Lunch man--

We’ve all made mistakes that have been embarrassing to ourselves and to those with whom we love. Sometimes that embarrassment isn’t because we did something wrong, it’s just that we have different opinions of what’s acceptable or brings shame to the family name. I have a trouble fashion sense, I guess you don’t wear a denim shirt with denim pants or wear a denim shirt at all, and socks with sandals – forget it. On more than one occasion I have come home from work and someone will give me that look, “you didn’t really wear that in public did you.”

What’s cool or OK with kids isn’t always cool with parents. Years ago my older brother was working at a local grocery store and called my father to see if he could get a ride home. My Dad said that he was on the way to the dump and would swing by to see if he was ready – if not he would then go to the dump first and come back. Now the family station wagon wasn’t the coolest car in the first place, but when dad pulled in the parking lot with some old pee stained mattresses on the top can you blame my brother for hiding between two cars until dad decided to come back later.

Once another brother got in trouble at the local high school and had to have Mom come in for a conference. Of course he didn’t want anyone to know his mom had to come in, so he convinced her to enter the building through a fire escape instead of the main entrance, and of course if you came in that way that’s the way to go out. The amazing part of the story is that she went for it.

Not only did our parents embarrass us but also now it has passed on to the next generation. Once my wife had to go to the school because of one of our daughters, because she knew she was coming she decided to pick out my wife’s clothes for her so she didn’t look too bad. Luckily there’s a time that the tables turn back and your kids actually think your fun to be with again.

The other night all the younger kids were hanging out with their friends so we called one of our married daughters to see if they wanted to go to dinner with us. They were really excited and we had a great time. Now maybe the reason they were excited was because they knew we would pick up the bill and it had nothing to do with being with us. But since I’m writing the story I will assume the best.

I guess that turning point depends on the kid’s maturity and what you’re doing together, if there’s a free meal you can put up with the old guy in the corner. Ten isn’t that age, the last couple of years my wife has taken a part time job at the elementary school because they needed help during lunch. She really enjoys most of it, especially the kids. Last year there were a couple of days that one of the lunch ladies had to take some time off. Now this wasn’t one of the cooks, this was the one that walked around the room wiping down the tables so the next group of kids would have a clean place to sit. Well they we’re having a hard time finding a substitute so I volunteered.

This was only for an hour or so per day, so I didn’t have to take any time from work it just became my lunch break. I know a lot of the kids at the school and when the new lunch lady was a man and had a tie on - it took a few of them by surprise – especially my ten-year-old daughter. “Oh my gosh are you kidding.” It wasn’t bad enough that I was having the time of my life - but all kinds of kids started to ask her if this was my new job. Of course I didn’t know all the rules as well. At one table of boys – which many of them I knew quite well, I had them laughing and making a bit of noise. As I walked away one of the lunch ladies in the kitchen came out and gave them the business for being so loud.

After she was gone I looked over and told them I was sorry since it was my fault. None of them seemed to have lasting physiological problems from the situation – well except my daughter. Her dad was walking around the room with a dishrag making a total fool out of himself. A couple of weeks later they needed someone again – I was too busy at work to help out – at least that’s what I told them.