has no consequences. Anyone notice I’m privileged for even having the time for that? Sexist too, probably, since I’ve barely ever taken things my daughter forgot, because she barely ever forgets anything and I’m not providing enough positive reinforcement. In fact I’m abandoning her as I write this by refusing to call her out of school because she’s bored (mild case of senioritis).
But this one’s about the boy.
My feeble defense: It happens only once or twice a year, some years it hasn’t happened at all. (The other time, a couple months ago, I folded to his desperate plea to bring his running shoes and was met by a less than accommodating policewoman assisting security in the front office, who admonished me that this was off-limits — lunch delivery service only, and it was with submissive worming that I mellowed her into making an exception. While I resented her presence and the sad need for it, on the issue she was on target).
So, my son still hasn’t learned his lesson. But he’s learning a lot in school, at least he’s studying a lot, as are all the other kids I know. The night before he was preparing for tests until after 11 pm, which may not be late for teenage rhythms but is an hour after the weeknight curfew we try to impose, with 7 am wake-up (again, later than many) not affording enough sleep for his growing body by a long shot. When he comes down for breakfast he can barely open his eyes and is probably half asleep throughout first period, unfortunately a hard class. He’s a good kid, which sounds as generic and biased as it gets, but I like to cut teenagers slack in general.
Kids these days…
“Kids these days…” are, yes, entitled, screen-dazed, spoiled little brats with no appreciation of how the rest of the world works, and they can be unbearably smug about it. Kids these days are also wiped out. School demands so much more of them than it used to, and that’s not a bad thing per se — we grow along with our tasks. Dumbing down is the last thing America needs, and I’m in favor of challenge and training resilience. Why then am I flailing at it?
…won’t be kids forever.
Maybe because I miss my kids when they were little, exasperating though they could be, and now that they’re inching close to being adults I know something they don’t, that things for adults are only going to get harder and that they should enjoy these years, because they’ll stay adults for the rest of their lives.
And they know something I don’t: That although I’ve done my time, I can’t really imagine anymore going to school, tired, cranky for whatever hormonal or practical reason, worried about my looks without realizing how cute I am, expected to perform academically, athletically and extracurricularly to a degree that wasn’t expected way back when, exposed to quizzes and tests and behavioral scrutiny, not to mention the unnavigable yet clearly present peer labyrinth. Through it all, I’d also be required to be a leader while being a team player, show “character” and practice kindness by volunteering, lest I want college admissions to leave me in the slush pile.
I want to tell my kids, and I do but of course they don’t listen, that they’ll look back at this time wistfully, that it might all look sweet and easy and that these four years should be so much more than an express line to college, a stubborn topic starting freshman year that I’d like to press the mute button on, but the system isn’t letting me. So, I guess I want to make their time a tiny bit more enjoyable when I can, and if cushioning lapses like forgetting your lunch fits the bill, I’ll grudgingly do it, glad I’m able to.
My son, who calls on me for matters he frankly should be on top on by now, is the same boy who’d sometimes text me during lunch period “Such a good sandwich today! I love you!” and although I’m vehemently opposed to phone use at school, my heart leaps. It’s the boy who, when I took him and his friends to a free museum day, slides up to me and whispers “Are you having fun, too, mama?” The boy who can read my mind when he sees me staring out the window and says, with no preamble because none is needed: “You don’t need an outside job for validation. You just need to relax.”
One manifestation of a mother’s love is the joy in feeding her child, and I’ll take the rap for helicoptering in exchange for keeping this joy a little longer. For the touchy: I am not insinuating for a second that more consequent mothers than me love their children less, just that there are varying ideas of joy. And that’s okay. We are okay.
