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Community Corner

Thinking Outside the Lunchbox

How to relinquish control over what our kids eat while still providing them with healthy options.

Recently, my afternoons have been dictated by my son's lunchbox. I can tell, usually with remarkable accuracy, just how Justin will behave on the car ride home and for the next several hours based on how his lunchbox fits in my arms. Let me explain.

Our typical 3:05 p.m. conversation goes something like this.

Me: "Hey, bud, how was school?"

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Justin: "Good." Or "Hmph."

Me (as I reach my hand out toward him): "Here, let me carry that for you."

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And then, with the simple handing over of the lunchbox, it all comes together, and I experience the closest thing I may ever have to "Great Knowing."

If it is light, swinging and bumping my hips as I walk, conversation will flow like sparkling cider. There will be laughter and something like skipping to the car. He ate his lunch. He has energy. I am brilliant, because, at least for today, I packed the perfect combination of foods for a child whose tastebuds hate me. 

If it's as heavy as it was when I sent him off in the morning, we will be moving through sludge. He will use words sparingly, if at all. My attempts at humor will  be returned with an "Oh-my-gosh-how-did-you-get-to-be-so-lame" glance. I am not amusing.

Or amused.

I used to ask him why he didn't eat anything at lunch. I used to heave gigantic sighs and go into long-winded speeches about the importance of good nutrition and how we have to take care of our bodies because —yawn. I didn't need to look in the rearview mirror to know I was being tuned out.

But no more. I have come up with a New Plan. I can no longer be the victim of a 6-year-old's appetite.

Here is the New Plan in four easy steps:

Step One: He can pack his own lunch the night before school. I will supervise in a non-micromanaging sort of way and encourage him to make choices that are good for his body.

Step Two: I'll make a big breakfast, the kind that would make Grandma proud. No more boring soy milk and cereal. Eggs and toast and fruit will be our new normal. This way, I can always fall back on, "At least I know he had a good breakfast."

Step Three: I will not pass go, I will not collect $200, I will not even speak to the kid until we get home and he gets some food in his belly. Better yet, I will bring celery and peanut butter with me when I pick him up. If necessary, I will open up my emergency stash of almonds and granola bars that I keep in my glove compartment.

Step Four: I will not beat myself up when I am only able to complete Step Two of the New Plan once. I will lighten up.

So my kid is skinny and moody and can't appreciate the clever way that I added flax seeds to his pancakes to make them healthier. So he never opens the Tupperware with the whole-wheat muffin that has a face made out of raisins on it. So we can't dance through the aisles of Whole Foods together, celebrating the cornucopia of healthy options we are lucky enough to be surrounded by in California. So the Mountain View Farmer's Market isn't yet his favorite way to spend a Sunday morning.

He is healthy and growing and always up for a game of tag with his friends.

He is just forcing me to think outside the lunchbox.

Editor's Note: Follow Autumn Vandiver's weekly column, "The Mother Load," where she will share the joys and tribulations of raising her son and the lessons she learns along the way.

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