The Worthington Post: Suspicious Minds (apologies to Elvis)

There were clues all along.  Hiding in plain sight, as it were.  There were others.  I was not the only one.

I became very minimally tuned in to this during my absences from home, and what would take place while I was gone visiting family and whatnot.  There were hints when I returned, and it was vaguely unsettling.

Things would always go back to normal, everyone acting like nothing had happened while I was away, going about our regular business each morning and evening.  Deep in the dusty recesses of my mind, though, I knew. 

“The kids were great!” the huz would say.  “N would hover as I made lunch, because he was afraid I’d do it wrong, but otherwise it was no problem.”  Still, something nagged. 

I tamped down my subconscious suspicions and worked hard to cover the resentment they caused.  The jealousy.  I put the fruit in baggies and they watched “So You Think You Can Dance.”  They were oblivious.  Oblivious to my pain.  It didn’t even occur to them that I was thinking these thoughts.

“Can I have Oreos in my lunch instead of chocolate chip cookies tomorrow, Mom?”  Such an innocent question.  But they knew.  These rotten kids knew, I tell you.  And I knew they knew.  But they didn’t know I knew they knew.  (Did you ever type a word so many times it started to look weird?  Anyhow…)

I would dread the evenings because of it, and in the mornings the specter still loomed.  Huz would cheerfully kiss me goodbye, helpfully taking one of the kids to school after I made sandwiches for their lunches.  Looking back, I don’t know how I missed the evidence smacking me in the face every day.

I was not the only one.

The kids came home from school, fixing themselves snacks and putting their dishes in the sink, as if completely unaware of their complicity in this ugly cover-up.  They knew.  They knew all along.

One day, I was talking with my great friend, Jen Cooper, about the prevalence of media today.  She made an offhand remark about how so many people reach for their cell phones before they even say good morning to the other person(s) in the room, or something like that.  When she was growing up, she reminisced, she’d actually interact with her family before school, she and her sibs making their lunches for the day…

Everything got hazy.  I walked around in a fog all day, muttering to myself… “They made their own lunches…”  I’d say it in different ways and tones of voices.  I stood on the curb like a statue while a car splashed a puddle on me, whispering, “THEY made their own lunches…”  I absent-mindedly put the crackers in the fridge and the milk in the pantry, saying, “They made their OWN lunches…”  I squirted toothpaste into my contact lens holder, and watched myself say it in the mirror: “They made their own LUNCHES…”

Soon, I started walking quickly…then the walk turned into a skip.  The skip turned into a run, through fields of wildflowers, birds singing and my hair blowing in the wind!  I ran, with my arms outstretched, embracing the mountaintops ahead of me!  I was wearing an apron, and I had short blond hair and was at the top of the Swiss Alps, spinning around and around!  No, wait – that was Julie Andrews…

But seriously?  It all fell into place.  I was not the only one who could make lunches.  My kids knew how to make their own lunches! (the ones in seventh and ninth grades, at least.)  They showed it when I was gone, making sure Dad did it right.  They showed it while I was there, fixing their own after school snacks.  And they thought I wouldn’t notice.  They weren’t counting on my very own Columbo moment, now, were they?  HA!

For God’s sake, it was a chore that took me at least 20 minutes before bedtime, and ate up 10 or 15 precious minutes of my morning!!!  And I did. not. have. to. do. it. anymore.  THEY COULD DO IT!!!  Okay, okay, I still made lunch for the first grader, but coming down from making three lunches a day?  Piece of cake. 

And if Captain Obvious ever makes any other visits to this particular household, I will be sure to let you know.