... or, at least, that's what the song in my head keeps saying. Ahh, yes, the lilting melody is stuck in my head, my daily soundtrack as I frantically rush out the door to drive my kids to summer day camps. Late again. The song is mocking me. Stuck in my head, telling me that everything will be easy -- because it's summertime.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Lunch Shack
It’s the first Tuesday of the month, my day to work the lunch shack at my son’s school. As I run out the door, I leave my desk at home littered with papers from yet another school-related volunteer project -- which will be waiting for me when I get back from lunch -- so it is one of those days when volunteering feels like a full-time job. I am one of the many unpaid-yet-working moms who have the luxury of helping out at the schools. We know it is a privilege, but sometimes it still feels like work.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
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