Packing lunches is a battle in my home. I'm raising self-sufficient children, whom are all capable of shoving what they'd like to eat into this reusable bag. It accomplishes so much more than that...it also decreases how many times I'll ever have to hear the words, "I just didn't feel like eating THAT for lunch!" Oh, really?!?! ...then why did you pack it.
And yet; it's still a chore; for my youngest of Things. She *hates* packing her lunch. There's the daily scream that there is nothing to eat in the house (of course, untrue) and that it's unfair she has to pack her lunch (again, untrue because everyone, including their father, packs their own lunch daily). I digress...
Today was no exception. No exception in that she hemmed and hawed over packing her lunch. No exception in that she had a somewhat apocalyptic meltdown over there being [read this in the tone of a belligerent and exasperated six-year-old] 'absolutely nothing I ever want to pack to eat in my life!' in the fridge. And yet; today was different. Vastly different.
It suddenly became terribly quiet. ...and then humming started. My youngest beats her own drum, and frankly, we've joked that the aliens she loves to converse with have put that beat in her head - but that's the tune I heard hummed out. I thought to myself that she must have taken a deep breath and found some strength to muster up her inner packaging Goddess. Sweet. I left it all alone and sat nursing my afternoon caffeine.
Mistake. Wrong. Fail. Boo.
Precisely 15 minutes later, the humming dwindled and this child sidled up to me on the couch.
"MOMMY! I packed my own...well, you'll never guess!!!"
I looked up. The Horror!
"OHMAHGAWD!"
[she giggled]
"Mommy! I packed a peanut butter roll-up...... [she paused for DRAMATIC effect, yet what happened, is that the music from Psycho started playing in my head] with: FLUFF!"
It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. "No shit!"
Ooops. Can't shove that back in. My bad.
She looked defeated. "You knew I used fluff? How?"
"Well, baby [the music is getting to a dull roar in my head now], it's all over your hands. And on your shirt. And smeared on your face...and SWEET BABY JESUS - IT'S IN YOUR FREAKING HAIR!" At this point, I get up. [music begins its absolute crescendo] I walk into the kitchen. I brace myself for the inevitable...
And what I find is a perfectly clean kitchen. A roll-up on a plate. A packed lunch. And a girl's purple Nerf gun on the counter - also covered in fluff. I've decided I don't want to know...
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