Let's Do Lunch

I had lunch with my daughter E's class last week in honor of her tenth birthday. I had a tough time picking out what to wear, as if it were a first date and not a lunch with twenty-seven children. I knew if I didn't make the right choice, it might somehow negatively impact E's social life, and Lord knows she doesn't need my help to make socialization more difficult. Two outfits later, I found the right combination of motherly but not matronly, colorful but not gaudy, with no sign of cleavage. I had in hand a tray of twenty-eight pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, E's favorite birthday treat (and yes, I made them from scratch), along with my own lunch, a turkey and Swiss on egg bagel with crisp romaine lettuce and thinly sliced campari tomato (I just committed the cardinal sign of describing my lunch on my blog; apparently, it has come to this.) I had on a tasteful amount of makeup and my volunteer ID badge.

After checking in at the front office, I walked over to the fourth grade pod and waited patiently at a table for lunchtime to commence. E's classroom door opened and the class trickled out, some greeting me as E's mom and asking me if I was really a writer. Clearly, I was not a surprise visitor, since not only had she told them I was coming, but she expressed some level of pride in what I do. How validating! E came out of the room in line, all smiles because she felt so special. I followed behind her class to the cafeteria.

No matter how many times I walk in the lunchroom, I am never prepared for the old sandwich smell that lingers. The last time I was in the school cafeteria, it was for the room mother's meeting at the beginning of the school year, and was just a bunch of moms sitting around. This time, it was chock full of students, most in third through fifth grade. These kids were big, and some looked like they could easily pass for 8th graders. I bet the 8th graders can pass for 11th graders these days. There's nothing like a room full of giant kids to remind you that your own children are growing up, and fast. I do remember wearing a training bra in fifth grade, but not make up. Then again, my role models weren't Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears.

E could not contain her delight at having me join her for lunch. She saved me a seat, and we sat next to each other and waited for the kids who bought their lunch to join the class at the table. The cafeteria lunch, by the way, was an odd assortment of chicken fingers, refried beans, and Italian breadsticks. I know it's November, but isn't it kind of early to be using up all the leftover food before the winter break?

What stood out for me about her class was how different it was than at her last school. This is E's first year in the public school near our home; she spent the last six years at a Montessori school. That school was very ethnically diverse in a way that always sounded like the start of a joke: a Jew, a Buddhist, and three Hindus walk into a classroom... E tended to make friends with more boys than girls because, well, there were more boys than girls. Half the kids were Asian, and the rest were such a mix of other cultures that a white American kid was the minority.

In contrast, her new school is so white, I thought I had moved back to Phoenix. Not only were there no Indian kids, there was only one African American girl. Where was the diversity? Oh right, I live in the suburbs in a town that has yet to learn about integration.

The boys and the girls did not mix at all, except for one boy who sat right in the middle of all the girls, either A. to bug the crap out of them; B. because he likes them; or C. because he wants to be one of them. Whatever the reason, his choice to sit in the girls' section cause a fair amount of eye rolling followed by mass shunning. I liked him immediately, because that kid had balls!

The other thing that freaked me out about E's class was that, with the exception of maybe four kids out of twenty-seven, they all had the same hair color. Dirty blond, light brown, you know, that shade that millions of women put tin foil in their hair to achieve? Well, I was surrounded by healthy straight Jennifer Anniston hair. It was like a cloning experiment. And the boys all had the same haircut, probably from the same SportsClips down the street. I know I will never be able to tell any of them apart. They were gingerbread boys and girls.


I passed out the muffins to the class, pleasantly surprised that most of the kids took them without being put off by the pumpkin. When I sat back down, E had helped herself to my sandwich, and smiled at me with bits of tomato hanging out of her mouth. We shared my sandwich and her Sun chips, like friends sometimes do in the school cafeteria.


The best part of lunch, however, was how happy E was. She was excited it was her birthday, and was pleased I was there to join her. She wasn't the least bit embarrassed when I kissed her forehead. She threw her arm around me and leaned on me and whispered in my ear, and she even wanted me to walk back to the classroom with her so she could say good bye one last time.

It might be her birthday, but that lunch was a gift for me. She is ten now; in a matter of a few years, she's not going to want me to come to school, or to sit next to her, or to throw my arms around her. I fear I will feel the same way about her, that just being together makes us both insane, as her head spins around and I screech loudly like a turkey vulture. Until then, I have to take advantage of these lovely opportunities and not concentrate on how many pairs of shoes she leaves all over the house. Happy birthday, baby!