We all deserve French Toast
So why is accepting help so scary?
Every parent is in love with their child’s bright eyes, but let me tell you, Diego’s eyes sparkle. Sometimes they stop me in motion. Like the other afternoon, as I poured his plantain chip snack. He jumped toward me, all sparkle eyes and bursting with excitement about…
The school lunch.
He was practically breathless. “It was French toast. And there were two sausages. And I ate a little bit of the cutie. And chocolate milk.” He caught his breath. “It was a really good lunch.”
He ran to the other room to play basketball, watch Luna, and jump off the sofa, at the same time. As active kindergartener is primed to do.
I glanced at the chip plate and shook my head, smiling. All I wanted to do was go back to myself, in August. I wanted to look at that mom and tell her: “He’s going to get the school lunch. He’s actually going to like it! And even if you never pack his lunch this year, you’re still doing a lot.”
In August, Diego started elementary school, a transition that brought us many new things: a new schedule, millions of germs, an amazing teacher, and, for the first time: school lunch. In 2020, California implemented universal school lunch, meaning every child in public school is eligible for lunch. At a macro level, the initiative fulfills critical goals like improving learning and equity, while reducing stigma and hunger.
In our home, it also meant potentially eliminating evening meal prep. After five years of packing meals, starting with my pumped breast milk in 2017, to the carrots and turkey slices that almost always came back in his preschool Bentgo box, I grew weary but accustomed to the lunch prep routine.
Suddenly, the prospect of alleviating this responsibility seemed revolutionary.
I could go to the grocery store and not do the mental calculus of which snacks balance out on the nutritional value: rejection scale?
I could just…go on a work trip? And someone else would figure out his lunch?
I could come downstairs after bedtime and just….rest? And not prep a mini-charcuterie in a dinosaur lunchbox?
I could scroll past those Instagram posts with the rainbow vegetables and perfectly sliced hardboiled eggs that no real person actually makes?
Who is packing a salami rose for their child???
Here’s the most mom admission of it all: instead of feeling giddy, this opportunity filled me with guilt.
Something about accepting help, turning outside our family for support, and relying on an unknown institution to lighten my motherhood burden, made me uneasy.
Thankfully, both lunch and decision-making are shared tasks and David sensibly said absolutely YES to school lunch.
After a few weeks, even as I praised school lunch as a concept, internally, offloading it still made me uncomfortable. At bedtime, when Diego excitedly asked, “what’s the school lunch tomorrow?” and I cheerily answered, “chicken pretzel dog!” I felt awful inside. I wondered, does Diego feel less loved? Am I doing enough as his mom? Am I slacking by giving this up?
I don’t think I’m alone in this discomfort. When friends talk about hiring afternoon babysitters to help with the post-school scramble or paying for gym birthday parties that “take care of everything,” there’s an almost sheepish embarrassment at the responsibility relief. We feel like we’re falling short despite the reality that our children love their birthday parties, lunches and activities.
I’ve wondered why shifting some of the parental load is so uncomfortable?
Then, while reading an article about childcare, this line jolted my awareness:
“Silence the voice inside your head that has internalized the patriarchal belief that children are best loved…exclusively by their mothers.”
That has to be part of it, right? That somewhere, inside, is this innate feeling that I must exclusively provide the care. That if I accept help, something is amiss.
Recently, I listened to the book The Day the World Came to Town, the story of Gander, Newfoundland, where 38 planes landed on 9/11. The book details a town’s generosity as they welcomed thousands of stranded passengers in a crisis. In one scene, a local family on a drive spots an airline passenger family walking on the side of the road. The mother carries her toddler.
The local family pulls over. “We have a stroller, would you like it?” they ask. The passenger family is wearing clothes they’ve had on for days, the toddler clearly too heavy to carry.
“No, we’re ok,” the mother says. The local family offers again, and the mother insists they’re fine.
I don’t remember if the family accepts their help or continues on. I just remember the image of a weary mother, carrying her heavy child, insisting—on 9/11—that they don’t need anything.
Most of us, at some point in our caregiving lives, have been the walking mother. Asking for help is understandably a huge hurdle when we’re already feeling overwhelmed. But accepting help, when it is right there, ready to relieve the literal caregiving weight-why is it uncomfortable?
We know rugged individuality doesn’t work when we’re on the side of the road in a crisis, or as mothers trying to keep our family functioning, or simply as people who want to be in a community that cares about others. And still, even if its clear on a philosophical level, it is tough internally.
I’m writing this just as much to pose the question as I am to prepare myself for the next round of accepting help. We’re entering the Summer Camp Struggle season. With each spreadsheet swap and jaw-dropping enrollment deposit, I worry, am I letting Diego down? Is he too young for a scheduled summer? This, despite the reality that being home means hours of TV and solo Uno* while I work. (There will be plenty of that, too. Summer is long.)
When I waiver, I want to remember what’s real when I accept help: he gets French Toast! And chocolate milk! He’s growing, his community cares for him, and he knows he’s loved. And as caregivers, if we take one thing off our plate, that plate is still very full. And if we do one less thing, we're still doing a LOT.
Other things I’ve read about care lately:
On caring for our homes: I am loving 2023’s crush on the “lived-in home.” I want to adapt this invitation from the Gloria newsletter—“Feel free to come in! My house is lived in, and I don't care if people see it. I plan to be super-clean and organized in about 14 years."— into my mentality, and also into invitations to have people over more. (On this, love the original KJM essay and my sister and I still talk about Catherine Newman's beautiful home at least once a week.)
On caring for our minds: Katherine May’s new book, Enchantment, comes out today!!! For a time when many of our minds feel “full and empty,” her encouraging actions to pursue for that “tingle that tells you that you’ve found something that’s magical to you,” was a delightful read.
On doing exactly enough: It feels a little dated now, but this sums up how electrifying it felt to watch a phenomenal artist perform a “master class” in fulfilling her “professional obligations when (her) personal life is calling.” Also, watching Diego dance along was AMAZING.
Happy almost-March! Thanks for reading :)
I related to this post so much. I’ve been thrilled with the free lunches (and breakfasts), so grateful for thing off my plate. But every so often I wonder, is this too easy? 😆 side note: we have that same little blue Bruin ball I spied in one pic 😉 . Are you a UCLA alum as well?! 💙💛
Fay, you are not "accepting help". You are helping Diego to grow up. As you have said he likes school lunches (and probably other things as well) and he needs to start having his own opinions - he's not a baby anymore. (You have Leonel for that).