Time for Lunch

8:34 am. The phone rings. My husband sounds exasperated.

 “James won’t go to class because he doesn’t want to eat school lunch. Can you reason with him?” Frowning, I check the time. School starts in six minutes. We are three months into the school year, but today is the first day James, who is six years old and in first grade, hasn’t had a lunch from home. He was fine when I explained that he would probably like trying school lunch today, and anyway we’re out of bread and apples, and every other kitchen staple. But I’m not surprised that he changed his mind in the three minute drive to school. James is like a midsummer day. One minute, sunny and warm, the next you hear thunder.

I try to sound encouraging. “Honey, you’ve got to go to school. You’re going to be late.” But he doesn’t respond. I can imagine the alligator tears sliding off his chin. I sigh, thinking of the half-dozen errands I have to run this morning. I’ll have to pick up things I need to make his lunch, too. James goes to lunch at 11:30. If the stars are aligned, I can make it.

“Ok, babe. Tell you what. I’ll bring you lunch if you’ll go into class right now.” It’s a deal. He sounds relieved and a little sheepish as he mumbles goodbye. I hang up and start making lists.

9:24. I’m making good time, handling a bulky cart with the skill of a stock-car driver. Leo, my three-year old, thinks it’s a game, peeling around corners and down the aisles. He giggles, dizzy and clutching the sides of the cart.

I’m more protective of James than I am of my other children. James struggled when he first started kindergarten last year. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he just glowered in the back seat each day when I picked him up. His teachers asked for strategies to coax him out of his shell. I had none to offer them. Eventually, he thrived, but it took several weeks.

10:17. The woman checking out in front of me has a 2” ring binder full of every coupon ever printed, and she’s just getting started. The girl standing behind the register has a vacant glassy-eyed look. Two more stops to go.

Sometimes I wonder if James got switched at birth. His features are dark, while mine are fair. He likes puzzles, and painstakingly picks each color for his art projects. I’m not patient enough to bother with coloring or puzzles. I jealously guard my private space, while he’s the cuddlebug of the family. He’s least like me. Maybe that’s why his alligator tears and mulish scowl get me every time. A mother doesn’t have favorites, I tell myself. But if I did…

11:07. I strap Leo into his carseat after our last stop. It will take me ten minutes to get home, two minutes to put a lunch together, and three to get to the school. That should put me at the school by 11:22. And then it hits me. It’s not James, but his older brother, Jeremy, who goes to lunch at 11:30. The younger grades start earlier. I’ve miscalculated, and I’ve cut it so close I may not make it in time. I race across town, watching the clock and trying not to white-knuckle the steering wheel. It’s just lunch, I try to tell myself. But I told him, promised him that I’d bring it to him, and he’s counting on me.

11:19. I barrel through the school doors, clutching Leo with one hand, and James’ lunch in the other. And I am not a moment too soon. I see the first-grade teachers leading their classes to the cafeteria. Among the jostling, bouncing children, James trudges down the hall, his head down. I have to hold his lunchbox directly under his nose before he finally looks up, and I see the tears are nearly spilling over. He pauses. One corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided, hesitant smile, and he lets out the tiniest of sighs. Then he’s off, without a word or a backward glance. Crisis averted, I watch him go, enjoying a rush of sweet relief.

11:24 am. I kept the trust of my favorite six-year-old.