Yesterday, I was standing in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, when Jeff came up behind me.
“You’re not making those with much love,” he snidely remarked, as I plopped the jelly down, assembly line style, on three slices of bread.
“Love?” I snorted. “No, not really.”
Perhaps it’s that they’ve eaten the same thing every day for years. Perhaps it’s that when I swap out any of the items, they come home, uneaten, and I’m met with famished children. Perhaps it’s that I’m half-asleep in the morning when I’m making them. Perhaps it’s that I would much rather be eating their PB&J than my Greek yogurt. Perhaps it’s that I have six dozen loads of laundry to do and a sink full of dirty dishes. Perhaps it’s that I show my love for my children a billion other ways. It could be any of the above. Or, all of them.
But, no, love is not the secret ingredient in their lunch boxes.
These are the lunches made with love.
A lot of love.
A whole lot of love.
And a little bit of crazy.
Mine are made out of necessity.
And I bet they taste just as good.